I remember my first year as a lawyer, way back when. The firm was a pressure cooker, an absolute pit of vipers, and I genuinely believed—truly believed—that the only way to survive, to *thrive*, was to be the sharpest, the meanest, the most confrontational person in the room. Every single day, every day, I’d wake up and put on this armor, this aggressive, almost belligerent persona. I thought it made me look strong, formidable. I thought it was what a “real” lawyer did. (What a colossal idiot I was.) I’d interrupt, I’d argue for argument’s sake, I’d cut people off mid-sentence, just to demonstrate... what? My supposed intellectual superiority? My right to dominate the conversation? It was exhausting, frankly. Exhausting to maintain that level of constant, performative rudeness. But I thought it was necessary. And it worked, in a twisted sort of way. I got noticed. I got cases. My superiors, the men mostly, seemed to approve of the “fire” I brought to the table. “That’s what we need,” I overheard one of them say once, after I’d verbally eviscerated some junior associate for a minor typo. “Someone who isn’t afraid to ruffle feathers.” (Feathers? I was trying to strip them bare.) I remember that particular associate, a sweet, quiet woman, looking utterly crushed. Her eyes were wide, blinking back tears, and I just… moved on. Didn't give it a second thought. My focus was on winning, on being the perceived alpha. It felt like a war, and I was determined to be the victor, every single time. Then, life intervened, as it often does. My husband and I decided one of us should stay home when our first child arrived. We talked it through, endlessly, logically, and it just made more sense for me to step back. He was established, his income was higher, more secure. And I… I convinced myself I wanted it. I told everyone I wanted it. To be a mother, to nurture, to build a home. For years, decades even, that was my identity. The stay-at-home parent. And it was good, mostly. But there was this constant, quiet hum beneath the surface, a longing for something more, something… different. A guilt too, for wanting it at all. For not being utterly, completely fulfilled by the immense, profound work of raising children. Now, all these years later, sitting here in the quiet dark of the house, everyone else asleep, I look back at that young lawyer and I barely recognize her. Or rather, I recognize her, and I see the fear that drove her, the deep insecurity masked by that performative aggression. (It was all insecurity, wasn’t it? For all of us?) I think of that junior associate, and I feel a pang that’s almost physical. What was I trying to prove? To whom? Did I truly believe that being rude, being cruel even, made me a better lawyer, a better *person*? We humans are such strange creatures, so easily swayed by the perceived requirements of a role, so willing to sacrifice our true selves for an ideal, however misguided. And the strange thing is, even after all this time, all this reflection, a part of me, a tiny, dark, curled-up part, still understands why she did it. She thought she was fighting for her life. And sometimes, even now, I still feel that urge to fight. To be heard, to be seen, to be… powerful. Even when there's no battlefield left.