Preface
I wrote the scaffolding of this piece during a moment of intense frustration while studying for the LSAT last March. Writing has always been an outlet for me, and in that moment, I needed to vent to my laptop for a second. I say this because a lot has happened since then.
I spent nearly five more months studying, eventually took the LSAT, and scored above my original goal. I applied to law schools and now have options for where I can go, which is something I wasn’t confident would happen in such a brutal admissions cycle. So, trust me, this story does have a good ending.
Still, I know many of you may be feeling exactly what I felt at the beginning of this process. If any of this resonates with you as you start your LSAT prep or law school journey, I see you. Hang in there.
Why do I want to be a lawyer? Maybe it’s the structure. Maybe the prestige. Maybe it’s because I’ve already told everyone I know that this is what I’m doing, and it feels easier to stick with it than to imagine an entirely different life.
I’d argue I’m a good public speaker. I’m good at explaining complicated things, assuming I understand them myself. But as I sit here, working through my LSAT prep curriculum, I can’t help but wonder what the point of all of this is. I am not having fun.
In fact, when I think about taking the exam, I get this deeply uncomfortable feeling, like I want to flee the country and abandon the entire life I’ve built here. I know I’m smart. But am I as smart as people think? Is it a façade? Will I actually be a good lawyer, or have I just learned how to sound like one?
As I write this, Grammarly is correcting my wording, telling me to rearrange sentences for clarity and structure. Of course, I accept the suggestions because Grammarly must know better. But is that what law school will be like?
Will I spend years sanding down the nuances that make me me just to fit into the same cookie-cutter category as every other suit? Why isn’t my writing style good enough, Grammarly?
Yesterday, when I sat down to start studying, a stranger told me I looked sad and asked if I was okay. I laughed softly and said I was studying for the LSAT. I figured that explanation would be enough. After all, it’s a notoriously miserable test.
But his eyes showed genuine concern. He asked where I wanted to go to school. “[Insert fantastic dream school],” I said, again with a soft chuckle. “But you know how that goes!”
He didn’t mirror my pessimism, which made me think, ‘Why am I so convinced I need to keep doing things I don’t enjoy?’ Maybe because I’m rewarded for it. Society rewards hard work and discipline. If I keep showing up to study, I’m being productive. I’m working hard even if I hate every second of it.
I’m 20 years old. This stranger looked at me like I should be smiling, soaking in my youth, and doing things that inspire me. I thought I was. Maybe I am. But I’m not happy.
Happiness isn’t a constant state. It sneaks up on you. Sometimes I fold laundry and feel happy. Sometimes I’m on the most relaxing vacation of my life and never feel it once. So will I be happy as a lawyer? Am I actually cut out for this?
I have traits people say make a good lawyer, but that doesn’t mean I will be a good lawyer. Those traits might be necessary, but they’re not sufficient (I know you LSAT takers understand this, or at least you should).
If Grammarly tells me not to use the word really one more time, I’m going to throw my laptop. Maybe I really like that word. The law probably doesn’t. It’s always the first to go when editing for clarity or cutting word count. I use “really” and “actually,” and I’m proud of it. Neither Grammarly nor the legal system can take that away from me.
What upsets me most is how the LSAT started to change the way I think. When solving problems, I stopped considering my emotional response altogether. It was irrelevant. Focus on the argument. What’s provable? Feelings aren’t concrete. They’re extraneous. Unnecessary.
But what if emotional weight does matter to me? What if, sometimes, what matters most isn’t whether something is logically airtight, but the toll it takes to get there? I worried that studying for the LSAT and law more broadly would train that out of me. That it would teach me to ignore the parts of myself that don’t fit neatly into conditional statements or black-and-white answers.
And for a while, it felt like it might. But here’s what I know now, on the other side of the test: struggling with the LSAT didn’t mean I wasn’t cut out for law school. It meant I was human. It meant I cared. It meant I was learning how to sit with discomfort instead of running from it.
I didn’t lose myself to the process, but I did learn where I needed to protect myself from it. The LSAT isn’t law school. And law school isn’t a personality eraser.
If anything, this process taught me that being “cut out” for something doesn’t mean loving every step of it. It means deciding what parts of yourself are non-negotiable, and carrying them with you anyway.
So yes, this story has a good ending. Not because it was easy, or because I suddenly stopped doubting myself, but because I learned that ambition doesn’t have to come at the cost of identity. And that’s a trade I’m finally comfortable making.