Considering Law School at 40? My Journey to Becoming a Lawyer in the US

Turning 40 often brings about reflection, and for some, it sparks the courage to pursue a long-held dream or embark on a completely new path. For me, that new path was law school. Starting law school at 43 was a significant life change, and while I sometimes wonder if I would have achieved even higher grades had I pursued this path directly after college, I’ve come to realize that my life experience was an invaluable asset, enriching my legal education in ways I couldn’t have imagined.

Had I attended law school in my early twenties, fresh out of undergraduate studies, I believe I would have approached it with a different mindset. I was driven and diligent in college, committed to every assignment and detail. This intensity, applied to law school at a younger age, might have translated into academic success, but I suspect it would have been a less fulfilling experience. My younger self, always rushing, might have seen legal readings as mere tasks, overlooking the depth and richness of the law itself. The perspective I gained over the years allowed me to engage with the material more thoughtfully, to truly absorb and appreciate the nuances of the legal profession. Instead of battling the complexities of the law, I found myself able to yield to its intricacies, learning and growing in ways that would have been impossible earlier in my life.

Socially, being an older student presented unique, and sometimes amusing, situations. My existing connections with faculty members, developed through my family, created an interesting dynamic. Knowing professors in a different context, as fellow parents or social acquaintances, was both comfortable and slightly surreal. One professor even admitted relief that I hadn’t enrolled in her class, imagining the potential awkwardness.

With my classmates, the age difference was more palpable, particularly during social outings. While I occasionally joined them for a night out, the gap in life stages became apparent. Their enthusiastic partying sometimes felt out of sync with my own stage of life. There were also moments of unexpected deference, and in a few cases, rather transparent attempts to network through my wife, who held a senior position in her field. It was clear that these interactions were colored by my age and perceived experience, adding an unusual layer to the typical law school social dynamic.

I later discovered that my age had become a topic of speculation among my classmates. It reminded me of the scene in Saving Private Ryan where soldiers wagered on Captain Miller’s pre-war profession. The mystery was solved, in a humorous way, after our first semester exams. During a celebratory drink with classmates, a waiter’s request for IDs led to my birthdate being revealed. A classmate, with feigned casualness, glanced at my ID, and the knowing looks around the table signaled that the age pool had been won.

However, within the classroom, the age difference largely dissolved. My classmates, in their twenties and thirties, were just as intelligent and capable as I was. If anything, I might have been more prone to overconfidence, a phenomenon my father, a college professor, often described. He observed that the top student wasn’t always the most vocal or assertive one. Often, it was the quieter, perhaps less outwardly confident student in the back who truly mastered the material. In college, I was that insecure student in the back row. In law school, I was perhaps the more assertive participant, readily engaging in class discussions – likely a prime candidate in any law school “Gunner Bingo” game.

My tendency to identify more with the professors than my fellow students sometimes placed me in a peculiar role. I felt an almost obligatory need to support professors, especially when class participation lagged. During one session in Employment Discrimination law, when a guest speaker from private practice faced a silent classroom after his presentation, I quickly jumped in with a question. The professor’s relieved expression led me to believe I’d earned significant “class participation” points, perhaps even an A. Neither materialized, a reminder that classroom dynamics are more complex than they appear.

Transitioning from the academic environment of law school back into the professional world, as a novice lawyer, presented its own set of challenges. While I wasn’t burdened by an inflated ego, starting anew in a completely different career was undeniably humbling. Learning the ropes from the ground up required a significant adjustment.

The shift in professional settings was also striking. I went from a prominent office in the Ronald Reagan Building, a vestige of my previous career in government, to sharing a table with several interns during an unpaid summer at the U.S. Attorney’s Office in Philadelphia. Previously, as an office director and chief of staff at the EPA, my presence commanded attention. My time was valued, and my attempts at humor were generally well-received. As a first-year law student intern, the dynamic was different. My jokes didn’t land quite the same way.

This experience brought to mind stories of prominent figures adjusting to post-power life: George H.W. Bush lamenting his declining golf game after the presidency, Hamilton Jordan’s surprise at having to handle his own travel arrangements after leaving the White House, and a former EPA Deputy Administrator’s sincere gratitude when I promptly returned his call. “You’d be surprised,” he said, “very surprised” at how rare such courtesy had become for him.

The traditional law firm path after graduation didn’t seem like the right fit for me. Firstly, my grades weren’t stellar enough to secure a position at a large firm. Secondly, I wasn’t sure I had the appetite for a hierarchical structure, especially reporting to someone potentially half my age. I suspected this sentiment would be mutual; as it’s often said, managing someone old enough to be your parent can be an uncomfortable dynamic.

My wife’s experiences in a law firm also offered a realistic perspective on associate life. While partners face deadlines from courts and clients, associates are bound by partner schedules. This often translates to weekend assignments and a demanding, unpredictable workload dictated by partner availability. This lifestyle, perhaps manageable for a young, ambitious lawyer, seemed less appealing at my stage of life.

Choosing the Philadelphia public defender’s office for my initial legal career proved to be an excellent decision. While we received ample guidance and support, we were also granted considerable autonomy. There were demanding aspects, like intake interviews with inmates at correctional facilities, a truly daunting task. However, for the most part, we managed our cases independently after receiving our weekly court assignments.

This autonomy allowed for a better work-life balance. I often brought case files home in the afternoons, ensuring I was there when my children returned from school. Case preparation then happened in the evenings, allowing me to be present for my family during crucial times. I avoided the pressure to maintain late office hours simply for appearances, a common trope in many workplaces. While leaving the public defender’s office early was technically frowned upon, my supervisors, often seeing me depart with a briefcase full of files, never questioned my commitment or work ethic.

I understood the trade-offs of this approach. I knew that crucial workplace bonding and networking often occurred during those later hours. I recalled early in my EPA career, we had been critical of an older colleague who prioritized his carpool over finishing an urgent memo, labeling him as detached and overly focused on home life.

Given my strong preference for autonomy, transitioning to solo practice was a natural progression from the public defender’s office. I never envisioned a long-term career as a public defender. Except for attorneys handling the most serious felonies, the daily pressures and client interactions could be draining. Burnout was a real concern, sometimes gradual, sometimes sudden. I remember a colleague, a committed liberal who had previously worked in legal aid, expressing his growing disdain for our clients after a particularly difficult phone call. Within months, he had left for a private sector entry-level position.

Despite my commitment to the public defender’s office, I had always planned to eventually establish my own practice. After a first career in government, the entrepreneurial aspect of solo practice was appealing. I sought advice from experienced retained lawyers at the Criminal Justice Center and consulted with former public defenders who had transitioned to solo practice and then returned to the office. Their insights were invaluable.

One returned public defender told me, “Making a living wasn’t the problem. It was constantly chasing clients for payment that wore me down. Here, I just get to practice law.”

When my wife and I decided to move back to D.C., I initially considered joining a criminal defense firm, seeking a form of apprenticeship in a new jurisdiction. However, when that didn’t materialize (and in truth, I didn’t pursue it intensely), I decided to directly launch my own practice. The pivotal moment came while updating my resume. My career path was unconventional, and as I struggled to explain the gap from my time as a stay-at-home father, it occurred to me: why not work for the one employer who wouldn’t question any of it – myself? It was liberating to set aside the resume and forge my own path.

Solo practice as an older lawyer offers numerous advantages. A younger version of myself might have missed the structure and social aspects of a traditional job. Now, I cherish the autonomy. I have the freedom to choose clients and cases that align with my interests and values. I control my schedule, allowing for flexibility for family needs and personal time. My accountability is primarily to my clients and the courts. While court appearances often fill my mornings, the rest of the day is largely my own. I’m typically home when my youngest son returns from school.

Embracing new challenges, while sometimes ego-bruising, can be incredibly invigorating. Many of my lawyer friends, contemporaries from my age group, are now marking 30+ years in their legal careers. Even in a profession you love, routine can set in. As some of them contemplate career shifts, I realize that while I may be comparatively “behind” in legal practice years, I’m significantly ahead in terms of second career experience and reinvention. And honestly, I enjoy the feeling of continuous growth and new challenges.

Post-Script (March 11, 2023):

It’s remarkable that eleven years after writing this, this blog post remains one of my most visited pages. I often wonder about the individuals who left comments here (before comments were disabled), and what paths they ultimately chose. Did they take the leap into law? Are they content with their decisions?

For myself, the decision to pursue a legal career has been consistently rewarding. As a solo practitioner focusing on criminal defense in Washington, D.C., I’ve built a successful practice and a good income. The control over my caseload provides immense flexibility. The professional status of being a lawyer is gratifying, offering immediate recognition and respect, despite the ubiquitous lawyer jokes. Even within my specialized area of law, there’s always more to learn and master. I continually feel like I’m evolving and improving as a lawyer.

To anyone contemplating a career change to law, especially at 40 or beyond, I offer this encouragement: Take the plunge!