The likely GOP nominee, New York City’s mayor, Rudolph Giuliani, would be a formidable opponent for any Democratic candidate. Party leaders, worried about losing a longtime Democratic seat, were intent on fielding a similarly high-profile candidate who could raise the staggering amounts of money that such a race requires. In a sense, I was a desperation choice―a well-known public figure who might be able to offset Giuliani’s national profile and his party’s deep pockets. In that context, it wasn’t surprising that the idea of my candidacy was resuscitated a few days into the new year during the taping of NBC’s Meet the Press.

  The guest on Sunday, January 3, was Senator Robert Torricelli of New Jersey, who, as head of the Democratic Senatorial Campaign Committee, was responsible for recruiting candidates and raising money for Democratic campaigns. The host, Tim Russert, had asked Torricelli about the race before the show and announced on the air that Torricelli believed I would run.

  When I heard about Torricelli’s remarks, I called him. “Bob, you’re out there talking about my life,” I said. “You know I’m not running. Why are you saying this?” Torricelli sidestepped the question, knowing full well that he had opened the floodgates. Andrew Cuomo and Carl McCall took themselves out of the race, choosing to focus instead on the 2002 gubernatorial contest, and Nita Lowey said she would wait to decide whether to wage a campaign of her own.

  With each of these developments, public speculation about my entry into the race intensified.

  But privately, I was being counseled against it. The few friends I spoke to consistently urged me not to run. My top White House staff were also opposed. They worried about the stresses I would be subjected to as a candidate and the emotional costs of a lengthy campaign.

  When King Hussein of Jordan died on February 7 after a brave struggle with cancer, Bill and I put everything else aside for a few days to make another long, mournful journey to the Middle East to the Jordanian capital of Amman. Former Presidents Ford, Carter and Bush traveled on Air Force One. The prospects for peace in the Middle East suffered irreparable losses with the deaths of two great men, Rabin and now Hussein. The streets of Amman were crowded with mourners from all over the world. Queen Noor, dressed in black and wearing a white head scarf, graciously greeted the dignitaries who came to pay their respects to her remarkable husband. Shortly before his death, the King had designated his eldest son, Abdullah, as his successor. King Abdullah and his gifted Queen, Rania, have more than fulfilled expectations, bringing great energy and grace to their difficult responsibilities.

  When we returned home from the King’s funeral, the impeachment trial was a dark cloud hanging over our family. Bill and I were still struggling to repair our relationship and trying to protect Chelsea from the fallout on Capitol Hill. Thrown into this mix was the public pressure I felt to make a decision about the Senate race, a decision that would have immediate and long-term consequences in my life and my family’s.

  A conversation with Harold Ickes, an expert on New York politics, persuaded me that I had to acknowledge the growing public pressure to run and take the question of a campaign seriously. Harold’s greatest asset as a friend is his candor, even bluntness. Although he is a truly sweet and lovely man, he has a bark that can scare you to death.

  Every other word is an expletive, even when he’s dishing out a compliment. In his typically colorful way, he offered some advice.

  “If you think you’re not gonna run, then go out and issue a Shermanesque statement,”

  Harold said. “But if you’re still mulling it over, don’t say anything yet. With impeachment going on, nobody is going to press you on it right now anyway.”

  Harold and I agreed to meet on February 12, the day, it turned out, that the Senate was due to vote on impeachment. I was confident that a majority of the Senate would be guided by the Constitution and vote to acquit. As we awaited the outcome, I listened intently as Harold assessed the New York political landscape and explained the vicissitudes of a New York Senate campaign. He spread out a large map of the state, and we pored over it for hours as he offered a running commentary about the obstacles I would face. He pointed to towns from Montauk to Plattsburgh to Niagara Falls, and it became clear that to take a campaign to New York’s 19 million citizens, I would have to physically cover a state of 54,000 square miles. On top of that I would have to master the intricacies of local politics, of dramatic differences in the personalities, cultures and economies of upstate New York and the suburbs. New York City was its own universe: a cauldron of competing politicians and interest groups. The five boroughs were like individual mini-states, each presenting needs and challenges different from counties and cities upstate and also from the suburbs of neighboring Long Island and Westchester.

  As our meeting stretched over hours, Harold zeroed in on all of the negatives of entering the race. I was not a New York native, had never run for office and would face Giuliani, an intimidating opponent. No woman had ever won statewide in New York on her own. The national Republican Party would do everything in its power to demonize me and my politics. A campaign would be nasty and emotionally draining. And how would I campaign in New York while I was First Lady? The list went on.

  “I don’t even know if you’d be a good candidate, Hillary,” he said. I didn’t know either.

  That afternoon, the U.S. Senate voted to acquit Bill of the impeachment charges by a wide margin. Neither charge against him received a majority of votes, let alone the required two-thirds. The outcome itself was anticlimactic, causing no elation, only relief.

  Most important, the Constitution and the Presidency remained intact.

  I still hadn’t decided whether to run, but, thanks to Harold, I now had a more realistic view of what a campaign would require. With the impeachment trial behind us, it was time to address the issue. On February 16, my office released a statement acknowledging that I would give careful thought to a potential candidacy and would decide later in the year.

  Harold gave me a list of too New Yorkers to contact, and, in late February, I began calling and meeting with each of them-beginning with Senator Moynihan and his wife, Liz, who had run her husband’s campaigns and was extraordinarily knowledgeable about New York politics. Senator Moynihan offered generous public support, telling NBC’s Tim Russert, who had once worked for him, that my “magnificent, young, bright, able Illinois-Arkansas enthusiasm” would suit New York and New Yorkers. “She’d be welcome and she’d win,” he said. That took my breath away-especially the adjective “young.” I also consulted with former New York City Mayors Ed Koch and David Dinkins, who were supportive and encouraging. Senator Schumer was helpful and practical, having just survived his own brutal statewide campaign. Democratic Speaker Sheldon Silver, party Chair Judith Hope and members of Congress, mayors, state legislators, county chairmen, labor leaders, activists and friends all weighed in with their views. So did Robert E Kennedy, Jr., an environmental activist whose father had held the seat before Senator Moynihan. He, too, was enthusiastic and promised to tutor me on pressing environmental issues in the state.

  Yet, as encouraging as many people were, plenty of others worked feverishly to discourage me. Close friends, in particular, couldn’t fathom why I would consider a grueling Senate campaign after the emotional upheaval of the past few years. Life on the campaign trail would be a far cry from the comfort and security of the White House. Each day would begin at dawn and seldom be finished before the wee hours of the morning.

  This peripatetic existence would mean eating meals on the fly, living out of a suitcase for months on end and relying on friends around the state to let me stay in their homes when 1 was on the road. Worst of all, it would mean little time during our last year in the White House with my family and even less time with friends.

  There were also doubts about whether Congress was where I could be most effective.

  For months, I had been mulling over my options for life after the White House. Some friends argued that I would have more influence promoting change in the international arena than in the 100-member Senate. After nearly three decades as an advocate and eight years as First Lady, I had accumulated broad experience working on behalf of women, children and families. Even if I managed to win, I wasn’t sure it was worth giving up a visible platform for an intense political campaign and the daily demands of life as a politician.

  And there were more opportunities to consider: I had been approached about running foundations, hosting a television show, assuming a college presidency or becoming a corporate CEO. These were appealing choices and far more comfortable than the prospect of a tough Senate race.

  Mandy Grunwald, a skilled media consultant who grew up in New York and was a veteran of Senator Moynihan’s recent campaigns, echoed Harold’s warnings. She cautioned that I would have to learn to deal with an aggressive New York press corps (not one of my specialties). Mandy bluntly explained that I would not receive any free passes just because I was the new kid on the block: Mistakes were not overlooked by the New York press. They are often blown up in the tabloids, broadcast on the local news at 6, 7, 12, 4, 5, 6, 10 and 11 o’clock, and dissected by newspaper columnists. Then the radio talk show hosts get their turn. And that wouldn’t be all. Given the historic nature of a First Lady running for the Senate, I could also expect more than the usual New York press contingent scrutinizing my campaign. Just the prospect of my running prompted national and international media outlets to flood my White House press office with interview requests.

  The treacherous waters of New York politics also caused me some concern. Knowledgeable New Yorkers frankly advised that I could never win because I wasn’t Irish, Italian, Catholic or Jewish, and an ethnic identity was imperative in such a diverse state. Another constituency that would pose an unusual challenge was Democratic women, particularly professional women my age who normally would be my natural base but were skeptical of my motives and my decision to stay married to Bill.

  One day in the spring, I was running down the list of hurdles I would face when Patti Solis Doyle, my scheduler and an astute political adviser, interrupted my monologue and blurted out: “Hillary, I just don’t think you can win this race.” She was so sure that I shouldn’t―and wouldn’t―run that she and her husband, Jim, made tentative plans to move home to Chicago.

  My White House staff had other reasons to worry about what it would mean if the First Lady suddenly turned into a candidate for the U.S. Senate. My staff was going full steam ahead with my domestic policy agenda. They wanted to be sure I would continue to support these efforts if I ran. I told them that, Senate race or not, I would continue advocating for all of our initiatives―from Save America’s Treasures to afterschool care.

  The prospect of a campaign also raised the question of whether I could continue to serve as a representative of American interests abroad. Throughout Bill’s tenure, I had traveled the world on behalf of women’s rights, human rights, religious tolerance and democracy.

  Thinking and acting globally might be exactly the opposite of what I would need to do if I were running a New York campaign. In the midst of my deliberations, I had to keep commitments for official visits to Egypt, Tunisia and Morocco and a trip to a Kosovar refugee camp along the Macedonian border. I had spoken out strongly in favor of Bill’s leadership of NATO in the bombing campaign to force Slobodan Milosevic’s troops out of Kosovo. I helped the Macedonians reopen textile factories to put people back to work in order to avoid economic instability that could have undermined NATO’s goal of returning the Kosovars to their homes.

  As the spring progressed, I hashed over all of the campaign scenarios with advisers and friends, and each discussion turned into a spirited debate about my future. One thing we talked about is euphemistically referred to as “the spouse problem.” In my case, that was an understatement. It’s always difficult to figure out the appropriate role for the wife or husband of a political candidate. My dilemma was unique. Some worried that Bill was still so popular in New York and such a towering political figure in America that I would never be able to establish an independent political voice. Others thought the controversy attached to him would overwhelm my message. Logistical considerations relating to “my spouse” were tricky. If I were to announce my candidacy at a kickoff event, would the President of the United States sit quietly behind me on the stage, or would he speak too?

  Over the course of the race, would he campaign on my behalf, as he would for other Democratic candidates across the country, or would that consign me to being his surrogate again? A fine line would have to be drawn between asserting myself as a candidate in my own right and taking advantage of the President’s support and advice.

  One benefit of my decision-making process was that Bill and I were talking again about matters other than the future of our relationship. Over time, we both began to relax.

  He was anxious to be helpful, and I welcomed his expertise. Bill patiently talked over each of my concerns and carefully evaluated the odds I faced. The tables were now turned, as he played for me the role I had always performed for him. Once he had given his advice, it was my decision to make. We both knew that if I ran, I would be on my own as I had never been before. With each conversation, I found myself swinging back and forth. One minute it seemed like a great idea to run. The next minute I thought it was crazy. So I kept pondering what to do, waiting for lightning to strike.

  I needed a push. Finally I got one, but it didn’t come from a political adviser or Democratic leader. In March, I went to New York City to join tennis legend Billie Jean King at an event promoting an HBO special about women in sports. We gathered at the Lab School in the Chelsea neighborhood of Manhattan, joined by dozens of young women athletes who were assembled on a stage adorned with a giant banner that said “Dare to Compete,” the title of the HBO film. Sofia Totti, the captain of the girls’ basketball team, introduced me. As I went to shake her hand, she leaned toward me and whispered in my ear.

  “Dare to compete, Mrs. Clinton,” she said. “Dare to compete.” Her comment caught me off guard, so much so that I left the event and began to think: Could I be afraid to do something I had urged countless other women to do? Why am I vacillating about taking on this race? Why aren’t I thinking more seriously about it? Maybe I should “dare to compete.”

  The encouragement from Sofia Totti and so many others reminded me of a scene in one of my favorite movies, A League of Their Own. The star of a women’s professional baseball team, played by Geena Davis, wants to leave the team before its season ends to return home with her husband. When the team’s coach, played by Tom Hanks, challenges her decision, she says, “It just got too hard.” Hanks replies, “It’s supposed to be hard. If it wasn’t hard, everyone would do it―the hard is what makes it great.” After years as a political spouse, I had no idea whether I could step from the sidelines into the arena, but I began to think that I might enjoy an independent role in politics. All over the United States and in scores of countries, I had spoken out about the importance of women participating in politics and government, seeking elective office and using the power of their own voices to shape public policy and chart their nations’ futures. How could I pass up an opportunity to do the same?

  Many of my friends weren’t persuaded. One afternoon in the spring, Maggie Williams and I went for a long walk. One of my closest friends and advisers, Maggie is a woman of great political acumen. She knew time was running out on making a decision, and for more than an hour she listened to me talk about whether I should enter the race.

  “I just don’t know what to do,” I told her.

  “I think it’s kooky,” she said. “And anyone who cares about you will tell you the same thing.”

  “Well, I think I might do it,” I said.

  I wasn’t surprised by Maggie’s reaction. She was protective and didn’t want me to be hurt. But by trying to talk me out of it, Maggie helped me think through and face the reasons to go forward.

  Some people said that serving in the Senate might be a letdown after the White House. But all the issues I care about are affected by the United States Senate. And if I wasn’t a Senator, I certainly would be trying to influence those who were. “The U.S. Senate is the most important democratic body in the world,” Bob Rubin told me. “It would be an honor to be elected and to serve.” I agreed.

  The mechanics of a campaign began to seem more manageable, too. I thought I could win if I could raise the $25 million needed for a statewide race in New York. Our good friend Terry McAuliffe, a native of Syracuse and an experienced and effective fundraiser, told me that if I were willing to work harder than I ever had in my life, I could win. That was encouraging. I also thought that I could make inroads in traditional Republican bastions.

  Parts of upstate New York reminded me of neighboring Pennsylvania, where my father had his roots. And many of rural New York’s problems were similar to those that had plagued Arkansas: hard-pressed farmers, disappearing manufacturing jobs and young people leaving for better opportunities. Besides, Mayor Giuliani didn’t seem eager to spend time outside New York City, which was still predominantly Democratic. If I proved to New York voters that I understood the issues their families faced and was determined to work hard for them, I just might be able to do it.

  If electoral politics sometimes seemed to be a universe of its own, I still had plenty of doses of reality to keep things in perspective throughout the late spring and early summer of 1999. Susan McDougal was finally acquitted of obstruction of justice in the Whitewater case on April 12, 1999, having served eighteen months in jail for refusing to testify before the Whitewater grand jury. Over the course of her trial, other witnesses had stepped forward to say they too had been pressured by Starr. It was another repudiation of Starr’s legal tactics, but I hated the inordinate price Susan McDougal had paid. She steadfastly maintained that Starr had pressured her to falsely implicate Bill and me, and when she refused, she was held in contempt and imprisoned, doing some of her time in solitary confinement. In Jung Chang’s Wild Swans, the story of three women’s ordeals in China from before the Communist takeover to the Cultural Revolution, I ran across another Chinese saying that summed up my opinion of Starr’s investigations: “Where there is a will to condemn, there is evidence.”