Why do you want to be a lawyer?

"Why do you want to be a lawyer?" I used to fumble over my words when people asked me this question. I would spill out something about my debate skills and how I thought I would be well suited to the profession. People nodded when they heard it, impressed. Teachers encouraged it. My parents clung to it. And I didn’t question it.

Growing up in an immigrant household where stability was always out of reach, saying you wanted to be a lawyer wasn’t just a dream—it was an endpoint. It meant financial security, status, and safety. It meant never having to translate again at the doctor’s office and never being afraid of paperwork with government letterheads. It was a way out and a way up.

But for most of my life, I had no idea what being a lawyer actually looked like. I just knew it sounded like the answer to a lot of the problems my family was trying to survive.

Navigating without a map

I spent a couple years working in law firms before law school. I took jobs that had “legal” in the title—legal assistant, legal case coordinator. Still, I felt wholly unprepared for the job. I had a couple weeks of transcribing dictations and filing documents as training before I was expected to keep up. I hated having to ask my supervisor for help on tasks because it always felt like an admission of, “I have no idea what I’m doing.” 

So, I stopped asking for help. My objective changed from learning about the legal field to making sure I wasn’t a liability. I convinced myself that I was doing a good job because I was working with lawyers and I was keeping up! But I wasn’t learning how or why I wanted to be a lawyer; I was going through the motions of a path on which I had aimlessly set myself. 

When attorneys asked me if I was planning on going to law school, I reflexively said yes. I was already on this path, and there was no reason to doubt my capability. Yet, when it came time to apply to law school, I still felt like I was building a future based on a vague guess.

Before my 1L fall semester, I remember my parents wanted to introduce me to a lawyer from church who wanted to offer some advice. I met him at his country club, and he asked me what I had been doing to get prepared for law school. He asked if I had read outlines and primers on Torts or Constitutional Law and what I was doing to get “ahead of the curve.” It felt embarrassing to tell him that I hadn’t even planned on reading anything substantive before I started school.

Much of law school felt like that, like being ambushed with things I should have done or should have known. When I got in, I assumed the uncertainty would stop. But it didn’t. It just changed shape. The first few weeks of law school felt like a brick wall. People talked about OCI and clerkships, but I didn't even know where to find the resources to apply.

Imposter syndrome didn’t creep in—it kicked down the door. Every cold call, every networking event, every conversation about career paths reminded me that I didn’t come from a line of lawyers. I didn’t have mentors. I didn’t have the “why” figured out. I just had a hope that this path would mean something.

An imperfect answer

For a long time, law school was less about becoming a lawyer and more about proving I could get here. In my family, education wasn’t just about opportunity, it was about redemption. It was proof that the sacrifices my parents made weren’t in vain. That all the years spent navigating a new country were leading to something. I didn’t feel pressure to be perfect, but I felt pressure to make this count.

Now, I have no problem recognizing that I don't have a perfect answer for why I want to become a lawyer. It's a combination of interest, ignorance, and insecurity; I'm here because I didn't know better. But being a first-gen student means constantly navigating the unknown. I may not have the language or the blueprint, but I have the resilience and the trust of my friends and family and I know I'll be just fine.