At a human rights networking event, in a room full of ambition and polished résumés, a senior litigator said something that felt almost radical in its honesty: she was in therapy.

She didn’t say it with shame or drama.

She added, “Those advocating for human rights and justice need to first be their own advocate.”

In that moment, my perspective shifted. I had always measured law in wins and evidence, but I was suddenly confronted with its human side: the quiet toll of advocacy and the fragile need to care for oneself while fighting for others.

She said it simply, as if it were as normal as speaking about a case or a career milestone. In a room where everyone seemed to have it all figured out, her admission felt refreshing – almost rebellious. Then she turned to the young aspiring lawyers around her and offered advice that sounded nothing like the usual script: learn how to take care of your mind, seek support early, and do not wait until the profession has emptied you out.

The conversation felt different from the ones I was used to. Not the familiar warnings about billable hours, productivity, or the quiet expectation to work longer, harder, and beyond what is human.

Instead, she spoke of sustainability, not sacrifice of a career that did not demand self-erasure. From big law to boutiques to legal aid, her twenty years in the profession felt less like survival and more like intention.

Listening to her, I was reminded of the quiet importance of surrounding yourself with people who truly love their work, not just those who have learned how to endure it.

In that moment, I realized something else law school never teaches us.