When voters cast a ballot during primaries, they actually vote not for a party candidate, but for delegates from their state. Those delegates then cast ballots at the party conventions for the nominee that the state’s voters chose during their primary — proportionally, winner-take-all, or some variation of that, depending on the state. (For a breakdown of primary types by party and state, see this list.)

The opinion of the larger American people becomes even less significant, however, when taking into account delegates not beholden to the general voting population. In the Democratic party, there are a significant number of superdelegates from each state who can vote in the primaries for whichever candidate they choose, regardless of who people in their state voted for.

*Note: Republicans have a similar, but not exactly the same, practice of pledged delegates, but these do not exist in every state and comprise 7 percent of the total number of Republican delegates, compared to superdelegates in the Democratic party that represent 15 percent of the total number of delegates. Thus, given their lesser significance and inconsistency among states, they are not included in this piece.

Superdelegates are selected based on an office they currently hold or have held in the past. By that measure, they are members of the party establishment, and — considering that they voted 568 to 43 Clinton to Sanders at the 2016 Democratic National Convention — are more likely to favor and/or be associated with the establishment party candidate. In fact, 2,382 delegates were needed in 2016 to officially nominate a Democratic presidential candidate, and it was Clinton’s superdelegates that brought her over the edge to beat Sanders and earn her the nomination. The amount of delegates for both candidates not counting superdelegates was significant enough such that, if superdelegates had voted for Bernie Sanders in the same droves, he could have become the Democratic nominee.

Obviously, superdelegates played a key role in this election, and their power is worth examining not just for this past election, but for all presidential elections to come. According to a 2016 Pew Research Center study, just 35 percent of voters said that “the primary system is a good way of determining the best qualified nominee,” with Democrats being less positive about their party’s primary process than Republicans at 30 and 42 percent, respectively.

Changing the way parties nominate presidential candidates is certainly within the realm of possibility. In 1912, former-President Theodore Roosevelt created presidential primaries for the Republican party with the intent (though it proved unsuccessful) to overcome the power of the incumbent, William Howard Taft. For 56 years, primary systems existed in both parties as a mixed system, or one in which a handful of states held presidential primaries that “allowed voters to tell delegates which candidate to support, but party leaders held enough power in most states, allowing them to ignore or overrule the primary results.”

After Hubert Humphrey was nominated as the Democratic presidential nominee without winning a single primary in 1968, the party decided to implement reforms to the system. With the help of “The Commission on the Democratic Selection of Democratic Nominees,” which pointed out that nearly half of party delegates were appointed by party bosses, party insiders from then on played a much less prominent role in picking a presidential nominee, shifting the majority of power to everyday Democrats.

Democrats and Republicans alike were largely unhappy with their given candidates. If primaries are kept in place for future presidential elections, work could certainly be done to better them.

This is the apartment building where my grandfather Benjamin Perl lived until he was 15. He and his family were forced to leave Vienna in 1939 and come to America due to the Nazi annexation of Austria.

My grandfather could not go to school and his father could not work because they were Jews. But they were some of the luckier ones. Several of my grandfather’s relatives were able to flee to other countries, but many were murdered, along with millions of other Jews, in concentration camps.

My grandfather visited Vienna with my mom 49 years after he left during the 50th anniversary of Kristallnacht, or the Night of Broken Glass. The picture on the right is of them in 1989.

Though I never knew my grandfather at his full mental capacity (he had a debilitating stroke before I was born), my mother said he remained a proud Austrian for the rest of his life.

Still, while the two pictures capture joyous moments, it is important to note the reason they exist. My grandfather adored his city, but he was forced to leave his whole life behind because people in power decided he was inferior to them.

Though it’s been nearly a century since that black period in history, Antisemitism persists. I was lucky enough to walk inside my grandfather’s building, and while I was taking it all in, I turned my head and saw the words “Heil Hitler” graffitied on a wall.

The best way to combat hatred is to keep alive the stories of those who were affected so profoundly. I’m proud to have done that today.

And yet, I’m terrified of being alone. I am always with someone or something. I can hardly go more than a couple hours before calling upon my boyfriend or mother or roommate to end my solitude. If I’m upset, they tell me it’s ok to calm me down, ceremoniously and hastily ending my emotional manifestations. I listen to music as I walk to class or glue my face to a phone screen. I blast the radio when I drive my car. I scan my emails the second I wake up. I read op-eds that tug at my hyper-malleable mind. God forbid I should have to think on my own.

I am a journalist and have lost my desire and ability to write. I self-edit to avoid controversy that could ruin my chances at a job with some unknown future employer who might Google my name and come to see that, eight years earlier, I wrote something unacceptable. I refuse to tweet opinions because they might be the wrong ones, leaving room for cyber bullying or uproar.

I was the Madison Holleran of my high school, some parents even referring to me as “Ms. Peninsula”. I participated in Model United Nations, Mock Trial, Speech and Debate, lacrosse, a national charity organization that required 300 hours of community service, a non-profit, choir, voice lessons, a cappella, the National Honor Society and its subheads in every subject, the Duke of Edinburgh Award, and all AP and honors classes.

I did all of these to beguile universities, institutions I was told would facilitate the best four years of my life. My third year of these so-called “bests” has yet to prove this. All I see are people flocking themselves to student organizations for pre-determined friendships that consist of little more than small talk and dressing up for Instagram posts. I hear friends tell me that monsters have sexually assaulted them, inhumane people who probably don’t know what it means to really speak to or empathize with anyone, let alone a love interest, because, like me, they don’t know how to think on their own and have become desensitized. I go to class where, most of the time, I am taught on-the-surface knowledge; professors fear a misinterpreted statement could result in a terminated job. I too obsessively worry about what I say to others; the last thing I want to be labeled as is intolerant or ignorant or prejudiced and upset someone’s feelings. I find it ridiculous that people get so upset by everything, yet I am equally as sensitive. I try to care deeply about social causes, but after seeing hashtags over and over, I forget the emotional and physical exploitation and violence behind that flashy number sign. I walk to class constantly watching my back, because I’m terrified that a campus shooter — another desensitized, mentally-incapacitated millennial — could reach my school next.

Everyone tells me I’m incredibly friendly and can’t figure out how I seem to know everyone, though I can barely fill my left hand with people I consider “true friends”. I avoid going out in fear of having to socialize with people whom I’m not already overly comfortable. To the few friends who make the cut (mostly by forcing their way in), I am afraid to pour my emotions out, thinking they will judge me or think I’m a crazy person because I have momentarily lapsed from my always camera-ready façade. I see vulnerability as my ugliest emotional expression, and go through periods of numbness and hardness to avoid it at all costs. The only time I can feel things fully is when I’m watching a movie or TV show or looking at art because those were set up in such a way to invoke it and do not fundamentally reflect my own life.

I scour through social media outlets and make lists in my head on how to become societally fitter: lose weight, get this internship, change my hair, go to that photographic landscape, get published on this outlet, become an expert at that craft. I make sure that my posts regular and enviable. I have crippling anxiety because I attempt unachievable perfection.

I fear putting my heart into things that I have possibly conditioned myself to enjoy, because perhaps I would try my hardest with the result of failure. I’m not even sure that I like them anymore. I have done everything and yet I have no passion and have been told I need one. I have no idea what I’m striving toward. I maintain my GPA and overloaded schedule because I couldn’t imagine not studying, not working, not taking on leadership positions, not doing extracurriculars. I do them because I tell myself I have to impress my family and friends and will be the best at what I do and will be happy in the future, but can’t afford to waste my time with such trivialities now. I also do them because it leaves me infinitely less time to think and be alone to explore my inner self.

I am a millennial. I’ve hit rock bottom.

Or maybe the tip of the iceberg.

I want to stop doing things that aren’t critical. I want to start saying my opinion. I want to stop caring about social media. I want to start writing whatever I feel like. I want to make lifelong friends and get closer to my family. I want to shut off the stimuli from my environment. I want to start feeling. I want to live as me, Sarah, uninhibited.

A deep chord was struck with me upon seeing Kim’s latest Instagram post: a photo of her with Lamar Odom and the caption “I have faith in you. I believe in the power of prayer and positive energy! Thank you all for your prayers! Lammy- I’m so happy Kendall & I could make you smile today! God is good!”

On June 12th of this year, I was driving on the freeway when I received a call from my father and younger brother. They told me that my older brother, Kyle, fell off his skateboard, and that I should go to the hospital immediately.

We didn’t yet know how bad it was, but my heart shot up to my throat with a firm feeling that something was seriously wrong. Through sobs, I pulled off the freeway and redirected my GPS to the medical center.

Looking back now, it feels like a dream, but that moment I lived was raw and petrifying and flooded with uncertainty. All I could focus on was Kyle. I thought back to our last conversation the day before, when he’d shown me a funny cat video before leaving to hang out with friends. Why didn’t I tell him I loved him before he left?

After what felt like an eternity of driving, figuring out where to park, and asking for directions, I found my parents and my younger brother in a waiting room. The moment of walking in and seeing the backs of their heads, going around them, and finally glimpsing their heavy tears will forever be cemented in my mind.

“Is Kyle ok?” I asked fearfully.

“It doesn’t look good,” my father said.

I think that was the most telling sign that things were grim, seeing my normally stoic dad look so utterly broken. We all felt broken. This couldn’t happen to our family. We weren’t those people to whom bad things happen. My brother is such a sweet, honest kid; what could he possibly have done to deserve this?

My brother’s skull fractures and brain swelling and bleeding were so bad that the doctors couldn’t operate. They put him in an induced coma and told my family to wait patiently and pray for healing.

We reached out to loved ones through Facebook, a medium we knew could communicate a single message to many at once. Love and prayers and good vibes began pouring in from people of every faith, origin, and chapter in our lives, some of them from people whom we hadn’t spoken to for years. I’d be lying if I said I could remember exactly each message I got, but I do remember that each gave me a bit of comfort, even if it was only for a split second.

This was, by far, the most excruciating time in my family’s life. I would cry endlessly for days and then feel nothing and then raging anger and then hopelessness in doses I never before thought feasible. At some point, I disassociated from everyone I cared about; I had the heart wrenching realization that people are mortal, and therefore impermanent. I didn’t think I could endure something like this happening again, so I tried to eliminate all meaningful human connections.

But my family, friends, and even people I hardly ever talked to kept reaching out and telling me how they knew someone who’d been in a similar accident and he or she pulled through, so my brother would, too. They told me how strong I was and how good of a sister I was for supporting him. I had a hard time believing them at first; I was floating through each day simply because the passage of time demanded it so. But each text or Facebook message or Instagram comment was a little reminder that humanity exists and that people were rooting for my brother just as much as I was and that I had to believe he’d pull through.

My colossal joy was almost painful when I saw my brother open his eyes again. They were distant and cloudy and he didn’t make direct eye contact with me, but they were open. He squeezed my hand ever so slightly as I spoke through my tears, saying absolutely anything I could think of, just because I knew he could hear me. I knew the fight to his recovery was far from over, but the most critical part was finished.

My brother left the intensive care unit 54 days after he arrived. He endured dialysis, a revolving bed to drain the fluid from his head, and an intensive surgery to insert a shunt into his brain, among a myriad of medications and complications.

He now goes to physical and mental rehabilitation every weekday, and doctors say it will most likely be a year before he is fully recovered. He can’t drive and has a handful of checkups each week and more unplanned hospital visits due to setbacks than we would hope.

But he is here, and he is becoming more himself with each passing day. And I am so, so grateful that I can still hug him and tell him I love him.

I am not a very religious person, so I use the phrases “carpe diem” and “love is all you need” to find meaning. I try each day to count my good fortunes, hug my family and friends a little tighter, and live in the moment. I haven’t quite mastered it yet, but I am slowly learning.

To the Kardashians: I sincerely hope that Lamar makes a full recovery. The process will be slow and difficult, but there will be beautiful moments during this dark hour that you will treasure always.