Until recently, I never gave much credence to these phrases.
Sure, I’m a woman, a female. But, mostly, I’m a lawyer, litigator, professional, in Big Law. What does my gender matter to that?
I started law school in 2010. I don’t recall the exact statistics, but I’m confident my class was close to 50% men and 50% women — that’s the new norm in law schools, with a lot (if not most) skewing 50%+ female.
Associate classes at bigger firms follow suit. With graduating classes of law students being mostly women, it follows that law firm junior ranks are too.
But something happens in private practice as you climb the ranks.
Women leave.
Yes, men leave too, but women leave more often.
There are lots of very valid reasons for this: realizing private practice isn’t for them (in favor of public interest or a smaller firm), changing practice areas (which can often require changing firms too), leaving the law altogether (becoming a coach, a recruiter, a marketing professional, etc.), going in-house (something women are increasingly being poached for) — and, of course, having children (something I, personally, choose not to do).
I must also acknowledge my privilege and responsibility. Balancing the partnership track with family responsibilities and barriers (and biases) faced by my diverse friends and colleagues is particularly difficult. Women (and lawyers) of color face additional obstacles, as do members of the LGBTQIA+ community, those with disabilities, and religious minorities. These lawyers must navigate unique challenges that compound the existing hurdles within the legal profession, and especially in Big Law. I do not personally face many of these intersectional challenges. I recognize both my privilege and my responsibility to advocate for those who do.
In 2021, I joined my firm’s associate leadership committee (NextGen) as an at-large board member and local (Milwaukee office) representative. In that role, we hosted a holiday-time happy hour for associates at the distillery and bar across the street from the office.
We sat down for appetizers and cocktails. My office is very collegial, so, as best we could, we squeezed around a couple of tables and on couches, pulling up extra chairs. It didn’t take long to realize that if there were 12 of us in this huddle, 10 were women. I clocked it almost immediately. A few minutes later, a first-year associate acknowledged it. With a smile on her face, she proclaimed: “I love seeing all these women here.”
My immediate and aloud response? “I need at least half of you to stay and make partner at this firm.” Since then, four of us have.
Growing up, I never felt less than or called out because I was a girl. My parents, both attorneys, raised me under the guise of achievement — of being able to accomplish things academically if I worked hard, without any reference to my gender or stereotypical gender roles.
In classes, it was no different. If I worked hard, followed directions, and played by the rules (checked boxes and collected gold stars), I achieved — regardless of my gender. I never felt less than or even competitive with the boys. It was me against myself most times.
I lived most of my young adult life that way, moving from college to Teach for America to law school, doing what I did best: working hard, checking boxes, and moving on to the next goal.
And then, in 2016, following a clerkship (in a chambers of all women to start, then 4-1 women to men at the end), I joined private practice as a Big Law commercial litigator.
I didn’t notice the “mostly male” environment to start. It didn’t seem to matter. I was comfortable doing the work, eventually making friends with my co-associates, and moving from junior to midlevel associate as planned. Although there was only one, then two other female litigation associates (and two, then one, then zero, and back to one female litigation partner), office- and firm-wide the numbers were much more even.
But slowly, I felt it. My conscious started questioning: Do I fit in here? Can I be myself here? I realized that you can be comfortable in the “boys club” as a woman, and it can still hold you back.
It can still hold you back.
I think this mostly stems from trying to fit a stereotype — the white male partner who has done private practice the same way for probably 100 years and few people stop to ask, “Is there a different way?”