When I was a newly minted attorney, fresh out of law school, I was ready to take the legal world by storm. A partnership and corner office were in my sights; perhaps there would be an argument before the Supreme Court somewhere down the road. I had a new Brooks Brothers suit that took me two years to pay off, a gorgeous briefcase (graduation gift from the parents), and some bright, shiny ambition to top it all off. Armed with all of that, plus a diploma from a pretty respectable law school and a prize for outstanding trial advocacy, and I was ready to go.
Five years later, I left the practice of law, my confidence in shambles, vowing never to return. While the public version of why I was setting aside the career that had taken seven years and two bar exams to prepare for was readily understandable—I left to care for my two young children—the real reason was less noble: I hated the practice of law, believed I was a spectacular failure, and had concluded that I would never amount to anything in the legal community.
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