God at the Bar

When I enrolled in law school, I did so with a heart full of idealism and a quiet, determined sense of purpose. I wasn’t looking for prestige or power, I was looking for clarity. I wanted to understand the mechanisms of justice. I wanted to use my voice for those who couldn’t raise theirs. I thought, naively perhaps, that studying law would simply give me the tools to do good. What I did not expect was that it would interrogate every fibre of my being, my values, my ethics, my faith, and force me to wrestle with what it truly means to live with integrity in a field that so often demands detachment.

Law doesn’t merely inform your worldview. It shapes it. Sometimes subtly, through language, through the culture, through hours spent dissecting black-letter rules. And sometimes it jolts you awake. I remember sitting in a seminar on contract law, listening to a discussion on the enforceability of agreements made under emotional distress. A student beside me joked that manipulation wasn't "illegal, just clever." The lecturer chuckled. It was just a moment, a glib comment, but it lodged itself in me like a thorn. I didn’t laugh. I couldn’t. Because I have known people, women, who have lived in the shadow of emotional abuse, and to hear it trivialised in a space supposedly devoted to justice shook me. I drove home that day with a quiet rage, the kind that doesn’t scream but simmers, because you realise how many people get away with harm simply because the law doesn’t recognise the fullness of human suffering.

These moments are not rare. The deeper you go into legal study, the more you realise that the law is not always fair. It is structured, yes. It is reasoned. But it is also incomplete. It reflects the values of those who shaped it, and too often, those voices were not ours. Not women’s. Not people of faith. Not the gentle or the wounded or the wise. There are times I’ve read case law and felt physically ill. Times I’ve had to compartmentalise my compassion just to get through a judgement. Times I’ve asked myself, How do I practise something that doesn’t always reflect what I believe to be right?

And yet, here I remain. Not because I’ve reconciled every tension, but because I’ve come to accept that grappling with the moral grey is part of the vocation. That discomfort is not always a sign to run, but sometimes an invitation to stay and be different. There was a day in my second year where I found myself genuinely paralysed by a constitutional law assignment. We were tasked with defending a policy I found personally indefensible. I remember sitting at my desk in tears, not because I couldn’t form an argument, but because I didn’t want to become someone who could argue anything for the sake of a grade. That was a turning point for me, not a dramatic one, but a slow, aching realisation that I would need to draw lines, and they would cost me something. But that cost would be worth it if I could look back and still recognise the woman in the robe.

What studying law has taught me is that morality is not always rewarded in this profession. Integrity will not get you the quickest route to chambers. Kindness will not win you every debate. Sometimes, choosing what is right will mean walking away from what is convenient. But it has also taught me that the most powerful advocates are not those who silence their conscience, but those who sharpen it. I don’t want to be neutral. I want to be principled. I don’t want to become detached. I want to stay deeply, stubbornly human.

This is not to say that law has only worn me down. It has, in many ways, refined me. It has taught me resilience, not the brittle kind that pretends nothing affects you, but the kind that withstands without hardening. It has shown me the strength in precision, the necessity of humility, and the courage it takes to keep going when you feel unseen. I have grown more articulate, yes, but more importantly, I’ve grown more introspective. I now understand that being right isn’t the same as being good, and that true justice demands both wisdom and compassion.

I think often of a friend who came to me during my first year, devastated after a traumatic experience that the law would barely classify as criminal. She said, “They won’t believe me. There’s no evidence. There’s no bruising.” I remember feeling so utterly useless, because in that moment, my training offered her nothing. No remedy. No closure. And yet, that moment has never left me. Because it’s precisely for her that I continue. Not for the accolades, not for the prestige, but because I believe the law can change, and I want to be part of that change. Even if it’s slow. Even if it’s exhausting. Even if, at times, it feels like I’m standing alone.

But I’m not alone. I’ve found others, women, believers, quiet rebels, who are also trying to navigate this world without losing themselves. We swap glances in courtrooms. We share essays with caution and encouragement. We pray before interviews. We remind one another that it is possible to be both excellent and ethical. And in a system that often rewards ruthlessness, we choose to lead differently.

Law school is not glamorous. It is long nights, relentless expectations, and occasional feelings of profound isolation. It is missing birthday parties and doubting your intelligence. It is learning how to keep your voice steady even when your hands shake. But it is also the fire that forges you. The place where your convictions are tested, refined, and ultimately strengthened.

I am not the same woman who walked into my first lecture hall. I am quieter now, not in voice, but in ego. I am more observant. More grounded. I have lost some of the wide-eyed naiveté, yes, but I have gained discernment, and that is a worthy trade. I no longer feel the need to compete for space in rooms that do not value what I bring. I am not desperate to be heard; I am committed to speaking only when it matters.

So if you’re reading this and you’re walking a similar path, if you’ve ever sat with your head in your hands wondering if this profession can hold space for someone like you—know that you are not alone. There is no shame in being sensitive, in caring too much, in questioning everything. That means you are still intact. That means the system hasn’t broken you.

And perhaps that’s the greatest victory of all, not just surviving law school, but walking out of it still knowing who you are. Still kind. Still principled. Still willing to fight for others, even on the days you feel weary yourself.

Let them say what they will. Let them raise their eyebrows at your boundaries or underestimate your soft-spoken resolve. You were never meant to become hardened. You were meant to bring light into dark spaces. To think critically, yes, but also to love fiercely.

So carry on. Quietly. Steadily. Unapologetically. You’re not just becoming a lawyer. You’re becoming the kind of woman this world desperately needs.

And your soul is not collateral. It’s your compass.