By Derek Dufresne (Partner)
If you had told 22-year-old me that I’d end up having worked on Capitol Hill, running campaigns, managing insane crises, and spending my adult life surrounded by our nation’s top leaders, candidates, consultants, and people who consider yard signs a personality trait, I would’ve laughed, grabbed another iced coffee, and gone right back to insisting that politics was definitely not my future.
In my early twenties, I wasn’t plotting a rise through the party ranks. I was never involved in the College Republicans, nor was I the one passionately arguing politics at a dorm party. I just happened to intern for my local mayor, Frank Guinta, which led to working on his first congressional race, which led to… well, everything after that. Like most people in this industry, I didn’t fall into politics so much as it tripped me and dragged me along.
The thing about starting out is that you don’t need a political science degree (honestly, psychology is a more applicable major), a five-year plan, or an encyclopedic knowledge of campaign jargon. What you need is curiosity, work ethic, and the humility to realize that while you might be very smart, there is still a whole universe of things you don’t know. And that’s okay. This industry runs on people who can learn quickly, keep their cool, and adapt. (If you can also survive on endless coffee and stale campaign office pizza, that’s a bonus.)
If you take anything from this column, let it be this: your reputation is your most valuable asset. Politics is a very small neighborhood disguised as a big industry. You will see the same people again and again. The staffer you argued with in a primary will be the one you need in a general, the volunteer you ignored might become a state rep in four years, and the person you trash-talked at 11 p.m. in a war room will absolutely remember it. Don’t burn bridges. We all gossip, but don’t set the place on fire.
Also, treat both sides of the aisle with respect. You can disagree—passionately—without acting like every opponent you meet, regardless of party affiliation, is an undercover operative sent to ruin your life. (They’re not. They’re mostly just tired, like you.)
Another thing: social media is not real life. Read that line again, please. X will convince you that every opinion is gospel, every flame war is historic, and every comms intern is single-handedly “changing the narrative.” Meanwhile, real campaigns are being won by people knocking on doors in the rain and field staffers running on cold Domino’s and pure adrenaline. Learn to tune out the noise.
Find mentors. Not just one, but a handful. Appreciate what they are best at. Learn from your boss who’s done multiple cycles, the pollster who can explain the crosstabs without making your eyes cross, and the general consultant who has lived through enough campaign trauma to earn a pension in a sane profession—unlike this one. I had people who taught me, challenged me, and pushed me to grow, and without them, I wouldn’t be where I am today.
Take risks, but don’t be reckless. Say yes to opportunities that scare you a little. Move to a new state if the job is right. Raise your hand for the role you’re not sure you’re fully ready for. Now is the best time to not always do the safe thing. But don’t be the person who jumps jobs like it’s a hobby. Loyalty matters. People notice when you stick it out, especially when things get hard.
Most importantly, understand that who you are at 22 is not who you’ll be in ten years. You’re shaping that now—with every late night, every tough call, and every lesson learned the hard way. So work hard, stay curious, treat people decently, and don’t take yourself too seriously. This industry is chaotic, demanding, occasionally absurd, and extremely rewarding if you approach it the right way.
And if a kid from Manchester, New Hampshire, who swore he wasn’t going into politics can end up here—writing columns like this, building companies with an incredible team, winning campaigns, and occasionally questioning his own life choices when he’s still needed to shove yard signs into a snowbank before a candidate shows up for a debate—then trust me: there’s room for you too.
