"HE DID THIS for one reason and one reason only, to throw you off your game." That's what I told Hillary Clinton backstage at Washington University in October 2016, moments away from her second presidential debate with Donald Trump. Two days prior, the world had learned, thanks to the Access Hollywood tape, that Trump liked to assert power by assaulting women. Trump retaliated by showing up at a pre-debate appearance with women who had accused Bill Clinton of sexual assault. "Yeah, I got that," Clinton responded dryly to my pep talk. "The great news is that it didn't work," I insisted. She had been through worse and I thought she would be okay, but it was my job, as the campaign's communications director, to make sure of it. She mustered a serene smile, folded her hands, and slowly shook her head. "Nope. Didn't work."

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Gretchen Whitmer, too, has dealt with boorish men, like one on the floor of the Michigan Senate who leaned over her to say something "very inappropriate." The man was older, but she was the minority leader and senior to him. "Keep in mind, I outrank this guy, he's looming over me, and of course, I am the one who has to go through all the mental gymnastics about how I respond to his offensive comment," she said in a lament familiar to all women. She stood, waiting to speak until she could look him in the eye, and said forcefully but with a smile, "What the fuck is wrong with you? You can't talk to me that way."

Whitmer didn't have the pressure of considering how millions of TV viewers—and voters—might judge her ability to withstand the pressure of being president on this interaction. (Clinton would later speculate that people might have liked to see some fire from her in responding to Trump pacing behind her on the debate stage, but in the moment what was most critical was for her to keep her cool.) For Whitmer, that encounter in the state Senate was seminal. She would not quietly tolerate misogynistic behavior as women before her had to do. Her lewd male colleague learned a lesson other foes—including Trump—would come to know: Whitmer doesn't go looking for trouble, but if you come for her, she will punch you in the mouth.

Whitmer describes herself as a PROGRESSIVE DEMOCRAT, but observing her up close, I see her core ideology as GETTING SHIT DONE.

It is a disservice to Whitmer that she is perhaps known more for outlandish things men have done to her—showing up at her home and office wielding guns, voting to strip her of her emergency powers to manage the pandemic, plotting to kidnap and assassinate her— than for her political acumen and what she has accomplished. But as a woman leader who came into the national spotlight during the Trump era, combating the torrent of misogynistic energy the 2016 campaign unleashed in the world has been a defining feature of Whitmer's job. I see Whitmer battling the same forces Clinton faced but am encouraged. This time the men who tried to stop the woman are paying for their actions. Republican legislative leaders in Michigan who fought Whitmer lost control of the legislature. Many of the plotters are in jail. Even Trump—who tormented both Clinton and Whitmer—continues to face consequences as his legal troubles mount.

Whitmer recently commented that the country "is long overdue for a strong female chief executive"—begging the question of whether America will elect a woman front and center while asserting that a woman would do the job better than a man. (And no, Whitmer is not planning a primary challenge to Joe Biden this time around.)

I am not one of the people who buys into the self-actualizing bullshit that a woman can't win the presidency. Clinton proved it's possible. She got more votes. Having interviewed Whitmer for Showtime's The Circus and based on my three decades in the political trenches, I could see she had the talent, drive, and toughness to be a solid national candidate. But earlier this year, I headed to Michigan to pressure-test that notion by observing how those qualities came to be and what all of it may say about Whitmer's— or any woman's—chances of being elected president.

WHITMER SETS HER alarm for 5:02 a.m. every morning. Not 5 a.m. 5:02 a.m. I made sure to arrive early at her residence in Lansing as I had met her enough times to know that if you show up on time, you will be late. Nevertheless, the governor was already striding down the hallway—ready to start her 10 a.m. childcare roundtable event at 9:50—and calling out "Hi, Jen!" as I came through the door.

The week I spent trailing her in Michigan was a blur of activity. On Tuesday, Whitmer signed a $150 million supplemental appropriations bill that the state legislature had passed with historic speed. The next day, she signed a bill to move up Michigan's presidential primary. Thursday was a childcare event, followed by appearances before legislators considering new economic bills and a Galentine's Day reception at her home. She rolled out a new policy in Detroit on Friday to benefit geographically and economically disadvantaged businesses, gave a speech to a group of more than 1,000 educators, and reached a deal with the legislature on a major new tax plan.

More recently, when three students were killed at a mass shooting at Whitmer's beloved alma mater of Michigan State, she said the time for only thoughts and prayers was over and moved forward a gun safety package the legislature approved.

Whitmer describes herself as a progressive Democrat, but observing her up close, I see her core ideology as getting shit done. At the Galentine's Day reception, she remarked that "if you want to get something done, give it to a busy woman." Whitmer's office has a lot of busy women—the four-person senior team is all female—and the operation seems to be in constant motion, yet calm and empowered. Their demeanor does not change in Whitmer's presence, and they don't shy away from telling her tough truths. It is a clarity too often lacking in political organizations; Whitmer's team operates with a speed and confidence I rarely see. As a former aide who remains close to Whitmer put it to me, no matter what the issue is, the process for moving forward is always the same: "Find the partners, build the coalition, get the thing done."

FIRST ELECTED TO the Michigan House of Representatives in 2000, at age 29, Whitmer has never lost an election. She next served for nearly a decade in the Michigan Senate, becoming the state's first female Senate minority leader. "Anyone who understands governing and politics respects her ability," Jeff Timmer, a Michigan-based political strategist and erstwhile Republican who once produced television ads against Whitmer when she ran for the Michigan House, told me.

After Whitmer was term-limited out of the state Senate in 2014, she thought she was done with electoral politics. As she describes it, a number of powerful men abusing the public trust compelled her to get back into politics starting in 2015, when she finished the term of the Ingham County prosecutor in Lansing who had been forced out for—wait for it—being part of a sex-trafficking ring. It was there Whitmer signed a warrant for Larry Nassar, the US women's gymnastics team doctor later convicted of sexually abusing hundreds of female athletes. Whitmer went into the 2016 election having decided to run for governor two years later. She thought Clinton would win Michigan and the White House. After Trump won both, she felt more urgency. "I filed for office on the first possible day and spent the next two years campaigning." She won in 2018 by nearly 10 points.

"Anyone who understands governing and politics RESPECTS HER ABILITY."

It matters that Whitmer did not have the burden of being Michigan's first female governor. That distinction goes to Jennifer Granholm, now secretary of energy under Biden, who was elected in 2002 and won re-election in 2006. There's a singular alienation and judgment women first through the door encounter. (For the most current example, witness the constant headwinds Kamala Harris faces as the first woman and first person of color to be vice president.)

Whitmer's rise has also been part of a sea change in Michigan politics. In 2015 there were three women representing Michigan in the House of Representatives: Debbie Dingell, Brenda Lawrence, and Candice Miller. In the Senate, Debbie Stabenow. Today, six of Michigan's 13 House seats are held by women. Both the secretary of state and attorney general are women. Michigan has its first woman Senate majority leader, and 40 percent of the state legislature is now female. Consider this: Gary Peters, first elected to the Senate in 2014, is the last male officeholder to have won a statewide race in Michigan.

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There's no chitchatting with Whitmer on the campaign trail. I managed to get one question to her at an event in Pontiac the Sunday before her 2022 re-election. Whitmer looked me in the eye and delivered her economic message with such intensity that I almost felt sorry for Tudor Dixon, her Republican opponent. By 1:30 a.m. on election night, chief of staff JoAnne Huls knew her boss was going to prevail. The spreadsheet tracking results at their headquarters at the MotorCity Casino Hotel in Detroit showed that—in addition to Whitmer winning re-election by a large margin—the Democrats had wrested control of the state Senate.

Winning the trifecta was always a long shot—the Democrats hadn't held full control of the statehouse for 40 years—and the state House of Representatives was very much in doubt as Huls and other staff headed to sleep. By 4:30 a.m., an ebullient Whitmer was waking up Huls in her hotel room, yelling into the phone, " We won the House!" The governor summoned Huls and Lieutenant Governor Garlin Gilchrist to her suite for a prep session ahead of a morning victory press conference with the state House and Senate Democratic leadership. Whitmer told Gilchrist she wanted the visual of the new leaders standing side by side. "We want them to see that something changed last night," she said.

Months later, Whitmer was relaxed and happy as she greeted me. She let me know that she was wearing red pants in honor of the Galentine's Day reception she was hosting that afternoon. Except she pronounced it "GHEE-alentine," sounding like SNL's Cecily Strong parroting Whitmer's Michigan accent. I told her that I own the same blazer she was wearing. "You know Tudor Dixon has it too," Whitmer said. "And she bought it after I wore it in public."

Whitmer is competitive about everything and relishes every victory for her state, whether it is winning a new auto plant or, as she recalls fondly to me, beating Ohio governor Mike DeWine in a bet over the Ohio StateMichigan football game two years in a row. "That made me happy," Whitmer said. Michigan State school pride is core to Whitmer's identity; when she talks about Michigan's "underdog spirit and championship swagger," it's a Spartan—the state's perpetual underdogs to the more academically prestigious University of Michigan-way of looking at the world. You don't have to hang around her team long to appreciate how the Spartan spirit runs deep. If a staff person is a Michigan State alum, I was told this information upon introduction. I came to understand that being a Spartan is shorthand for saying a person is scrappy, they will dive for every ball, and while they are probably going to engage in some trash talk, they don't showboat. Those Spartan sensibilities also make for a great politician.

Following Whitmer's speech that day to educators in Detroit, I couldn't get close as she was mobbed by people seeking selfies and hugs on her way out. In a ballroom full of Democrats, it's not surprising the attendees love her. But their reasons stand out, as no one talks to me about the job she's done. They talk about her. "She's real." "She's just a Michigan mom." "She doesn't take any crap from anyone." "She's one of us." To hear people gush about a woman's relatability is a refreshing change. It is not a quality voters have traditionally associated with women politicians, but that is changing as a steady stream of women from all backgrounds run for office.

Back at the governor's residence, Whitmer and I sat down to talk. In one corner of the living room was Whitmer's "woman wall." The wall displays photos of the governor and her daughters, sometimes with political celebrities like Jill Biden and Michelle Obama, as well as books and art by women. She pointed out a cartoon a fan drew of her with "that woman" written above the governor's head that the artist had turned into a tattoo, a reference to Trump's infamous dismissal of her handling of the COVID crisis, "it's going to be on her leg forever," Whitmer remarked incredulously. Her toughness can inspire that kind of admiration from people. Also, people have tried to kill her.

"I am just a normal person, in an extraordinary job, at an extraordinary time," she told me. Clinton said something similar to me on my first day of the 2016 presidential campaign: "I am just a simple and serious person, and I don't understand why I provoke such rage in some people." Both women seem somewhat perplexed by the hullabaloo about them—accolades and threats—but I see other forces at play here. Having normal women in extraordinary jobs has made for an extraordinary time.

"I am just a NORMAL PERSON, in an extraordinary job, at an extraordinary time."

Whitmer is up front about her anger over the kidnapping plot and clear on how it has impacted her and her family. (In October 2020, the FBI arrested 13 men suspected of plotting to kidnap Whitmer; several of the men pleaded guilty, while others were found guilty, acquitted, or are still awaiting trial.) Having seen women like Clinton subjected to similar vitriol helped her perspective, but she says her path was set decades prior when her dad gave her a copy of The Four Agreements, the popular self-help book from the 1990s. "Don't take anything personally" is the second agreement. (The others are don't make assumptions, be impeccable with your word, and always do your best.) Whitmer says she leaned on the "powerful" agreements—as well as her armor of a leather jacket and bold red lipstick—to get through the toughest days of 2020.

JUST PRIOR TO her first election to the Michigan House in 2000, Whitmer learned her mother, Sherry, had a brain tumor and was on the way to the hospital for emergency surgery. Whitmer recalls her mother, who served as assistant attorney general in Michigan, as "fierce and unapologetic about owning her own space," wearing hot pink blazers to court, exclaiming "Fuchsia is my power color," and being so relentlessly positive she would say things were "super-deluxe" even as she was dying from cancer.

The governor has described the experience of having to balance caring for her terminally ill mother while starting a family and a career as a defining chapter of her life. The frustration in dealing with health insurance bureaucracies set her internal default to action and made her impatient for results. Having to switch between caring for her mom, caring for her daughter, and being a legislator gave her an ability to focus on short-term tasks without getting overwhelmed by the enormity of all she must do. "Five yards, then 10 yards, don't get distracted by the 100 yards," is how she describes the get-it-done approach she employs to this day.

She recounts a story from the hospital waiting room the day of her mom's emergency surgery. Granholm, who was then Michigan's first female attorney general and Sherry's boss, came to the hospital to offer moral support. (Whitmer hails from a bipartisan family: Her father, a Republican, was CEO of Michigan Blue Cross Blue Shield.) Granholm was seated next to Whitmer in the waiting room when a campaign ad attacking Whitmer came on the hospital television. "Twentyfour hours before, that ad would have really upset me," Whitmer told me. "Now it's just noise. All that matters is what's happening in the room next door."

The continuity between the women is striking. The mother worked for the pioneering Granholm, the daughter eventually succeeded Granholm as governor. All three were present—needed to be present—for the moment Whitmer decided to tune out the noise.

When Whitmer chose to don a bright fuchsia coat for her 2023 New Year's Day inauguration, casting her leather armor aside, it felt like a reclamation of feminine power. She had survived a pandemic, the kidnapping plot, tough economic times, and even a grim April 2022 afternoon at a Detroit Tigers baseball game where, holed up in a cramped maintenance office for a little privacy, Whitmer learned a jury failed to convict the alleged plotters against her in an initial trial.

Observing the governor as she mingled with the all-female guests at the Galentine's Day reception—replete with red velvet cupcakes proclaiming "Happy Galentine's Day from Governor Whitmer," conversation hearts sprinkled on the tables as decor, and pink lemonade (no booze, it's before 5 p.m.)—the dramatic progress women leaders have made since Clinton's 2016 loss came into sharper relief. This room, consisting of a female governor celebrating dozens of Michigan's most powerful pols who happen to be women, would not have existed just five years ago.

Another realization clicked in my brain. The experiences Whitmer says have shaped her as a leader—being a single working mom, caring for the sick parent, dealing with harassing men— are unique to women and common to women. That these experiences are commonplace makes her relatable. Each trial has compounded upon itself to make her stronger, more skilled, and turn her into the person before me—an enormous talent coming at a time when America has seen enough women in power that it is more likely to embrace her than be threatened by her. Women no longer have to model themselves after men to be recognized as leaders. I see her now: She is a strong female executive who could be elected president.

I can't know what Whitmer's future holds. She may never run for president, or she may find that her strength of taking aggressive action becomes a vulnerability if—as can often happen— the dozens of bold policies she is rushing to enact become unpopular or even end in failure. What matters is the undeniable gains this woman—and those surrounding her—have made.

The overhead lights in the governor's living room flickered on and off. It was 4:50 p.m., time for everyone to go. "The governor starts on time, and she ends on time," one guest said to me. No one was offended. It was a room full of busy women. We all had a lot of shit to do.