My client said her firm had, more or less, a checklist of what they wanted in a lawyer they made partner. And she had knocked herself out checking off every last damn item.
- Helped with firm marketing efforts (including hundreds of non-billable hours)? Check.
- Worked with a variety of partners in various areas, including powerful group leaders and major rainmakers? Check.
- Logged long hours – and billed those hours – including nights and weekends, producing top-quality written work that was universally praised? Check.
- Cultivated positive relationships with existing clients, who produced enthusiastic feedback about her work? Check.
- Worked on important matters in a variety of roles, including stuff like taking part in trials and depositions and handling matters relating to complicated, highly regulated industries? Check.
- Brought in her own clients and began developing a meaningful book of business? Check.
- Tackled meaningful pro bono work? Check.
- Participated in events with summer associates and recruitment efforts? Check.
- Supervised and mentored juniors and ran large teams on big cases? Check.
- Anything else you can think of? Check.
Other folks in her class, even junior partners at her firm, considered her promotion, at least to of counsel, to be a given. As one put it, “if not you, then who? You’re the dream associate, a superstar.”
The logic was simple: They have to promote someone, and if it’s anything even vaguely resembling the meritocracy they claim it is, she had to be that someone.
But no, as you might be guessing, that’s not how things worked out. They promoted no one.
After a year, or two or (really) many years of “making the partnership sprint,” the firm told her she wasn’t up for anything – not partner, not of counsel, not senior attorney, nothing. At her review, she was informed she could remain at the firm, as an associate, for as long as she wanted. That’s what they were offering, in gratitude for years of devoted labor – more of the same.
Oh, and there was one more thing: They needed her to work late that night on an important, complicated filing due the next morning. (No, I’m not making that up.)
(more…)
I just turned fifty, so I can tell you about old. Old isn’t merely the words “Mission: Impossible” conjuring memories of a show you watched as a kid in 1973 on a “color console tv set” the size of a freezer chest. Old transcends. Old abides. Old pushes through to not caring if everyone else’s memories zip directly to a movie with Tom Cruise hanging off a cliff. Old concedes Jean-Luc Picard a place in the pantheon beside Kirk and Spock, but remains firm in its belief Peter Graves and the miniature reel-to-reel tape player that self-destructed after five seconds were the height of awesome, Tom Cruise or no Tom Cruise. Old is about “values.” Old doesn’t haggle over this stuff.
This one really happened – and it happened to yours truly (as opposed to the usual disguised anecdote loosely based on a factually altered tale from one or more carefully anonymized clients.)
The verb “to gaslight” comes from a 1938 stage play (which was then made into two movies, one starring Ingrid Bergman.) The plot is super-creepy, especially for 1938. In it, an evil husband tricks his young wife into believing she’s losing her mind by staging bizarre occurrences in their house, then pretending only she’s seeing and hearing them (yes, he’s after her money.) His favorite trick is dimming the gas lights in her room before clomping around upstairs or making strange sounds emanate from the walls. Soon she’s freaking out whenever the lights dim, expecting another bad trip. After each freak-out, once she’s good and melted down, he rushes to her aid, feigning concern.
If you’re a lawyer appearing at my doorstep, and you work in biglaw, there’s a good chance you’re seeking a way out. You don’t know what you want to do next, but the status quo is insupportable. That’s the standard set-up.
I was chuckling with a client the other day about the insanity of trying to please a partner with a piece of written work.
“A” wrote in with the following question:
I am happy to admit I do not know what lies at the farthest reaches of outer space, I do not know what happens after I die, and I do not know how long my relationship with my partner will last.
For example, we live out our lives stuck to a round ball of rock by a mysterious force known as gravity. If we keep traveling in any direction, we end up back where we began. Just like your childhood neighborhood, that reality might feel safe and normal. But simply because the Earth is designed that way doesn’t mean the universe is – space may well continue on forever. Yes – without end. Forever.
One of my fond memories of attending Harvard University was studying with Stephen Jay Gould, the brilliant paleontologist. Gould’s specialty was blowing his students’ minds by reminding them that their assumptions might not be generalizable to every situation. He gave a lecture on how things would look if you were only a quarter inch – or 40 feet – tall. My assumption – like a child’s – was that things would be pretty much the way they are now, except I’d be smaller or I’d be larger – essentially I’d be looking up at stuff or gazing down at it, but that would be that.
As a child, relationships were supposed to last forever. Mommy and Daddy – the two relationships that mattered above all else – were necessary for your survival, and you took it as a matter of faith that they had to be there or you would perish.
The People's Therapist 