New York Lawyer
September 10, 2002

Q:
I've read your comments about how hard it is to leave the law and then return. Many other business professions do not view time between jobs, particularly if undertaken intentionally, as damning. If you get tired of a bad situation, take some time to relax, and then come back. What's so wrong with that?

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A:

This is a good question, particularly because law is one of those areas where the use of mandatory sabbaticals is dramatically on the upswing. Many firms (although more on the West Coast than here in the East) now require that partners take periodic sabbaticals to recharge, reflect and, perhaps, redirect their careers. Several firms I'm familiar with require partners to take a 3-month sabbatical every five years. The use of sabbaticals is regarded as a sound management practice in a variety of industries, particularly those emphasizing creativity or conceptual activity (e.g., advertising, public relations, primary research, academe, etc.).

So how come it's okay to take time off when they tell you to, but it's not okay to take time off when you want to or need to?

The answer probably is a mixture of mythology, paternalistic short-sightedness, cynicism and a lack of understanding of the dynamics of human motivation. Perhaps more than in other fields, the lives and expectations imposed on those in the "professions" are governed by what one psychoanalyst has called "they tyranny of the shoulds." This tyranny is imposed by all the people who think they are entitled to prescribe what you should want, should be and should do. In this brand of mythology, professions supposedly represent a higher calling, populated by people whose dedication, commitment and motivation supposedly are uniquely strong.

In this view, law -- particularly law firm practice -- is an exclusive preserve of prestige and privilege, entry into which requires you to bust your butt and swear sacred oaths that you will love it forever. Law is supposed to be honorable, prestigious, safe, collegial and noble. And so, the mythology goes, only crazy people would ever want to leave such a grand status once it's attained. And once you get the crazy people, out ... good riddance! Why would you want them back? Particularly in view of today's harsh reality that legal practice isn't safe, prestigious and collegial, but rather is competitive, highly-specialized and not particularly highly-respected, it's kind of silly to brand those who question a life in the law as slackers, immature, uncommitted or incapable of performing consistently at the top level without burning out. Given what we all know about the realities of the profession, the unspoken mantra is both patronizing and a bit resentful: "You don't see us taking time off. You don't see us relaxing. Whatsamatta, can't you take it?"

Law is a tough way to make a living, and those entering law practice should expect it to be demanding -- most careers that pay well are. But this mythology ignores the underlying truth that lawyers are human beings too, subject to the same stresses, insecurities and neuroses as anyone else. They're just never supposed to show them. But we all know that the rate of burnout, depression, alcohol and drug abuse and failed relationships is especially high among lawyers. Accordingly, the "ya gotta be tough" conventional wisdom does not really succeed in winnowing successes from failures. The organizations insisting on sabbaticals are, in effect, pointing out the Emporer's nakedness to him, but the historical "you're lucky to be here!" ethos dies hard.

The issue looks quite different when look at through the lens of the job market and potential employers. Above all, employers are risk-reducers. They look fixate on any issue or factor that suggests that they may spend their money on talent and not get a skilled, motivated or protracted return on their investment. By and large, people who self-select into law communicate the message that they wish to characterized as specialists whose authority derives from possession of a certain kind of subject-matter expertise. Their identity is cast in terms of what they know: "I am a labor lawyer" simply proclaims that "I know the minimum amount about labor law to don that appellation -- and I'm content being pigeonholed in terms of that particular skill-set."

When someone chooses to leave a specialty, therefore, in effect they abandon their identity; they become an "ex-something." That means the job market may not to know what to do with them or where they would fit in productively. Accordingly, when someone first leaves the law, the ever-suspicious job market asks, "Are you running from something or toward something?" We may empathize if you're running from burnout, hyper-specialization or lack or partnership opportunity, but that doesn't mean we're going to hire you. We want to see evidence of proactive motivation, of a career driving toward deeply-felt values and priorities, not simply striving to avoid pain and fatigue.

Not only that, but "time between jobs" is a real issue. Is that time a product of your planning or a result of an inability to find employment? The job market never ceases to ask, "Are you driving or being driven?" In its self-protective conservatisim, it never stops asking, "Is there something wrong with this product -- either in terms of its capabilities or in terms of its motivation?" It wants to know if your time between jobs is a result of other people's reluctance to hire you.

The problem is compounded when the turncoat subsequently announces that he or she wants back in. The Prodigal Son stuff just doesn't play well in law practice. Employers are apt to suspect that you bolted the True Religion, found you couldn't survive outside the church, and now are crawling back -- not because you really want to, but because you have to. Having bolted once, you are liable to the inference that you may bolt again, that you may need "repeated rests" when your colleagues are content to chew themselves up indefinitely.

It may well be that your motives for taking a respite are sound, well-reasoned and prudent -- and that your statement of what you want to do upon your return to law is credible and mature. But, they think, what if you're lying? The upshot is that those returning to practice after "time off" have the burden of persuasion of explaining credibly both why they left and why they now want to return.

For a culture brought up in the Calvinist work ethic, "just resting" is not an estimable human motivation. We are supposed to want to be characterized by our attitude toward work and achievement. Lazy people rest. Respectable people push themselves. And so it goes. This mythology is blatantly bogus -- but it retains a powerful judgmental force, particularly in a traditional, conservative profession.

Among my other services, I counsel lawyers planning and undertaking sabbaticals. I suggest that when describing their motives to others, they avoid using phrases like "take time off," because many will wonder if they ever will "come back on." I urge them to think of their sabbatical as a proactive undertaking, a positively-motivated opportunity to grow, develop, experience. A true sabbatical is not simply time to take a rest until one has regained enough energy to jump back into the frying pan.

All of these factors create a simple challenge for anyone entertaining a return to practice. In talking with an audience you can expect to be cynical and skeptical, you have to be able to explain -- concisely, credibly and positively -- "Why this, why now?"

Sincerely,
Douglas B. Richardson
President, The Richardson Group