A Woman at Big Law
No Regrets
(Off the Record)
Anonymous
The author is a partner in a large law firm.
As litigators say, the usual stips apply. Let’s stipulate that the
question “Do you have regrets?” is less likely to be asked of a
middle-aged man in a remunerative, waningly prestigious job.
Let’s also stipulate that I do regret writing this anonymously,
but entre nous, I don’t want to make any formal statements right
now on the “women in the law” topic. So this article is subject
to Rule 408 and not admissible as anything other than a personal rant and exhortation to young Big Law women to suck it
up, stick it out, and join me.
To open, I am a Big Law partner in a Big City. I have a job
I really enjoy at a great law firm, and I am a happily married
mom. In substance and in sum, I have no regrets. Of course, I
have rationalizations, petty envies, and a healthy capacity for
denial, but nothing close to triggering a material adverse effect.
What is regret anyway? I once asked my perennially cheerful mother, she of the Betty Friedan generation, if she and her
friends ever had regrets—they were all very bright, college-educated women who were never steered toward paying careers.
Mom replied: “No. Regret requires a conscious choice. We were
never raised to think there was any other way.” How I envy
them! I don’t regret my height or eye color; I don’t even think
about it. How nice if that certainty applied to my whole life.
But my friends and I have choices—hard-won by the women’s
movement—and can therefore beat ourselves up over all of them.
So here goes.
First, What I Don’t Regret
I don’t regret “choosing” to be a lawyer. In Bonfire of the
Vanities, the co-op board president Pollard Browning “emerged
from his mother’s loins” a middle-aged Big Law partner. Does
that really happen to anyone? Is law ever an active first choice
of anyone but Supreme Court justices? People choose to become
professional basketball players, ballerinas, activist hedge fund
managers, and other careers requiring single-minded focus and
extremely lopsided innate talent. No one “ends up” in a neurosurgical residency or on the PGA Tour, but many people “end up” as
lawyers. We were all the smart Model UN kids who couldn’t bear
cutting up the frog in biology class. Moreover, particularly for
women, law gives you credibility. So I “ended up” in law school.
I don’t regret starting in Big Law. I came to Big Law on
autopilot, following the hungry herd at chow time after graduation. It wasn’t much of a choice, given that I thought Big City
had my best dating pool; I wanted to support myself well (Do
any nearly broke women have great lives other than on HBO?);
and I have zero entrepreneurial DNA (my ancestors aspired to
comfort, not world domination—we were happy just not to be
pogrom fodder). I truly admire my friends who took a career
Published in Litigation, Volume 41, Number 2, Winter 2015. © 2015 by the American Bar Association. Reproduced with permission. All rights reserved. This information or any portion thereof may not
be copied or disseminated in any form or by any means or stored in an electronic database or retrieval system without the express written consent of the American Bar Association.
1
risk from the outset; I didn’t have it in me. Once ensconced in
Big Law, however, I really did like it. The work was varied and
interesting, and my clients and colleagues were impressive. The
fire drills made me crazy at times, but I somehow caffeinated
my way through it. By the time I came up for air, I was a partner
and the hard part was over.
I (almost) don’t regret staying in Big Law. Don’t get me
wrong, being a Big Law partner is a great gig. I’ve done it for a
long time. It’s much easier than a senior in-house job—you don’t
live with your clients, you don’t report to anyone, and you get
more than 30 minutes to make a major decision. Yet, I do ruminate on what might have been. Was my promotion to partnership
a triumph of my masterfully wielded ambition and stamina, or
just a total failure of imagination that I was still sitting there
eight or nine years after graduation? Alas, both are true.
In my daydreams, believe me, I am not a Big Law partner.
No, I am not home with my kids either. I am rock-star, page A1
fabulous! I was prescient enough to befriend Obama early (I
now run the West Wing) or join Google in 2000 (I now compost on my Gulfstream). Either way, I am at the state dinner for
Hollande, and Vogue profiles me without my being a size zero.
Time sheets? Moi? RFPs? Mais non! And then I snap out of it
and start editing a draft.
I don’t regret what Big Law does. My school idols are the
people who run nonprofits or their own businesses. I do neither.
This could weigh on a reasonable woman, but it doesn’t keep
me up nights. I make nothing, but at least my clients make (or
finance) great stuff, stuff that makes the world more pleasant,
advanced, efficient, and (in the life sciences field) literally livable. My Outlook calendar does not have daily entries for saving
the world, but Big Law does and supports terrific pro bono work,
funded by people (other than me) who actually make great stuff.
So I’m OK with this—thank goodness rationalizations always
trump regrets (see comment about rationalizations, supra).
Of course, this won’t save me when the Occupy mob surrounds our building. And when I go to reunions, even with the
above pro bono work, I don’t feel I’m in the same category as
my nonprofit classmates. But they will still be friends with me,
so I can’t be that bad.
I don’t regret the work I do. There’s the joke that making
partner in Big Law is like winning a pie-eating contest and first
prize is 100 more pies. I don’t think that’s true. The work in Big
Law gets more interesting every year, as you reinvent and challenge yourself with every new client, industry, legal question,
and team. You are constantly doing intellectually difficult work
with very smart people, and every day is different.
Illustration by Jim Starr
Published in Litigation, Volume 41, Number 2, Winter 2015. © 2015 by the American Bar Association. Reproduced with permission. All rights reserved. This information or any portion thereof may not
be copied or disseminated in any form or by any means or stored in an electronic database or retrieval system without the express written consent of the American Bar Association.
2
I asked a mentor what she liked best about her job, and she
replied, “I like trying cases. I’m good at it.” Enough said. Now,
of course, I cringed that time we read deposition testimony into
the record in court and the federal prosecutors in back were
smirking at us—they were waiting to get done and go fist-bump
their bling-bearing drug informants. I guess we’re not the real
alpha lawyers in town.
I don’t regret being well compensated. Big Law partners
earn more than they morally deserve. I have teachers and doctors in my family, and it’s just not fair. I do not actively call myself a feminist because where I come from, that’s a great way
to sit home on prom night. But I feel deeply proud (and vaguely
subversive) to earn my own money—enough to support charities, political causes, and the schools that educated me. Helen
Gurley Brown said that nothing vicarious ever feels as good as
your own success, and she is right.
I don’t regret being memorable, even for the wrong reason. Yes, yes, the world will be a better place when we have 50
percent women everything. For now, I try to look on the bright
side. I have been on calls with four Marks, three Jeffs, and three
Michaels, and even using my best aural discipline, I have no
idea who is talking. Does it really matter anyway? I can barely
tell apart my hundreds of 5-foot-9 white male colleagues at bar
functions. Yet, everyone somehow remembers me and my name
on a call. Perhaps I am just that memorable, but I doubt it. It’s
an interesting perk as a woman survivor—you are famous simply
because you are still here.
I don’t regret lacking time for regrets. Idle hands are the
therapist’s workshop. Isn’t that the Woody Allen version of the
old proverb? Or is it that rolling drones gather no emotional
moss? I would like to say I was born free of perfectionist, worrywart, controlling tendencies, but it’s more that my daily schedule has beaten them all out of me. If my kids are literate and not
bleeding, I’m not calling the school. If my home lacks bedbugs,
I’m having guests over. I simply don’t have time to regret anything, or someone wouldn’t have food, clothing, transportation—
or, horror of horrors, a decent draft crafted in four hours flat. I
used to be a type A woman, and now I’m just an A−, which is a
type A woman who has watched the movie Ted again and again
to relax after work.
Now on to What I Do Regret
I regret that women presume I have regrets. A few years ago,
an ambitious (dare I say odious?) female associate and I were
chatting in a salad shop line. She paused, stared hard, and asked
Published in Litigation, Volume 41, Number 2, Winter 2015. © 2015 by the American Bar Association. Reproduced with permission. All rights reserved. This information or any portion thereof may not
be copied or disseminated in any form or by any means or stored in an electronic database or retrieval system without the express written consent of the American Bar Association.
3
me, “Do you have any regrets?” Her serious gaze was disconcerting. Oh, my God. This woman thinks something is terribly
wrong with my life. Even worse. She thinks my problem is obvious. Idiot that I was, I started sputtering all the aspects of
my life that could be regretted by a reasonable woman, even
though I subjectively (and in good faith) regret none of them.
She silently speared a crouton and left, and she (hereinafter,
“Crouton-Spearing Associate”) was definitely unsatisfied with
my response. To this day, I cannot guess the Terribly Wrong
Thing in My Life I am supposed to regret. (I admit, I could use
some Botox, but I’m not sure this was it.) It’s one person, so who
cares, but a reasonable woman could regret that younger women
believe we should have regrets.
I regret that I don’t want to (formally) mentor you. Big
Law is not much for irony, but I’ve got a juicy one. How about
that women partners with kids are supposed to stay late for
various events to prove to younger folks that they can “have it
all”? How about the firm announcing that, to support partners
with kids, we get a free or reduced pass on internal firm social functions? Would our young lawyers respect the consistent
principle, or would we get killed in abovethelaw.com? No one
wants to find out.
Maybe it’s just me, but if I only see my own parents a few
times a year, why would I want a total stranger as a quarterly
lunch buddy? News flash: If I am 100 percent focused on not humiliating myself by throwing another gutter ball, am I thinking
about optimizing your career trajectory? I don’t think so. Don’t
get me wrong—I love mentoring young lawyers, and it’s critical.
But my time is so limited, I need to prioritize. Please come to my
office anytime and tell me about your ambitions and questions.
I want to know, and if you have the legal chops, I will fight for
you—I promise. But please, no more Bowling with Strangers—I
can’t pretend to be interested anymore.
I regret that I can’t lose it when I desperately need to. The
world isn’t fair. Women Big Law partners can’t throw things,
curse, or scream when someone else’s problem throws a monkey wrench into their house-of-cards schedule. Hell, we can’t
even let our voices trail up at the end of declarative sentences.
You constantly have to thread your entire personality through
the eye of a needle—be nice enough not to be reviled as a shrew
but stern enough to herd cats on deadline. You simply can’t win.
For years, I have worked for, with, or against senior women
who I was warned were “difficult” (said in a loud whisper). I
never saw the problem—they seemed like efficient professionals to me. I once had an associate who frequently asserted a
chronically ill pet as a work excuse, and like a fool, I tried to
accommodate. I later learned the male partners in my group
had never heard of the ailing creature.
I regret that this is—literally—an ugly business. Big Law
is not glamorous and neither are its warriors. On days when I
don my cocktail dress in the ladies room and apply my concealer
with a trowel, I amuse myself by picturing the withering gaze of
Meryl Streep in The Devil Wears Prada or the author of French
Women Don’t Work at Boring Law Firms, and I sigh. It’s OK. I
have a great job and I make decent money.
I regret every ponytail, zit, sensible commuting shoe, purse
that can port a small child, and, not least, my imperfectly chiseled physique. I used to lament my Nordic-free gene pool for
depriving me of a runway model career, but alas, this is not sole
but-for causation. I was just at a hotel pool and saw a friend who
had left Big Finance and hired a personal trainer. She dropped
her cover-up, and I could swear I heard the background music
from 2001: A Space Odyssey. Sigh. It’s OK. I have a great job and
I make decent money. I wish you could have that as a sign across
your bathing suit, sort of like the bumper sticker that reads, “My
other car is a Mercedes.”
I regret that the media ignores women like me. Why can’t
the media find anything positive or funny about women with
high-powered jobs? The New York Times and the Atlantic ran
cover stories based on (i) three Yale students who aspire to be
rich housewives (as I once heard, “That’s me-search, not research!”); and (ii) lamenting that you can’t run the entire State
Department by working remotely from another state. Who’s
writing about my Big Law gal pals? Why are reasonably contented women (the modern unicorn?) never a feature story or
the lead in a Pulitzer Prize–winning play?
I posit that the writers of women’s stories (who are always
women) believe—dare I say hope?—we’re all miserable. We make
good money, get nice offices and societal gravitas, so someone
has to root against us. But we’re even in the grand scheme of
things—the writers are usually hotter (see previous section)
and men find their careers infinitely more appealing. You just
can’t be sexy and mysterious while arguing a discovery motion.
If we’re all loving life, the writers don’t want to know, and they
certainly don’t want anyone else to know. It tanks the justification for their own career choices, given that they’re great writers
and may have made better lawyers than we are. So maybe they
have regrets? Page one story, anyone?
I regret that the word “balance” is used outside of yoga
class. This is an article all by itself, but I’ll bottom-line it here.
I regret the word “balance” because it implies that it’s weird to
enjoy an intense job. I regret that “work/life” is punctuated as
if these are antonyms. I regret that millions of women can’t afford to entertain this question. I regret that successful men are
rarely asked about work/life balance, and I regret that, when
I happily answer this question, I’m not sure people believe me
(see Crouton-Spearing Associate, supra).
So if you are tempted to ask a woman with a long-term, highpowered job about “balance,” it’s fair to assume she probably
likes it and she isn’t deluding herself. If you think someone’s
Published in Litigation, Volume 41, Number 2, Winter 2015. © 2015 by the American Bar Association. Reproduced with permission. All rights reserved. This information or any portion thereof may not
be copied or disseminated in any form or by any means or stored in an electronic database or retrieval system without the express written consent of the American Bar Association.
4
life is out of balance, that reflects your own values, and we all
get to choose those for ourselves.
I regret having few friends in my shoes. If you stay in Big
Law long enough, at some point, the women are gone. One day,
you walk into a conference room and it’s the first day of school
and you can’t find the other band geeks to sit with. Meanwhile,
you can’t use a spare Hostess Ding-Dong to make a new friend
because the supply is cut off.
Most of the smartest, most bad-ass women I knew at school
are now at home with their kids or have a lower-hours job. I truly
believe they are happy, without assistance of wine or controlled
substances. I also believe the kid wasn’t why they quit—it was
always just one of several factors. Me? I’m very fortunate that
I could quit, but of course I can’t. If I did, I’d feel pressure to
give a first-chair performance at things I’m mediocre at—cooking, fitness, household tidiness. And pity my poor children, who
would be promptly Tiger Mom’d into concert musicians who
speak five languages.
I regret I don’t have even more women partners still in the
game because, believe it or not, we are a pretty cool bunch. I look
around the room and am proud to be in such esteemed company.
We are great lawyers and we haven’t suffered for our success. I
doubt our kids will spend more on adult therapy than anyone else’s.
I regret lacking time to be “in the loop.” Knowledge is power,
and many women partners have no time for small talk. You know,
incredibly important, career-boosting small talk about the politics
at the firm, clients, etc. I stare longingly at male partners dropping
by each other’s offices to swap news. I stare for five seconds and
then gobble a salad at my desk while I run my household online.
As a result, I’m the last one to know anything. I’m the one
who wants to invite mortal business enemies to the same dinner because I didn’t get the “Ancient Tribal Hatred Memo.” I’m
the one who wants to pitch a new project because I didn’t know
about “That Issue.” An entire group could defect to another firm
and I wouldn’t know unless they sat on my floor. If you have no
time for watercooler gossip, you live life on the edge.
I regret the “mommy wars.” My kids go to a school with a
large at-home mom demographic. Many fall into two categories:
(i) the ex-professionals, my heroes, who run the school beautifully and produce A+ research on birthday party venues; and (ii)
those who couldn’t wait to stop working (or have what a friend
calls “a jobette”) and regard me as an exotic zoo animal. It’s not
pity or envy, it’s more of a “different species” thing.
There are many shades of gray in between. One mom quit after four years at a firm, and every time she sees me, she gushes
about her fabulous ex-career. She never asks about mine. I regret
that I must trigger some insecurity in her that elicits the “my
brilliant career” speech all the time. I also regret that she is often the class mom and no doubt takes fiendish delight when I’m
the last one to turn in a permission slip. I knew it. She’s cracking
under the strain. I further regret that I’m obviously petty enough
to care what she thinks, in the two seconds I have to email the
permission slip before my meeting starts.
We’re so lucky if we can choose whether to work, and as lawyers we overthink all of our choices. We need to help each other
out. Corporate America is really tough on women who take time
off. My “anecdata” is that most returning moms do something
entrepreneurial or get hired by a friend or relative—big institutions aren’t an easy option. So let’s start a pact. You’ll let me
freeload off your scorched-earth soccer league research, and I’ll
remind everyone that you were the best brief writer in the firm
when you left. Together we can mend the world.
Big Law hasn’t broken
me, and it won’t
break you either.
I regret being an ill-read, uncultured, bad friend. If you are
my friend, our relationship is likely an annual Saturday night
dinner with spouses. If you are a close friend, you also get emails
between meetings. If I go to the ladies room, my computer screen
replenishes with dozens of unread email messages—legions of
friends and contacts just waiting to be pissed off. I regret my
friends who have sick parents or college applicant kids, and I
don’t check in. I think about all of you; please forgive me.
I regret students who want mentorship and I can’t spare a meal.
I regret that I can barely grab coffee with my fabulous women
partners and clients. I regret that I rarely read anything without
footnotes or defined terms. I read book, museum, and theater
reviews, so at least I stay current on what a philistine I truly am.
In summation, younger members of the jury, Big Law hasn’t
broken me, and it won’t break you either. If you think my job
is worth having, you’re right. If you think you have the talent,
thank God—and you’re probably right. Please make sure the top
brass at your firm know it, and never presume that they already
do or automatically will. If you think you can become a Big Law
partner and do something else later, you’re right, and you have
more imagination than I do. It’s like when my daughter beckons
from the swimming pool, as I feign deep sleep in my deck chair:
“Please, please, come on in. The water’s not that bad.” q
Published in Litigation, Volume 41, Number 2, Winter 2015. © 2015 by the American Bar Association. Reproduced with permission. All rights reserved. This information or any portion thereof may not
be copied or disseminated in any form or by any means or stored in an electronic database or retrieval system without the express written consent of the American Bar Association.
5