As I thought about how to close out this year, I kept thinking about the moments that stretched me, steadied me, and pulled me deeper into the work — in the courtroom and beyond it.
This year reminded me that practicing law is never just about statutes or strategy, but it’s about people. Real people. Imperfect people. People who meet me not in an office, but in jail booths, courthouse hallways, holding rooms, and moments where life feels heavy and uncertain. Those spaces have a way of stripping everything down to the truth.
I’ve never considered myself a “people person,” yet this work confronts me with people every single day — their stories, their fears, their truths. And somehow, that tension has shaped me more than comfort ever could. It’s taught me that God doesn’t need my personality to be perfect — just available.
As a court‑appointed defense attorney, I sit in a corner of the legal system most folks never hear about. It’s a space where judgment has to give way to listening, where assumptions bow to truth, and where mercy isn’t weakness — it’s wisdom. My clients taught me that over and over again this year.
They taught me:
- That every case has a story behind it — often more complicated, more human, and more honest than the charge on paper
- That accountability and compassion can coexist without canceling each other out
- That faith isn’t something I leave at the door — it shapes how I advocate, how I speak, how I discern, and how I see people
- That serving someone in their hardest moment is a calling, not a performance
- That sometimes the most powerful thing you can offer is presence, not perfection
This year stretched my understanding of what it means to stand in the gap. Advocacy isn’t glamorous. It’s not loud. It’s not about winning every battle. Sometimes it’s helping someone face themselves with honesty. Sometimes it’s helping them stand up again. And sometimes it’s holding space for a truth they’re not ready to say out loud.
This year also reshaped my understanding of what ‘winning’ really means. For some clients, it’s a dismissal after a bogus arrest. For others, it’s a time‑served plea so they can get on with their lives. And for some, it’s a supervised resolution because they want, or need, support to stay on the right track. Winning isn’t always about walking out with a clean slate. Sometimes it’s about walking out with a chance.
Still, there are stories I’m not quite ready to tell yet, moments in the courtroom and in my own life that I’m still unpacking. Some lessons need time to settle before they can be shared. I’ll bring those into the new year when the time is right. For now, I’m simply grateful for the ways this work has shaped me.
And on a personal note, when I restarted this blog, I didn’t know what it would become. Before this space, my writing lived in journals and private reflections, meant only for me. But this blog has given me room to write from my values: justice, faith, and the mercy that guides my work. Staying consistent hasn’t always been easy, but it’s been meaningful. And I’m grateful for the voice I’ve reclaimed along the way.
If this year taught me anything, it’s that standing in the gap isn’t limited to one role or one setting. It’s a posture. A calling. A way of showing up. And every stretch — legal, spiritual, personal — expanded my capacity to do it with more clarity and grace. I’m grateful for the growth and ready for whatever comes next.
See you in the new year.
On (In)justice 