WHY I DO WHAT I DO

Finding Meaning in the Practice of Law

There’s a particular kind of question that sounds simple but isn’t: Why this? Why this profession, with its long hours, its tension, its frequent proximity to pain? Why wake up every day and willingly step into other people’s worst days?

I’ve been asked that before. Usually at a dinner party. Usually by someone whose job doesn’t require them to read police reports before breakfast.

The easy answers come first. One of them is my dad. He practiced law before me. I grew up watching what that looked like, the seriousness with which he took his responsibilities, the quiet pride he carried in doing the work well. There’s something deeply grounding about following in your father’s footsteps. When he sees me try cases or talk through strategy, there’s a look in his eyes that says, without words, You’re carrying it forward. That matters more than I probably admit out loud.

There’s also the undeniable fact that law has the hallmarks of a noble profession. Many of history’s most consequential figures were lawyers. I suppose lumping myself in with Abraham Lincoln, Nelson Mandela and Cicero imputes some inherent sense of mission or importance. The law, at its best, is about order, fairness, and the protection of the vulnerable. It sits at the intersection of ideas and power. It shapes societies.

But if I’m being honest, those aren’t the reasons that keep me here. They’re the reasons that got me interested, but the reason I stay is something smaller and more immediate.

It’s a face.

If you’ve never stood next to someone in a courtroom while a judge reads a ruling that will determine the trajectory of their life, it’s hard to explain what that moment feels like. Criminal charges. A custody battle. A business dispute threatening everything they’ve built. When people come to us, they’re rarely having a good week.

Often, they’re in the darkest season of their lives. This work involves long hours, difficult conversations, and the uncomfortable task of delivering bad news. There are days when you carry other people’s anxiety home with you. There are moments when the outcome isn’t what anyone hoped for. That’s part of it too.

But then there are the other moments. The hug in the hallway outside the courtroom. The high five after a jury returns a verdict. The quiet but unmistakable sigh of relief when someone realizes they can go home and start again.

Those moments don’t show up on a timesheet. They don’t fit neatly into a billing entry. But they are the real currency of the work.

In a strange way, law is intangible. We don’t build houses you can live in or cars you can drive. We don’t produce objects you can hold in your hands. We work in what economists like to call “knowledge work” — words, arguments, ideas. Motions drafted. Strategies refined. Evidence analyzed.

It can sometimes feel abstract, but the finished product is anything but.

The finished product is a person.

A client who can sleep again.

A father who gets to see his kids.

A business owner who keeps her company.

A young defendant who gets a second chance.

We don’t deliver things. We deliver outcomes that change human lives.

There’s something paradoxical about it. The daily work is often tedious and technical — filings, deadlines, case law, preparation. The output, if you looked only at the paperwork, might seem unimpressive. A stack of documents. A signed order. A verdict form.

But behind each of those is a shift in someone’s reality.

Oliver Burkman writes about the illusion that meaning lies somewhere out there — in a grand future accomplishment, in an idealized version of yourself, in a perfectly optimized life. It took me years to break free of this illusion and realize that the true meaning of my life's work is created every single day. 

In a profession that deals in words and ideas, that’s the most tangible thing there is. And if I’m being completely honest, that’s enough.

That — more than tradition, more than history, more than prestige — is why I do what I do.