Lawyer trades the courtroom for a keyboard
Living in other people’s conflicts took a toll, so she walked away to write
I quit my job in the middle of the pandemic.
That’s still a shocking sentence for me to write, even though I’d been thinking about doing it for a while.
Until Aug. 31, 2020, I was a partner in a law firm. And not just any firm: one of Canada’s premiere boutique (specialized) litigation firms. I’d started there as a law student in 1997 when I was 23. I spent my entire career there, working with my colleagues to build the firm from two lawyers to 20. I’d leaned in hard in that career: I led prominent litigation such as the challenge to Quebec’s bills 68 and 21 (the face-covering ban and the more recent religious symbols ban). I taught trial advocacy at McGill. I was on numerous “best of” lists and had recently been named to prestigious organizations that recognized top litigation counsel. I had pleaded at the Supreme Court of Canada and won.
I’d always wanted to be a lawyer. I’m not sure the first time I said that out loud, but I know I was young (12?) and consistent. Somehow, I knew it was my calling, and all of this success and the fun I had doing it for so many years confirmed that. So many lawyers I knew didn’t enjoy it, but I was never one of them. Every job has its good and bad parts, but I enjoyed the rigour. How I was always learning new things. How I helped people solve problems. Arguing in court. I liked persuading people, and I liked winning. As a former colleague once said:
“Winning is better than losing.” I liked winning a lot.
But I had another career. In 2006, I’d begun writing novels — on the side, mostly in secret. It wasn’t something I’d ever planned on doing, but a story got caught in my brain and it was the only way to get it out. Eventually, I got an agent. Eventually, she got me my first book deal. “Spin” was released in January 2010 and for the next 10 years I published a book a year.
People always asked me, “How do you have time to do all that?” My facetious answer was “robots,” but the truth was I worked a lot. I worked all the time. Often seven days a week. I was OK with that though. I loved both my jobs. When I was also asked why I kept practising law, I told people it was because I still liked it and, for a long time, that was truth.
It was wearing on me though. Living in other people’s conflicts. The wider context of the glass ceiling women still faced. I was in a firm that took parity seriously, but it still felt like a struggle. Women have been 70 per cent of the law graduates in Quebec for 20 years, but they aren’t even 30 per cent of partners. Every time a man my age (or younger) referred a file to one of the men in my office it set my teeth on edge.
I was 46. I’d been practising law for half my life in the same firm. When I looked ahead to the next 20 years, I asked myself: was this what I wanted to be doing? The answer was no.
What did that mean, though? When should I leave? Would writing be enough? I was tired of being on the go, go, go all the time, but I also liked being busy. Would I be OK at home? It was 2020. I travelled a lot in January and February: Washington, Jackson Hole, California, New York. Some for work, some for writing, some for fun. I had a couple of very big cases coming up. And then the world stopped.
Suddenly, I was at home. We all were. I watched “Tiger King.” I Zoomed and drank wine with my girlfriends. I ran with another group a lot. And despite how terrifying the world was, I was OK. Being at home wasn’t the terrible experience I thought it would be. I cooked. I made bread. I had time to exercise every day. Most importantly, my anxiety was down.
I’d suffered from anxiety for most of my life. Usually, it was in check but sometimes, when coupled with depression, it took over. Ten years earlier, I’d had a significant bout of clinical depression and had taken four months off work. I’d come back and learned new coping skills so that it didn’t dominate my life, but it was always there. I didn’t realize how much until it wasn’t. I only felt anxious when I thought about going to the office. At first, I thought it was because I was worried about COVID-19. But lawyers were an essential service and soon I was in the office again. Not the office of old with 35 people; more like four or five of us for a morning a couple of times a week. I got used to the quiet hush of it and realized that, with proper measures in place, I felt safe.
My anxiety was still present, though. It wasn’t the office, but the work that was causing it.
I thought it through and concluded that I could leave it behind. I could lean out and I’d be OK. Maybe better than OK. And I was lucky: working two successful jobs for 10 years had given me financial security. My husband supported my decision. I could take a risk on myself and have some breathing room to figure out if only writing was enough.
I just had to tell everyone. My partners were gracious. My clients were disappointed but understood. I received more than one email from a lawyer expressing jealousy. I spent the summer wrapping up my files and transferring them. My partners held a small outdoor “retirement” party for me (at a time when the rules allowed this type of gathering) that was lovely.
And then I left.
Seven months on, my life is both different and the same as before. Working from home is the norm for everyone, and all the travel I want to do is on hold. I still run and do Zoom wine. What I get done in a day has contracted — I write in the mornings, then work out, then do various less taxing things like paperwork and book marketing. I cook. I am frequently bored. But for now, I’m confident I made the right decision. I miss my friends at the office and sometimes the challenge of figuring out puzzles or presenting an argument, but I don’t miss the day-to-day stresses of the practice. I wish it was under better circumstances, but in a way I’m grateful for the chance the pandemic gave me.
To walk away.
“I wish it was under better circumstances, but in a way I’m grateful for the chance the pandemic gave me.” CATHERINE MCKENZIE AUTHOR