Missing Out on Law Review Changed My Career for the Better

If you’re a law student, you know that your law school’s law review holds a nearly mythic status. From the moment you walk through the doors of orientation, it’s made clear that certain roles and recognitions serve as the golden tickets of legal academia. Law Review. Moot Court. Big Law summer associate positions. Judicial Clerkships. These aren’t just achievements, they’re shorthand for excellence, ambition, and, most of all, opportunity.

I was no exception to this mindset. Like many of my peers, I aimed for every accolade that seemed to carry weight. I studied hard, applied diligently, and measured my progress against a very specific scoreboard. It felt like a gut punch when I didn’t get into law review. A part of me questioned whether I’d already fallen behind in a race I was just beginning.

Nevertheless, looking back now, I can say something that felt impossible in that moment: I’m grateful. Missing out on law review didn’t derail my career or close the door to opportunity. If anything, it opened more meaningful ones. Opportunities that led to hands-on growth, real-world insight, and a kind of legal education that no lecture on bluebook citations could match.

At the time, though, not getting on law review didn’t feel like a silver lining. It felt like a signal that I wasn’t good enough or hadn’t checked the right box. That kind of pressure, silent but powerful, runs deep in the culture of legal education. We’re conditioned to believe there’s a single, prestige-driven path to success, and when something bumps us off that track, we’re quick to internalize it as failure.

But here’s the truth I wish more students heard early on: the legal profession is far more complex and forgiving than the narrow framework law school suggests. And sometimes, what looks like a missed opportunity is really just the beginning of a better path.

The Unexpected Value of Real-World Experience

When law review didn’t work out, I had a choice to make. I could dwell on what I missed, or focus on what was still possible. I chose the latter, even if I didn’t fully realize it at the time. Instead of spending long hours editing footnotes in the library or analyzing obscure legal theory, I stepped directly into the kind of work that would eventually define my career.

I took on an internship representing clients in a pro bono clinic and another helping victims of domestic violence secure emergency orders of protection. I also held law clerk jobs in different fields—positions that put me face-to-face with real clients. I sat across from people whose lives had been disrupted, sometimes devastated, by accidents, negligence, violence, or injustice.

There was no buffer between theory and reality. I had to listen, adapt, and think quickly. And more importantly, I had to learn how to be useful.

I Left the Classroom and Stepped into the Courtroom

At the pro bono clinic, I qualified for a 711 license, which allows law students to engage in limited legal practice under supervision. Through that experience, I took my first deposition on a case involving clients suing their landlord for ADA violations. I handled my first client intake for a woman wrongfully terminated from her job.

When there was a court date to attend or a strategy meeting to jump on, I had the time and freedom to say yes. For the first time, I was leaving the classroom and stepping into the courtroom.

At the domestic violence clinic, I listened to clients’ stories and counseled them on whether their experiences met the legal criteria for an order of protection. I sat through stressful, sad, and often devastating conversations.

I learned that sometimes you have to set aside your lawyer hat and just be human. Build rapport. Foster connection. Lead with empathy. Building that trust made me better at my job. Clients often shared critical details they may have otherwise held back—details that could make a huge difference when persuading a judge to grant an emergency order.

These experiences built my confidence. So when I came out to practice, I felt just a little ahead of the curve. And that confidence? It helped put clients at ease.

I Learned How the Law Works and What Legal Strategy Looks Like

These weren’t the roles most students bragged about at networking events. They didn’t come with titles that looked impressive on paper. But they came with something better: perspective. Every interaction, case file, and hour spent in the field was a masterclass in how the law actually works outside the classroom.

I started to understand what legal strategy looks like when applied in real time. I learned how to communicate clearly with people under stress. And I began to see that being a good lawyer isn’t just about crafting perfect legal arguments—it’s about building trust, making sound decisions, and showing up when it matters most.

What I once thought of as second-best turned out to be the most formative part of my education. I didn’t need law review to sharpen my skills or prove my worth. The clients I served did that for me. They were my editors, my professors, and ultimately, my why.

Rejection Opened the Doors That Truly Mattered to Me

At the time, it felt like a setback. Not getting into law review seemed to separate me from the students who were, at least on paper, headed for elite clerkships or prestigious firms. But the truth is that rejection didn’t close doors—it redirected me toward the doors that actually mattered to me.

Because I wasn’t tied to the time demands of law review, I was free to say yes to opportunities that might have seemed too time-consuming otherwise. I could attend the local bar events, network, and put myself out there. I was involved in cases that allowed me to build relationships with attorneys, investigators, and—most importantly—clients. I wasn’t reviewing theoretical disputes; I was watching real disputes unfold and, in some cases, helping shape how they were resolved.

That freedom also gave me space to reflect on what kind of lawyer I actually wanted to be. Without the rigid track that often accompanies traditional accolades, I had the flexibility to try different roles, test new skills, and develop a professional identity rooted in service, not status. And that exploration was more valuable than any title on my résumé.

There’s something empowering about realizing your worth isn’t defined by the boxes you check in law school. In my case, stepping off the “prestige path” helped me see that success isn’t linear, and sometimes, the best direction is the one you didn’t plan for. It wasn’t about settling for less. It was about discovering more.

Clients Want a Lawyer Who Shows Up, Not One Who Looks Good on Paper

Law school has a way of making certain achievements feel like the finish line. Get on law review. Land the internship. Secure the offer. It’s easy to believe that if you miss one of those milestones, your future in the legal field narrows. But once you step outside the academic bubble, the picture changes fast.

In the real world, clients don’t ask where you placed on your class rank or whether you published in a journal. They want someone who listens, understands the gravity of their situation, and can guide them through it. They want a lawyer who shows up, not one who looks good on paper.

Looking back, I can see how much time I spent chasing signals of success that were more about perception than preparation. The things that have made the biggest difference in my career—my ability to communicate clearly, build trust, and think strategically under pressure—weren’t taught in a classroom or rewarded with honors. They were developed through trial, error, and time in the trenches.

This isn’t to say that traditional accomplishments don’t matter—they do. But they’re not the only markers of potential and certainly not the only route to becoming a great lawyer. In fact, by stepping away from that checklist mentality, I was able to focus on building a skill set that’s durable, relevant, and rooted in experience.

The legal profession is full of people who took different paths to success. The sooner we stop measuring ourselves by institutional standards alone, the sooner we make room for more meaningful measures, like impact, integrity, and resilience.

Experience Prepares You for the Work That Defines the Profession

To the law students reading this: don’t waste time believing that missing out on traditional honors means you’re falling behind. Focus instead on what you are gaining. Real-world experience, client interaction, practical exposure—those things will prepare you for the work that actually defines this profession.

If you didn’t make law review, get curious. Volunteer at a legal aid clinic. Shadow a trial attorney. Work on a project that puts you in the middle of real issues with real people. Those experiences won’t just prepare you for practice—they’ll teach you the kind of emotional intelligence and adaptability that can’t be replicated in a classroom.

The legal profession is changing. Clients care more about how you show up than where you’ve been published. Firms are beginning to look beyond resumes and ask: Can this person build rapport? Can they handle the stress? Can they think on their feet?

Your job is to grow into someone who can confidently answer yes to those questions. And you don’t need law review to get there.

What Seemed Like a Loss Helped Me Grow in Ways I Never Anticipated

In hindsight, not making law review felt less like a detour and more like a directional sign pointing me toward the career I was meant to build. What seemed like a loss at the time gave me room to grow in ways I hadn’t anticipated—ways that would shape my skill set and my entire outlook as an attorney.

I’m glad I didn’t get it.

It’s easy to see rejection as a wall. But sometimes, it’s a window. Law school taught me how to think, but those missed opportunities gave me the freedom to do. And doing the work—showing up, solving problems, building trust—is what this profession is about.

So if you’re in the middle of a moment like that, where something you wanted didn’t pan out, don’t assume it means you’ve missed your chance. It might just mean you’re meant to find your way forward.