Midterm elections in the United States are almost designed to punish presidents. In modern history, the party holding the White House usually loses seats in Congress, often in dramatic fashion. Yet in 2002, something happened that had never occurred before—and has not happened since. In that year’s midterms, the president’s party not only gained seats in both the House and the Senate, it also took control of a chamber it did not already hold: the body I was serving in, the United States Senate.
As another high-stakes midterm season rapidly approaches, that little-known episode is worth revisiting—not to glorify one party, but to understand what midterms really are, and what leadership and candidate quality can (and cannot) do to shape them.
At the time, I was a relatively new senator from Tennessee who had been in the Senate for only about five years. My colleagues elected me to chair the National Republican Senatorial Committee (NRSC) for the 2002 cycle, a role that usually went to more senior members. Overnight, I went from cardiothoracic surgeon and freshman senator to the person in the elected leadership position responsible for crafting my party’s strategy for winning—or losing—the Senate.
The assignment was simple to describe and hard to execute: recruit the strongest possible candidates in every competitive state, and raise the money to give them a fair shot. Do both well, and a closely divided Senate might tilt our way. Do them poorly, and history’s iron law of midterms said we would almost certainly lose seats.
The political backdrop made the challenge even more daunting. After the 2000 elections, the Senate was split 50–50, with Vice President Dick Cheney breaking ties. Then, in June 2001, Senator Jim Jeffords of Vermont left the Republican Party to become an independent aligned with the Democrats. Control of the Senate flipped, 51–49, giving Democrats the majority. When I took the NRSC job, we weren’t defending a majority; we were trying to win one back—in a midterm year, against the historical grain.
A rookie doctor-chairman
Before entering politics, my life had been devoted to heart and lung transplantation. In the operating room and clinic, you learn to listen carefully, read character quickly, and understand who can withstand extraordinary stress. You make a living by making life-or-death decisions under pressure, with imperfect information, and by being honest with people about the risks they’re taking.
Those same skills turned out to be surprisingly useful in politics—especially in recruitment.
As NRSC chair, I didn’t want to outsource candidate recruitment to staff or consultants. I took it personally. I spent hours in living rooms and offices around the country listening to potential candidates talk about their families, their doubts, and, more often than not, their reasons not to run. At its best, recruitment felt less like a political transaction and more like the conversations I had with patients and their loved ones: listen carefully first, explain the stakes honestly, and only then ask for a life-changing commitment.
Candidate recruitment as bedside medicine
In 2002, the Senate map presented a mix of open seats and vulnerable incumbents. We needed to defend key Republican retirements and mount credible challenges in Democratic or third-party seats. My goal was to build a slate of candidates who were, above all, serious adults—people who had governed, run organizations, and made tough calls.
A few of the most important recruits:
- Elizabeth Dole in North Carolina. To succeed Senator Jesse Helms, I hoped for someone with true national stature and a reputation for competence. Elizabeth Dole had served as U.S. Secretary of Transportation, U.S. Secretary of Labor, and president of the American Red Cross. Her candidacy brought instant credibility to a critical open seat.
- Lindsey Graham in South Carolina. Strom Thurmond was retiring after nearly half a century in the Senate. Lindsey Graham, a hardworking House member with a strong record on defense and veterans’ issues, fit a state that deeply values military service and national security.
- Lamar Alexander in Tennessee. To succeed Senator Fred Thompson, we turned to a former popular Tennessee governor and U.S. Secretary of Education. Lamar brought executive experience and deep roots in the state.
- John Cornyn in Texas. As Texas attorney general and a former state supreme court justice, John Cornyn offered legal gravitas and strong conservative credentials to follow Senator Phil Gramm.
Those four open seats could easily have become liabilities. Instead, by recruiting seasoned leaders with executive and statewide experience, they became pillars of a potential majority.
On the offensive side, we sought respected challengers for Democratic or third-party seats:
- Saxby Chambliss in Georgia, a well-known House member with a strong record on national security, took on incumbent Senator Max Cleland.
- Norm Coleman in Minnesota, the former mayor of St. Paul, stepped into an extraordinarily emotional race after the tragic death of incumbent Senator Paul Wellstone, ultimately defeating former Vice President Walter Mondale.
- Jim Talent in Missouri, a former House member with a deep policy background, ran in the special election for the late Mel Carnahan’s seat and defeated appointed Senator Jean Carnahan.
- John Thune in South Dakota, another respected House member with deep rural roots, mounted a strong challenge to Senator Tim Johnson. He narrowly lost in 2002—but would return to win a Senate seat in 2004.
Looking back, a clear pattern emerges:
- Many candidates had deep prior experience and recognizable brands—governors, cabinet officers, statewide officials, senior House members.
- They were often “governors and doers,” not just talkers—people accustomed to running things and making hard decisions.
- They fit their states ideologically: strong conservatives where the electorate was solidly right-of-center, and pragmatic conservatives or moderates in more purple or independent-minded states.
In a country still shaken by the September 11 attacks, that combination of steadiness and experience — and I would add character —mattered. Voters were looking less for entertainers and more for adults in the room.
Money, New York, and building enough fuel
Every NRSC chair, regardless of party, inherits the same unlovely but necessary responsibility: raise money. Campaigns are won or lost on ideas, character, and trust—but those things rarely reach voters without resources behind them.
In 2002, we focused on doing fundraising disciplined and differently. The committee ultimately raised significantly more than in comparable prior midterms. That did not happen by accident.
One early strategic decision was to pay much more attention to New York City—particularly its financial, legal, and professional communities—than past Senate committees had. New York was still rebuilding after 9/11. People there understood, perhaps more than anyone, the stakes of national security, economic stability, and competent governance.
In boardrooms across Manhattan, my message was straightforward: if you care about stability in a time of uncertainty, you should care about who leads the United States Senate. These conversations were not primarily ideological. They revolved around competence, predictability, and stewardship.
I don’t want to linger on the money. Voters are rightly skeptical about its role in politics. But raising resources is part of the job, and broadening the base of support—geographically and demographically—was essential. The real story wasn’t just how much was raised; it was that more people, in more places, felt they had a stake in the kind of leadership the Senate would offer.
Election night 2002: breaking the pattern
By November 2002, the midterms had become a test of everything: recruitment, resources, message, turnout, and, above all, public judgment about the president’s leadership in a post-9/11 world.
When the votes were counted, the results were unmistakable:
- Challengers defeated sitting Democratic senators in Georgia and Minnesota and won the Missouri special election, while only one Republican incumbent lost.
- The key open Republican seats—Dole, Graham, Alexander, Cornyn and others—were all held.
- In net terms, the Senate moved from 49 Republicans, 50 Democrats, and one independent caucusing with Democrats to 51 Republicans, 48 Democrats, and one independent.
At the same time, the president’s party gained seats in the House—one of only a handful of times that has happened in a midterm since the Civil War.
Taken together, these results made 2002 a genuine outlier. It remains the only midterm election in which the party holding the White House not only gained seats in both chambers, but also took control of a chamber it did not already hold.
Many factors contributed to that moment: a popular president, an electorate unified by recent trauma, and a Senate map that provided real opportunities. But I continue to believe that deliberate attention to candidate quality and disciplined resource-building made the difference in close races, where a point or two either way changed not just a state’s representation, but the balance of power in Washington.
Why midterms almost never go that way
If 2002 sounds unusual, it is. Historically, midterm elections almost always cut against the president’s party. Political scientists have described this as one of the most consistent features of American politics.
In 2006, President George W. Bush’s party lost control of both chambers of Congress. In 2010, President Barack Obama referred to his party’s midterm losses as a “shellacking.” In 2018, President Donald Trump’s party lost the House in what many observers dubbed a “wave” election. In most midterms, independents and soft partisans use the ballot box to register discontent, impose checks and balances, or simply restore a sense of equilibrium.
That is precisely why 2002 stands out. It didn’t repeal the rule; it highlighted just how strong the rule usually is. When the president’s party makes net gains in both chambers during a midterm (which had last happened in 1934) and even captures a chamber it did not hold (which had never happened before), that is not normal. It is the product of unusual circumstances and deliberate choices converging in a single moment.
From 2002 to the 2026 midterms
Today the United States is again heading toward consequential midterm elections. President Trump has returned to the White House for a non-consecutive second term, and narrow Republican majorities in both chambers have allowed his administration to advance much of its agenda. Those majorities will be on the ballot in 2026, just as Democratic and Republican majorities before them have been tested again and again.
Analysts across the political spectrum expect many familiar midterm dynamics to appear: voters using the election to express a view on the president’s performance, the state of the economy, the tone of national politics, and the basic question of whether power in Washington feels balanced or lopsided. None of that depends on party label. It is built into the structure of our system.
History tells us that voters typically vote for change, evidenced by the president’s party having lost seats in the House of Representatives in 18 of the past 20 midterm elections since World War II.
The point of looking back at 2002 is not to relive a partisan victory or to offer a blueprint for one side in 2026. It is to remind leaders in both parties—and the public—that structural forces are very strong, but not absolute. Candidate quality, seriousness, and the way campaigns are conducted still matter.
Three lessons for today’s leaders
From the vantage point of 2025, a few lessons from 2002 feel enduring and relevant, regardless of where one sits ideologically.
First, candidate quality is not a luxury.
Voters notice whether candidates have actually led something—a state, a business, a large organization—or whether they are primarily skilled at generating attention. In 2002, many of the people we recruited had long records as governors, cabinet officers, statewide officials, or serious legislators. That didn’t guarantee victory in every race, but it built trust in a time of uncertainty.
Second, resources matter—but breadth and integrity matter most.
Campaigns need money to function. That’s a reality, not a partisan statement. What stands out to me now is not just how much the NRSC raised, but what it represented: a broader base of support and a willingness to make a case rooted in stability and serious governance, rather than in pure ideology or spectacle. The fundraising rules today are very different — but money matters.
Third, personal recruitment is irreplaceable.
Sitting down face to face with potential candidates, listening more than talking, being honest about the costs to their families and careers, and asking them to step forward. That work cannot be automated. It draws on empathy, humility, and a recognition that public service is a calling, not a performance.
In 2002, we also had advantages that no one should expect to replicate exactly: a rally-around-the-flag moment after a national tragedy, a particular Senate map, and a president whose approval ratings were unusually high. Those conditions are unlikely to recur in the same way.
But the deeper question that 2002 poses is timeless and non-partisan:
In a political era defined by polarization, constant outrage, and an endless appetite for entertainment, will we still do the quiet, difficult work of finding and supporting serious, grounded leaders—and will we, as voters, reward them when we do?
That is not a Republican question or a Democratic question. It is a question about the health of our democracy itself.
