Life After Big Law

My battle with identity loss and imposter syndrome in my post-law era

I thought I would feel free, euphoric even, as the golden handcuffs of my Big Law job clattered to the floor. Instead, the second I hit submit on my resignation letter, I felt the panic swell in my chest as I began to flounder in the uncertainty, drowning in self-doubt and the dread of not knowing what’s next. I had always known what was next: college, law school, Big Law. But that was all gone now and, truthfully, I already knew in that very moment that it was never coming back.

Of course, I had had a plan—an idyllic, albeit somewhat delusional, idea of becoming a prolific writer tackling the dramas of modern day feminism and running my own business with a flexible schedule that allowed time for myself and for my family. But, suddenly, faced with the pressing need to actualize these plans—instead of letting them remain gentle ideas resting idly within the confines of my imagination—I was paralyzed.

Those weeks following my resignation felt like repeated punches to the face: I would register the initial pang of pain of losing my title as "lawyer," followed by a period of total disassociation where I couldn’t quite remember what had happened. Slowly, the reality of having no job—and what felt like no identity and no purpose—would envelop my being, filling me with an overwhelming sense of fear, anxiety, and anger that left me saying, “What the fuck?”

During this time, I realized just how fragile and superficial my self-worth had become: as my status as a practicing attorney shattered, so did my ego. My identity had been so tied to “Big Law” and its prestige that I had no idea who I was without it. My identity crisis—which is really just a nice way of saying total fucking mental breakdown—even drove me to interview with another Big Law firm, half convinced that I not only could but wanted to go back. I walked out covered in hives. Yet, without another box to check on the list of societally sanctioned, acceptable accolades, I was lost.

But why is that? It’s no secret that when I left my job, I had already built myself a back-up plan—a side hustle, if you will—ranting and raving all over TikTok about motherhood from which I benefitted both financially and emotionally. I was also rebuilding a badly wounded connection with my children and husband that had rapidly deteriorated in the short time that I had returned to my law firm from my second maternity leave. So why is it that once I left my job to focus on my family and build a brand of my own, the overwhelming sentiment I experienced was inadequacy—as if the slate had been wiped clean and everything I had done thus far, including birthing and raising two children, had been nothing?

The truth is, I was—and still am—battling archaic stereotypes that I outwardly condemn on my platforms but that are also so deeply entrenched in my own psychology that I have, at times, allowed them to consume me.

For starters, I have a severe bout of imposter syndrome. I have yet to muster up the metaphorical balls to claim the titles of “stay-at-home mom,” “writer,” or even, dare I say, “influencer.” In my (warped) mind, being a stay-at-home mom would mean that I don’t have childcare—or at least not full time childcare. But I do. I’m also not sure I qualify as a writer. A few Substack posts and one published article can’t be sufficient to earn that label. And influencer? Don’t those women always look chic and have hundreds of thousands of followers? Meanwhile, half my clothes are covered in baby vomit and last night’s dinner. I often don't feel deserving of any title.

Paradoxically, I also recoil from these labels, overwhelmed with fear of being judged as some Upper East Side cliché who wasted her law degree and potential in favor of pilates and a "business" funded by her husband so she can have a "hobby." When asked by a new acquaintance what I do for work, I fumble through my words, unable to put together a coherent sentence that summarizes my life choices in a way that makes me as proud as I was letting the word “lawyer” roll off my tongue. But therein lies the real failure: not that I left Big Law, but that I can't seem to own it—own that I did, in fact, at the very least, pause my practice in order to spend more time with my babies, focus on my love of writing, and document it all on social media. And yes, fucking take pilates.

The problem isn’t in my title or lack thereof. It’s in my own self-judgment and the sinking feeling that even if I were to be a writer, influencer, or stay-at-home mom, it wouldn’t be good enough—that I am somehow, not enough. And while my specific predicament is, perhaps, unique to me, this sentiment is not. The stigma attached to women who opt to spend more time at home and break from their chosen, traditional career paths is not only pervasive but also degrading.

But lately, I’ve felt a shift. Perhaps it’s that women in my same situation are having a moment, in large part thanks to women like

Neha Ruch

who aims to rebrand the image of modern stay-at-home mothers through her platform Mother Untitled and book The Power Pause: How to Plan a Career Break After Kids–and Come Back Stronger Than Ever. Or perhaps it’s that I’m finally both settling and leaning into the idea that it’s ok to take a break—that this break may actually be the productive reset I need to figure out I want next. Mainly, I think it’s that I’ve started to accept that I don’t have to fit within one particular label or the stereotypes attached to them. I’m not a stay-at-home mom but i’m also not a working mom—I’m somewhere in between, navigating what that means.

Don’t get me wrong, there are days I miss practicing law and wonder if I totally fucked up my life. I mourn no longer having a clear purpose outside the home, that sense of certainty and self-importance I felt in a job that garnered immediate respect among my peers (and their parents). But when I sit down at my window seat with my coffee in hand to write, or wander through the Met with my children mid-day without the sickening fear of missing an email, I feel at peace. I’m finally coming to grips with the notion that I am, for this moment, sitting in the unknown. And, maybe, just maybe, it’s in the depths of the unknown that I’ll actually find the strength to both own who I am and grow into who I really want to be.

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