Technically, I was supposed to be in the fourth year by now. Not because I failed (let’s clarify that before the rumours start) but because I took a drop, a pause to figure out where I actually wanted to be. The law school I chose eventually isn’t exactly my “dream uni,” but it’s one of the best in my city, and over time I’ve realized that sometimes life is less about chasing the dream and more about making the best of where you land.
And yet, here I am, in the blink of an eye, standing in the middle of this journey ”the third year”. The strange part is that being in the third year doesn’t feel entirely celebratory. It’s more like being the middle child in a big family. You’re not the baby everyone dotes on (like first-years with their endless orientation activities and attention), and you’re certainly not the wise elder whose advice and opinions hold weight (the final years who are already thinking about careers and placements). Instead, you’re somewhere in between, sometimes invisible, sometimes carrying more responsibility than you signed up for.Â
First years are treated like newborns, the faculty patiently entertains their questions and forgives their silly mistakes. Fifth years, on the other hand, are glorified because they’re on the verge of leaving and building their careers. And then there’s us, the third years, neither pampered nor respected, just awkwardly trying to prove our existence.
Reality checks at this stage? Brutal. The friendships you made in your first year, the ones you thought you’d keep forever, are now reduced to polite nods in corridors. The “law school honeymoon phase” is long gone, replaced by deadlines, journal submissions, and the pressure to secure internships at top firms or under renowned advocates. LinkedIn anxiety has suddenly become real. Everyone around you seems to be landing prestigious opportunities while you’re still figuring out how to update your CV.
But maybe that’s what makes the third year special too. It’s the year where you’re no longer lost but not yet settled, where confusion coexists with clarity. You know enough to guide juniors, yet you’re still figuring out what your own path should look like. It’s a reminder of how far I’ve come from being that nervous fresher, unsure, overwhelmed, and clutching onto every bit of help, to someone who has grown, survived, and learned.
When I first joined law school, I was so sure of what I wanted to become a judicial officer, a dream I’ve carried with me since seventh grade. It’s not that the dream has vanished, but with the Supreme Court’s recent judgment introducing the mandatory three years of practice before eligibility, things feel different. For someone from a middle-class family who has already spent five years in law school (plus a year’s drop that makes it six in total), the thought of three more years without stable earnings feels heart breaking. Being a single child, I’m ready to take responsibility for my family, not that they wouldn’t support me, but they’ve already done so much. That’s where the confusion lies: between honouring the dream and honouring the reality.
The third year may be the awkward middle child of law school overlooked, overburdened, and underappreciated. But maybe that’s the beauty of it. We’re still allowed to be uncertain, still learning, still holding space for both dreams and doubts. Freshers are too busy getting lost on campus, and final-years are too busy pretending they already have a six-figure job offer. Maybe it’s us middle children who’ll end up running the show when no one’s watching.
And if there’s one thing I’ve learned in this journey, it’s this: it’s okay not to have it all figured out yet.
“Be patient toward all that is unsolved in your heart and try to love the questions themselves.”
Rainer Maria Rilke
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