It’s a contentious behavior, crying in public. I remember, way back in high school, being told by a soccer coach that the worst thing I could do is show my opponent that they’d managed to hit me in a place that hurt. Girls get the message early (as do boys, whom I would argue it damages just as much, if not more): If you want to be taken seriously — if you want to be perceived as strong — don’t let them see you cry.

And so we don’t. We cry on the subway, behind our sunglasses, in a dusty stairwell, or silently in a bathroom stall. Or we cry at home, behind a closed door, with the faucet running so no one can hear, and later pretend it’s just allergies, or an errant lash, making our eyes red.

We hide, despite the fact that crying is a completely normal, even healthy, response to stress — not an admission that we’ve suddenly gone all “hysterical female.” (Did you ever have a partner who, when you cried during a fight, asked if you were on your period?) We pretend, even though repressing feelings can have consequences on our well-being, because despite all the gains we’ve made as women in the workplace — and the world — there is still a stigma associated with wearing your heart on your sleeve.

Crying remains a sign of weakness in many circles, while the ability to choke it back is the opposite: a warped indication of strength. To be honest, my original plan was to call in sick and spend the morning with a box of tissues and MSNBC talking heads, trying to make sense of how voters could choose an inexperienced loose cannon who had been endorsed by the Ku Klux Klan over Hillary Clinton, who has fought for the underserved and vulnerable nearly every single day of her adult life.

But regardless of whatever propelled me out of the apartment this morning and into the office, where I knew at least I would find the solace of like-minded disappointment, I’m glad it did. Because we found the right place to cry: together, with our arms looped over one another’s shoulders, like girls first learning to comfort one another, like women who know that letting go is its own version of strength. We were not alone in our heartache this week. We were not alone, because we had each other.