Real vs. Idealistic

What would motivate a driven career minded woman, focused on her craft and the honesty of it, to become an idealistic believer in someone?

I'm trying to figure this out about one of the most important and colorful characters in my novel. When I search my own experience I realize I have flip-flopped between the two most of my life. I can't tell if it's because of the different situations I've faced or the different versions of myself I have been at the time of facing them. One thing I've noticed is that idealism is seldom taken seriously.
This was well displayed in the movie The Ides of March (which I watched last night). The main character had "drank the Kool-aid" of the candidate he was backing for president. Idealism is something the other characters in the movie seemed to think was cute. Some thought it was down right dumb. This is quite true to life. The end result is the character learns to manipulate and cheat, becoming cold and somewhat inhuman. You could actually watch him take on the jaded attitude toward his own idealistic integrity as his "realistic" cohort

So I amend my question from above:
How could a realistic, career driven woman, begin to be an idealistic believer in someone and still take herself seriously? Could others still take her seriously?

This question feels better to me, but the answer seems further away. And to be honest, that's really, sickeningly sad. What does it say about us that looking for the best is foolish? And I think that answers my question. Instead of my character struggling with cynicism to validate her ideas into reality, she can turn her cynicism on people's lack of dreams...of hope...of striving for the best even when it's unlikely and naive. Maybe that's all idealism really is when you're an adult. It's a driven and serious protest against cynicism and impossibility. 

It begins

It took a baby to make me do this. My baby. My Lena.

I've read enough books and enough online advice blogs and postings (which serves as a great source of procrastination given you can mentally write it off as "research") to tell me blogging is the way if you want to establish yourself as a writer. Even though this is going to callous my fingers and sting your eyes, I find it appeals to my thrifty side as being a cost-effective way to break into the biz as opposed to getting an MFA. Besides, nothing like a doing something yourself to boost your pride.

So here goes...

...

...I got nothing. Or rather, I have nothing which I believe would be of interest to you. My life at the moment is full of poop, breast milk, forgetfulness, dreams, smiles, and naps. My writing vein feels collapsed. What is flowing through it seems unorganized and, at times, foreign. Already I can tell this little beignet is altering my sensibilities and sense of humor. I guess we'll have have to wait and see what is on the other side of no sleep. Who knows, you may be reading a very different writer next year.

In the meantime, let me leave you with a little something. It's the first three paragraphs of the book I finished over the summer. It is so very rough. But any and all comments are appreciated. Yes, that definitely includes criticisms, but the most helpful ones tell me why you don't like it or what you would prefer. I may find time during the 3 AM feeding to pull my laptop out and work on this a bit if you, my reader, tell me your thoughts. I need them. Mine are so scarce nowadays.

Excerpt from Running Out of Road by Toby LeBlanc:

"His voice, carrying her name, echoes around him every few footfalls. Jeff tries her full name, then the abbreviated version she hates, as if its public utterance bouncing off the houses on the suburban street might make her reappear. The calls become louder, more frantic as he gets to the end of his block on 45^th SW. His gut juts way out in front of him and his legs, which currently feel as if they are made of lead, seem to be trying to catch his belly button. Despite their heaviness, his feet struggle to stay connected to the Seattle street. He struggles to stay connected to reality.

His mind thinks about how this probably one of her jokes and this one just isn’t funny. Maybe she’s trying to snap him out of his grumpy writer’s block. He wonders if he locked the door behind him. Maybe she just slipped past him and he didn’t notice. Maybe the dog just made it home without her because he slipped his collar. But that old basset hound is way to fat to slip his collar. Jeff sees an image in his mind of his wife scolding the dog, Winston, with feigned irritation for running off like that. The thought made him want to kill the dog for ruining his night and causing this panic. But then Shauna would kill him if he killed the dog, and that’s more trouble than it’s worth. He realizes how silly it all sounds and just looks for his wife.

Still calling her name he sped around the corner and almost tripped over a pair of legs belonging to a very unconscious human, half shoved underneath a Douglas fir. Hope made one last push as Jeff attempted to reassure himself that the faux velour jogging pants looked nothing like the pair she was wearing tonight. He struggled with the idea of trying to check on this obviously hurt person, or to go home where his wife probably was. He had to look. The zippered top looks as if the attackers had tried to turn it around without her getting out of it. The left pocket in front is torn. The victim’s arms are strewn about her in the unnatural way which is congruent with new and unreal universe Jeff now exists in. One hand lay over the eyes and on the forehead as if even in her deep sleep she displays the emotion of woe. He wants to know who the victim is. Despite her obvious lack of consciousness, he is worried about harming this creature by scratching its face or the trunk or hyper-extending a limb. With a strength not known to him, he pulls the body upright to look upon a familiar face which strikes the chords of hell."