I love writing. Most weeks, something finds me — a moment from court, a conversation with a client, a question I’ve been turning over in my head. Writing is usually the one place where my thoughts still feel clear, even when everything else is chaotic.
But this week? Nothing came.
And I finally realized why.
I’m tired.
Not the “long day” kind of tired. The “I’ve been living my entire life without a voice for three months and I’m running on fumes” kind of tired.
I’m tired of filing motions for continuance because I physically cannot speak enough to try a case. I’m tired of clients insisting on phone calls and then commenting on how bad I sound — which is exactly why I emailed and/or texted them in the first place. I’m tired of explaining, over and over, that I’m not ignoring them. I’m protecting the one instrument my job depends on.
And here’s the part people really don’t understand:
Talking costs me.
Not metaphorically. Not emotionally. Physically.
Every time I talk, I pay for it.
My doctor told me whispering does more harm than good. So whispering is off the table. But talking isn’t much better. I can get out a few sentences, but they’re forced. They scrape. They skip. And once that happens, my voice is gone for hours.
Hours.
One five-minute phone call can set me back an entire day.
And when you’ve been dealing with this for three months, that cost adds up. It adds up in cases you can’t move. It adds up in hearings you can’t argue. It adds up in clients you can’t call. It adds up in the guilt you carry because you’re trying to serve people with a tool that keeps breaking every time you use it.
But the part that hurts the most isn’t court.
It’s home.
My son turns on the light so he can read my lips because he can’t hear me. I can’t talk to my mom the way I’m used to. I can’t talk to my friends the way I want to. I can’t sing at church; I just mouth the words and hope for the best. The conversations that normally refill me, ground me, remind me who I am outside of court… I don’t have enough voice to give them, either.
And the irony of all of this is that I’m naturally a quiet person. I listen more than I talk. I’ve never been the loud one in the room. But being involuntarily silenced — being unable to speak even when I want to — has been a true exercise in patience I didn’t ask for and didn’t choose.
It’s one thing to be quiet by nature. It’s another thing entirely to be quiet by force.
So when I text, I’m not being distant. I’m not being dismissive. I’m not being unprofessional.
I’m trying to protect what little voice I have left so I can show up in court, talk to prosecutors, speak to judges, and advocate for clients who need me to be able to talk when it matters.
People don’t think about that part of criminal defense. They think about trials, evidence, strategy, courtroom moments. They don’t think about the fact that my voice is a tool — and right now, it’s a broken one.
And when your voice is compromised, everything becomes heavier.
You can’t move cases because you can’t speak long enough to argue motions. You can’t prep witnesses because you can’t get through the conversation. You can’t reassure clients because reassurance requires tone, and tone requires breath, and breath requires a voice that isn’t shredded.
So you text. You email. You try to conserve what little you have. And people still want the phone call. Still want the sound of your voice. Still want the thing you don’t have.
And the truth is: I get it. Clients want connection. They want reassurance. They want to hear confidence, calm, direction.
But this week? I didn’t have any of that left.
The only thing keeping me going right now is the thought of my upcoming cruise — the idea of being somewhere quiet, somewhere warm, somewhere where nobody needs me to talk, somewhere where my voice can finally rest.
This is the part of criminal defense nobody talks about. The part where your body gives out before your mind does. The part where you’re still trying to show up, still trying to serve, still trying to be present — even when the one thing your job requires is the one thing you don’t have.
It’s not glamorous. It’s not dramatic. It’s not a trial story.
It’s just the truth.
And maybe that’s enough for this week.
On (In)justice 