Hunched over my desk, surrounded by markups and a neglected dinner gone cold, I pressed on. It was almost sunrise, but despite my blurry vision and aching back, I was determined to power through. I had to perfect the agreement before the partner arrived in a few hours.
“Buck up,” my inner voice demanded. “Stop whining and get back to work.”
I began my career in BigLaw—where rigor is nonnegotiable, and the stakes feel impossibly high. But the habits that helped me get there—hard work, perfectionism, relentless drive—ultimately drove me away. On the surface, I looked polished and productive. Inside, I was insecure and self-doubting, silently suffering at the hands of an inner tyrant.
My harshest critic was never the partner, colleague or client. She lived in my head—and she was brutal. Never satisfied, she was always cracking the whip, pushing me harder, demanding more.
For years, I mistook that hissing inner voice—“not good enough;” “do it again;” “if you were any kind of lawyer, you would have nailed this by now”—for my edge. She kept me pushing and striving. She earned me top reviews. She felt like a superpower.
She also caused me to over-prepare, over-edit and generally overdo it in all respects. I was working harder, not smarter, which left me feeling depleted, disenchanted and exhausted.
Now, as a coach for attorneys across the profession, I see the same pattern again and again. We lawyers are excellent advocates for our clients, but when it comes to ourselves? Not so much. We are trained to analyze situations, anticipate problems and craft winning arguments. All too often, we turn these intellectual weapons against ourselves. We don’t lack drive; we lack ease and self-compassion, and all too often, the grounded confidence that doesn’t rely on external results.
I believe there is a better way. A kinder, gentler way that is also more empowering and productive. I only wish I had learned this lesson sooner, before all that self-abuse diminished the very things I cared most about as a lawyer: clear judgment, confidence, curiosity, enthusiasm for the practice of law and, ultimately, my capacity to stay in the profession at all.
This is my plea to all the hard-driving lawyers out there: Stop mistreating yourselves, as I once did. The profession is grueling enough. Must we really make it even harder on ourselves?
Before I was a lawyer, I was a kid hellbent on becoming one. My formula for success was simple: Set the goal, map the steps, execute. Repeat. For a while, it worked. I got into my top choice for law school, made the law review, landed the job.
Unfortunately, corporate law fit me about as comfortably as the impossibly high heels I wore while practicing it. I loved the trappings—the brilliant colleagues, the prestige, the paycheck. But day after day, I was unmoved by the mission. Pesky questions (What are your real goals? What is the true measure of success?) began whispering within. With my mountain of law school debt and a mother I wanted to spoil after all she had done for me, I ignored them.
Then my mother—my staunchest supporter—got sick. She had cancer, and in less than a year, she was gone. Devastated, I clung to my plan: work, earn, survive, thrive. Outside, I looked like resilience itself, showing up, grinding it out, carrying on. Inside, I was reeling—terrified, shattered, my heart pounding with panic through my power suits.
A few years later, when I had my first child, my mother’s absence made the pesky questions unavoidable: How much time will I have with her, and how do I want to spend it? Returning to the office meant rarely seeing my baby awake.
I had always prided myself on my grit and independence, on being a steely professional, but suddenly I felt impossibly conflicted.
I will never not work, I insisted—stiff, determined, stubbornly attached to the old formula.
But when the time came, I didn’t go back. I couldn’t. Work will always be there, I told myself. My daughter’s childhood would not. But instead of embracing the luxury of my choice, I remained ambivalent, uneasy and mired in self-loathing.
My inner critic missed her Blackberry and her briefcase and even those excruciating heels. She could hardly stand the slower pace of mommy life, but when I volunteered, she shamed me for being away from home. At the playground, she told me to get back to work. When I raced, she scolded me to slow down. When I relaxed, she chided me for being lazy. Her agenda was a maelstrom of contradictory demands that left me swirling in insecurity and self-doubt.
You can take the girl out of the law firm, but …
Eventually, I found my way to work more aligned with my interests and lifestyle. I moved to public service, then, years later, to life coaching. Along the way, I gave my inner critic a name—Lola—allowing me to separate myself from her and create much-needed space between her judgments and me.
That space changed everything. Rather than accepting Lola’s testimony unchallenged, I began using a tool I call “cross-examine the witness” to push back, poke holes and create reasonable doubt. I also developed mindfulness and self-compassion practices that helped me catch negative thinking more quickly and replace it with curiosity, acceptance and support.
Attacks like “you blew it;” “you’re useless;” “you suck” became opportunities to engage: “Are you sure?” “What’s the evidence?” Cite examples of how I am capable, useful, good enough.
If this sounds suspiciously soft to a profession that rewards toughness, I get it. My old self rolled her eyes, too. But once I began cutting myself some slack, something surprising happened. I became more courageous, stretched myself further. I continued accomplishing goals but without the withering sense of lack.
My hardest moments—the ones that always provoked Lola’s worst rants—became less frequent, less intense and far more manageable. The old negativity eased. A more generous, patient, confident mindset took root. I even slept better.
When I coach attorneys now, I try to help them make the same shift: more patience and self-compassion, less self-abuse. It’s not about lowering rigorous standards or achieving less excellence. It’s a shift from fear-based performance policed by an inner taskmaster to accomplishment grounded in self-respect.
The results don’t look much different on the outside, but the experience is something else entirely.
Law will always demand excellence. My invitation to you is to pursue it without the self-scourge. To practice with the highest standards, but without the undue pressure. Won’t you at least try?
Tal Fagin, a former attorney and certified life coach, helps high-achieving people break from self-doubt and perfectionism. She recently published Sometimes I Think I Suck: Life-Changing Strategies for Self-Critical People. She lives in Connecticut with her husband and three children.
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