Many people have asked me to share sample law school personal statements. Below are 9 of my favorites.
Personal Statement #1: Gig Economy & Homelessness
This is one of the most powerful and emotionally charged essays I’ve seen. The applicant opens mid-delivery shift—tired, broke, and sleeping in their car—and closes with a call to action on rideshare workers’ rights. It’s also been publicly highlighted by Dean Z of Michigan Law in her A2Z series. Watch the video here.
Result: Admitted with a 3.1x GPA to Michigan (large scholarship), UCLA (achievement fellowship), and UT (full scholarship).
My head slams into my headrest as I drive over a speedbump. Before I can process the pain, I arrive at a gated community to deliver my first order. I glance at the time: 4:15 p.m. I am two minutes late. I take a deep breath and head toward the child waiting at the door. He grabs the bag and slams the door in my face.
As I return to my car, my phone rings with another order: $16.12 for 8 miles. Just over my two-dollars a mile rule. The order is a double, meaning I have to deliver to two locations. I accept it and head to Chipotle. Estimated time: 34 minutes. Normally, this would mean waiting a while for the food. But I know Chipotle isn’t busy now. I run in and both orders are ready. I carefully pack them in a heated bag and head to the first location.
I arrive ten minutes early and deliver the food. I know not to get excited yet as anything could happen with the second delivery, but I can’t help but smile. If all goes well, I will make twenty dollars on the hour. I hop into my car and turn the key. Nothing. I wait a minute before trying again. If I try too soon, my car will give up and I will have to get it towed. I can’t afford another tow this month. I try again, this time the engine lets out a putter before stopping. I spend another nineteen minutes trying before it finally starts. By the time I reach the next location, I’m ten minutes late and frustrated. But I hide my emotions. I can’t risk losing my tip.
I deliver several more orders without issue. My total earnings for the night reads: $105.68. It’s nearly midnight, so my last few orders will likely be fast food. As expected, a Taco Bell order pops up: ~$3 per mile. I quickly accept it, pick it up, and head to the customer. I hand over the food and return to my car. But before I could leave, the man runs toward me, clearly upset. I open the window, thinking I forgot to give him his drink. Instead, he yells at me that he got the wrong order. Despite my best attempt to explain it’s out of my control, he angrily reaches into my car. I’m terrified. Once I get over the initial shock, I honk my horn as loud as I can, causing him to jump back. I immediately step on the gas and screech down the road.
I push through for another hour before heading back to my college’s parking garage. I drive up to the fifth floor and park on an angle, covered just enough to keep away from the elements. I had learned that the pitter patter of rain that lulled me to sleep when I had a home, sounded like a drum when sleeping in my car. I pull the seat lever and lean it back as far as possible. I lay straight back, so campus police don’t notice me.
The next morning at 8:30 a.m., I head to my first class: Economics of Poverty and Inequality. I notice my classmates arguing about a recent law that was passed related to homelessness. I want to join the conversation, but I stay quiet. I’m exhausted and can barely keep my eyes open. Classes today end at 1 p.m., leaving me with a few hours to nap before I head to the school gym to shower and then back downtown for another shift.
Before I begin, I check my account to see what I made the prior night. It adds up to: $92.55. Something is wrong. The numbers don’t add up. I check my email and see a notification that my benefit level has dropped. I must have gotten a bad rating. But even then, I’m short just under $20. I was likely tip-baited. Sometimes, customers put a high tip to ensure their order is picked up, and then remove it after delivery, regardless of service. This is one of the many issues with rideshare delivery. Corporations like DoorDash and Uber control the distribution of money but leave drivers, like me, with the risk. I don’t have the money to service my car, much less afford more than basic insurance. If my car breaks down, I’m out of work until I fix it.
I’m not alone in my frustration. Widespread dissatisfaction among drivers have led to calls for change. But little has come. Uber argues drivers make $20/hour—more than every state’s minimum wage. This number, however, doesn’t account for costs. When factoring in unpaid waiting time and gas, studies find drivers make $10/hour. Even that number is inflated as the studies don’t account for maintenance costs, which add ~$500 dollars in monthly expenses for the average driver. While some states have begun taking steps to protect drivers, rideshare corporations spend tens of millions of dollars a year to influence policy. Notably, Prop 22 in California was passed to decrease drivers’ rights after a major lobbying campaign by DoorDash and Uber.
I am pursuing a legal career with a commitment to championing drivers’ rights and creating a solution that protects their independence, safety, and stability. To date, corporations have monopolized the conversation and new legislation has mainly benefited them. For this to change, drivers must have a seat at the table. As a lawyer, I will work to create a legal avenue for drivers to unionize. By providing drivers the chance to negotiate directly with corporations and the power to collectively influence legislation, I’m confident a solution that truly helps drivers will emerge—and stay. With the memory of my own powerlessness as I slept in my car, I will pursue this goal with determination, fighting for drivers’ rights and being the advocate I once needed.
Personal Statement #2: Environmental Justice & Geology
One of my all-time favorite essays. It’s deeply immersive and intellectually sophisticated, weaving scientific insight into a compelling pivot toward law. The writing alone would stand out—but the legal implications elevate it further.
Result: Admitted at 8 of the T14 law schools.
The smell effervescing off the water hits me like a blast of morning breath to the face. I zip up a rain jacket to cover my nose, choosing to overheat in the muggy sunshine rather than gag with each inhalation. Too much of this air can cause nausea, headaches, eventually even liver damage. My colleague rips the recoil starter on the skiff’s engine, but it putters out immediately. The propeller struggles to churn the mossy water, so thick with toxic algae that we bring an extra gas can to ensure our later return to shore. The lake didn’t used to be like this. Something has poisoned it. We are here to find that something.
Despite the noxious vapors and smoke from a nearby wildfire blurring the scenery, Upper Klamath Lake is gorgeous in the summer. Snowy peaks pierce the sky, and the weird, algal green of the water completes an otherworldly view. I’m no stranger to working against this sort of backdrop. My years studying geology have brought me to the painted deserts of Utah and the technicolor pools of Yellowstone. I’ve mapped the Flat Irons of Colorado, probed sand dunes on Adriatic beaches, and, in the mountains of Upstate New York, hammered out garnets the size of baseballs.
But this trip is about mud. My partner and I arrive at stop one, site KL-04. She cuts the motor while I reach over the water to grab a buoy. I pull, and up comes the first of six mud traps scattered around the lake. The contraption, built from PVC pipes, syringes, and industrial-strength rubber bands, emerges from the swampy depths, vegetated and covered in silt. I haul it over the side of the boat. On the deck, wriggling with leeches, is the answer to Upper Klamath Lake’s crisis. The trap’s syringes hold the essential nutrients of blue-green algae: phosphorus, nitrogen, and heavy metals. The lake is overdosing on them. We know these specific nutrients are leached from the volcanic bedrock underlying the region. However, there is another culprit.
Restarting the engine, we hook back toward the southern coast, where water meets farmland. Here is the second source of the nutrients. On this boundary, fertilizer runoff mixes with the lake, frothing as the algae multiply. If we tested only the surface water, we’d be unable to parse the volcanic pollutants from their agricultural analogs. Our novel method bypasses this problem by focusing on the lakebed, in time allowing us to determine whether this ecological illness is mainly the fault of nature or humans. Once armed with a clear breakdown of culpability, litigation can be pursued against the responsible parties, and legislation may be written to limit local fertilizer use. In short, the water system’s future relies on the sludge we’re dredging up.
It’s difficult work though. By this point in the morning, the plastic raincoat is stuck to my body with sweat. But unlike splashes of lake water, sweat won’t sting my skin. I decide to use the back brace for this next stop as the traps feel heavier than they did on my last visit. Because we’re conducting a long-term study, this expedition to the lake is just one of the eight I will make this summer. Each is an 18-hour round trip from the U.S. Geological Survey lab in Menlo Park. The time between voyages is saturated with analyzing samples and sanitizing and reassembling the equipment, sometimes keeping me lab-locked into the summer nights.
Many parties closely follow our research, as Klamath is ground zero in an environmental brawl. Conservationist groups, farmers, local tribes, and salmon fisheries will all one day pivot their litigation on the intricacies of our unbiased findings. Geology is often like this. Most of what I’ve learned in my four years studying nature is joined at the hip with human problems. It’s not only geology’s vistas that enthrall me; it’s also its utility in a world beset by complex and far-reaching challenges. That’s why I’ve decided to shift focus from the study of Earth to the relationship between it and its inhabitants. By going to law school, I plan to protect places like Klamath, using my technical background in geology to inform the policies with which we approach both mountain ranges on the horizon and the algae under the boat.
It’s around noon when I hoist the last trap. We accelerate once more, blowing away mosquitoes that had gathered on my wrists and face. The skiff’s bow points back toward the dock, where I see the fifteen-passenger van I parked three hours ago. I’ll spend the upcoming nine-hour drive with just an audiobook, the open California grassland, and an icebox full of controversial mud. Regardless of what the mud eventually tells us, this project is only among the first in a career working for the environment. The boat drifts to a stop by the dock, and I step onto it, trap in each hand. Setting these two traps by the van’s backdoor, I start back across the sun-bleached parking lot for another pair. My mind is on the long journey ahead.
Personal Statement #3: Prison Advocacy & Solitary Confinement
This one gives me chills every time. It captures a transformation from emotional distance to urgent advocacy. The legal motivation is well-earned and laser-focused on systemic reform.
Result: Admitted at a T6 law school with a 25th percentile LSAT.
A desk. A chair. A stack of letters. I arrive at the office at 9:50 a.m., grab a cup of coffee, and begin reading letters from incarcerated individuals. The first few contain simple requests: housing and employment options for individuals with a criminal record, information about medications, legal definitions. Easy enough. I research the relevant issues and respond with my findings. The next couple contain complaints about living conditions. Straightforward. I document them and reply that we will send a volunteer to investigate. Reviewing at a steady pace, I get through almost half the letters before lunch.
When I return, the stack has doubled. This is quite common. At [redacted], we field more letters than we can efficiently handle. I try to get through the letters as quickly as possible, but I want to ensure each gets my full attention. For many, we are their only link beyond the prison walls. While drafting each reply, I omit any details about the individual’s case; it is not uncommon for mail to be opened by someone else without consent. When I finish, I send a copy to the central processing facility and then forward the letter to the appropriate staff mentor at the [redacted] to ensure we do not lose the person’s case.
I go through the same process each day, reading and replying, balancing efficiency with focus. Over the next week, I notice a trend. Many individuals have been sent to solitary confinement for minor infractions with no clear timeframe for release. They endure claustrophobic conditions and mental and physical abuse. As I read, I feel chills. One writer, who has been in solitary confinement for two years, shares his journal: paranoia, hallucinations, panic attacks, suicidal thoughts. He’s not asking for anything—he just wants to be heard. Another writes about being repeatedly sexually assaulted by a corrections officer while being held without a reason. I reply that we’re working on their cases. We’ll update them eventually. But what do they do until then?
I read many similar stories as I work through the never-ending stack. One individual in solitary confinement had to drop his college classes because they weren’t offered in isolation. Another lost his job as a cook. One was on the verge of completing vocational training before being sent to the “hole” for mouthing off to a corrections officer. A theme is developing. Solitary confinement, though intended to house the most dangerous offenders to increase safety and reduce violence, is overused, creating a barrier to rehabilitation.
I want to learn more. During my free time, I research. Studies show that solitary confinement doesn’t work. It does not increase safety. It does not reduce violence. Humans are not meant to spend twenty-three out of twenty-four hours in a space the size of a parking spot with no human interaction, receiving food through a slot. No one benefits from such inhumane treatment.
I research further. If solitary confinement is not reducing violence, why is it used at all? Why are so many people relegated to solitary confinement for minor offenses if it’s only meant for the most dangerous offenders? Why are individuals ever sent there for years at a time? Somewhere along the way, prisons began to abuse and misuse solitary confinement. Data on solitary confinement is virtually absent and often underestimated, but in 2018, U.S. jails and prisons held an estimated 80,000 to 100,000 individuals in solitary confinement on any given day. It was never meant to be used as a precautionary measure, but during the pandemic, numbers ballooned to 300,000 as prisons attempted to curb infection rates. But at what cost? Solitary confinement has become a part of prison culture when it was only ever meant to be a last resort. The harm goes beyond the walls of the tiny cell. Individuals who spend time in solitary confinement are 15% more likely to reoffend within three years of release, five times more likely to commit suicide, and 127% more likely to die of an opioid overdose within two weeks of release. The overuse of solitary confinement creates a vicious cycle of punishment.
I want to go to law school to end this cycle, but I can’t do that through isolated victories. I must work from the ground up to shift the focus of our prison system. In advocating for reform, I intend to play an active role in transforming prisons into institutions that prioritize rehabilitative over punitive treatment. Re-entry programs must be emphasized. Re-entry barriers must be broken. Mistreatment by those in power must cease. I know this will not be a quick or easy change, but I have the drive and grit to embrace the challenge.
Personal Statement #4: Legislative Reform & Policy Impact
A policy-minded essay that shows how real-world political strategy leads to a desire for legal training. Strong on leadership, impact, and clear direction without sounding rehearsed.
Result: Admitted at 4 of the T14 law schools with a 169 LSAT and sub-3.7 GPA.
Only five days remained in the legislative session, and I had just learned that the Senate Judiciary Committee had a major concern with our lead poisoning prevention bill: its million-dollar price tag. Almost all failed state legislation dies in Committee, and it looked like our bill was next. Worried that months of effort spent negotiating deals with our bill’s stakeholders would go to waste, I picked up the phone and got to work. I must have pleaded our case to a half-dozen state officials before, finally, the state’s Secretary of the Environment agreed to fund the bill and personally asked the Committee Chair to pass it. The bill crossed the finish line hours before the end of session, and it now helps thousands of children each year.
I started my political career at a well-regarded campaign fundraising firm. It was an arduous job, best suited for driven, resourceful people willing to sacrifice work-life balance for a chance to influence the political landscape. Prepared to do whatever it took to succeed, I was a perfect fit. I relished the feeling of hitting a campaign’s fundraising goal, seeing my clients’ numbers rise in the polls, and winning races. As I watched my clients transition from the campaign trail to public office, I realized that my passion for politics was evolving into a deep interest in policy and regulatory matters. After spending several nights weighing pros and cons, I decided to make a change. I gave notice and set up a meeting with a client of mine who had just been reelected as a State Delegate. She was surprised I was leaving the firm but also eager to bring me on as her new Legislative Director.
The first few weeks were a shocking adjustment. While my experiences in fundraising prepared me to run the office’s daily operations, I had so much to learn about policy. Constituents would contact us daily about a variety of issues, ranging from general questions about government programs to urgent crises that required immediate attention. As I worked to address each problem, I began noticing patterns, which enabled me to increase the speed of our resolutions.
On one occasion, a community group came in and expressed frustration that a local bus was skipping their stop nearly 25% of the time, negatively impacting hundreds of riders. They had reached out to several agencies before us, but each one just pushed the problem elsewhere. After listening to the group speak, I immediately reached out to the city transit authority and requested transit data for the area. Upon review of the data, I discovered that the route’s failures were symptomatic of a broader issue: severe traffic congestion. This bus, along with several others, often skipped stops due to road conditions. With clarity on the underlying issue, I was able to devise a practical solution. I reached out to city and state agencies and together we developed a bill that would enforce local bus lanes.
This bus lane bill, as well as our lead poisoning prevention bill, were two of the ten policy bills the Delegate and I put up for scrutiny during the 2019 90-day session. The ninety days represent our busiest time of year and is also when I get to fully embody my role as Legislative Director. On the strategy side, I utilize relationships with former clients to garner the necessary political support to pass bills. On the development side, I spend dozens of hours researching legal statutes and policy papers related to our legislation.
During the session, I worked closely with the General Assembly’s legislative analysts on perfecting the language of our bills to ensure they would be in the best position possible to get passed. I was eager to learn as much as I could, and they graciously spoke with me for hours, offering up insight into a range of policy issues and other regulatory matters. I learned more about policy and state law over the course of a few meetings with them than through all my past independent research and study. By the end of the ninety days, the Delegate and I had passed four bills and secured almost $10 million in funding for 13 community-based projects. I am thrilled that our policy ideas are being put into action, and we are already underway with our upcoming legislative portfolio. I am most excited to introduce a bill to recoup hospital costs for indigent patients, before I take my next big career step.
Unlike leaving fundraising, deciding to pursue a legal career is a no-brainer. Through my work as Legislative Director, I learned to tackle real-world issues, such as those surrounding healthcare, housing, and public infrastructure, by developing and enacting public policy legislation. I learned how to collaborate with analysts to draft such legislation and with lawmakers to pass it. But I also learned that passing legislation is just the first step. In law school, I intend to study the legal factors that impact new laws, such as when they are interpreted or challenged in the court system. I seek to enhance my understanding of the entire legislative process and, in doing so, become a more effective change maker. I can’t wait to take this next step in my path, and I feel eminently prepared to tackle whatever challenges await me.
Personal Statement #5: Jiu Jitsu Injury & Legal Curiosity
This essay blends physical discipline with intellectual curiosity, showing how a personal pivot became a professional one. It’s a great example of how hobbies can feed law-relevant traits.
Result: Admitted at a T6 school and a T10 school with a 167 LSAT score.
I stared across the mat at Steve, an ex-military brown-belt in his late 30s, as I waited anxiously for the timer to start. I was fixated on his gi’s tattered collar, his wrestler’s ear, and the scars on his nose that had been broken far too many times. When the sparring began, it didn’t take long for Steve to sweep my leg and throw me to the mat. At first, I tried to escape from under him, but it was no use. I was pinned down by his 160 pounds of lean muscle and my sweat-soaked cotton gi. As I laid on my back, I defended patiently until I had an opening to set up the technique I’d been practicing for months. I grabbed Steve’s collar, wrapped my leg around his head, and then my knee around my own ankle, successfully executing the triangle choke submission.
Jiu Jitsu was an addiction for me. I had started martial arts at the end of elementary school, beginning with Tae Kwon Do before transitioning to Jiu Jitsu and other forms of grappling at the end of middle school. As a teenager, I routinely sparred with friends on mats set up in their garages. By the time I was a college sophomore, I was sparring almost daily, with a rotation of gi’s drying on the fire escape of my apartment.
The consistent sparring, running, stretching, and weightlifting ensured that my body was kept in peak physical condition. But Jiu Jitsu wasn’t only about endurance and athleticism; it was just as much focused on discovery and mastery of technique. At practice, I closely observed my coaches, thinking of creative ways to incorporate their moves into my own style. When I wasn’t at practice, I dedicated countless hours to film study, constantly exploring new sweeps, submissions, and takedowns. I would then take the moves I learned and focus on them during all of my sparring sessions for that week. Only after performing them hundreds of times did they become second nature.
My favorite move was the kimura. I saw my coach effortlessly sneak in the joint-lock submission one practice after his opponent escaped an attempted choke, and knew I had to learn it. I went home that night and immediately started my research, only to find that there were two other submissions, the triangle choke and arm bar, that I would have to learn in order to use the kimura effectively. Without proficiency in each move, my attacks would have little success, since it’s the combination of the three that make them so potent—defending against one usually creates openings for the other. For the next two months, I dedicated all my free time to memorizing and practicing different sequences. The off-mat studying soon paid off, as I found success in competitions by baiting my opponents into exposing their necks while protecting their arms, or vice versa.
My passion for Jiu Jitsu continued to grow until my sophomore year of college, when I dislocated my shoulder during a sparring session. As I rolled toward my opponent to escape an arm bar, I heard a click and felt my arm go limp. At first, the injury wasn’t a big deal. I was fully expected to recover, and I did. I was back on the mats three weeks later. But the same injury would occur twice more in the months to follow, landing me in the hospital a total of three times that year to place the joint back in its socket. After the third dislocation, I was told that, without surgery, I would risk severe injury that could affect even my daily functioning. I decided to undergo surgery in July 2017 to repair my labrum and rotator cuff, which required the doctor to reattach my shoulder ligaments with bioabsorbable anchors.
After the operation, I spent six weeks sleeping upright on my couch to allow my shoulder to heal before starting a half-year stint of physical therapy. I pulled resistance bands, rolled on yoga balls, and struggled with lifting even the smallest dumbbells as most of the muscle in my right arm had atrophied. After completing therapy, I returned to the mats, only to reinjure that same shoulder two months later. With the fourth and final dislocation, it became clear that I’d likely never compete in Jiu Jitsu again. For a moment I contemplated a second, more invasive procedure but decided in the interest of my health to focus my energies elsewhere.
That’s how I came to be an editor for the Hogwarts Undergraduate Law Review. A friend of mine had been a part of the journal for about a year and recommended I join. As an editor, I quickly took interest in the journal’s diverse articles, which covered anything from labor abuse to digital privacy. I worked with writers on their submissions, helping them storyboard ideas, conduct research, and form outlines, while pushing them to more meaningful analysis. I soon realized that my curiosity and eagerness for improvement were as important in the legal research process as they were in martial arts. And even though I was analyzing landmark cases and court opinions instead of arm bars and guard passes, the process was familiar: distilling information and applying it through constant revision.
My time on the Undergraduate Law Review gave me the chance to explore a diverse array of legal topics. It solidified my interest in becoming an attorney, as I was exposed to the law’s numerous social, political, and economic applications. While I no longer compete on the mats, I am confident that my curiosity and discipline will help me excel in law school.
Personal Statement #6: Trial Work & Plaintiff-Side Litigation
One of the best paralegal essays I’ve come across. It’s gritty, detailed, and captures the human side of litigation—especially the complexity of justice through settlements.
Result: Admitted at Fordham Law and Emory Law as a splitter (above median LSAT, below median GPA).
Three hours after college graduation, I was on a flight from Atlanta to New York City to start a job as a litigation paralegal at a plaintiff’s firm. The position offered me a chance to observe the adversarial system beside an experienced trial lawyer and take part in every aspect of the litigation process. By my second week, we had started jury selection for an asbestos-related negligence trial, and by my sixth, I had witnessed my first multi-million dollar verdict. Having come from an isolated suburb of Pennsylvania surrounded by cow pastures and soybean farms, I had never even heard the word “asbestos.” I had never seen the agonizingly repetitive commercials jurors always seem to complain about, nor was I aware of the massive scope of asbestos litigation and the absolute devastation families face after a terminal mesothelioma diagnosis.
I still remember how nervous I felt for that first case. Despite having no experience, preparation, or training, it was my job to keep everything organized and the trial running smoothly. I sat beside my boss, yellow exhibit stickers in one hand and a pen in the other, keeping track of every exhibit. My boss was known firm-wide for his meticulous approach to preparation. Each night, I compiled thousands of pages of documents—just in case an expert witness needed to be reminded of their previous testimony or a Person Most Knowledgeable shown their company’s Interrogatory Responses. Then, at trial, I watched my boss craft a compelling narrative for the jury, demonstrating that had it not been for the negligence of a valve manufacturer, a man’s death could have been prevented.
After a month packed with four experts, eight boxes of exhibits, and fifteen days of trial testimony, it came time for the jury charge. Following two days of deliberation, the jurors found for the plaintiff on all issues. It was the first time in my life I felt integral in helping not just one person, but a whole family, receive closure.
About a year and a half later, in October 2018, my boss decided to branch into new areas of personal injury law, beginning with medical malpractice. Our first case was particularly tragic. Before what was supposed to be routine surgery for a 43-year-old patient, the anesthesiologist inadvertently inserted a catheter into the patient’s carotid artery instead of his jugular vein. We alleged that this critical mistake substantially contributed to the patient’s stroke, leaving him hemiplegic, wheelchair bound, and unable to live independently.
For months leading up to jury selection, I read through each fact and expert witness’s deposition. I attempted to relearn the science I grappled with in college, including the intricacies of heart and brain anatomy, to figure out how to best explain it to our jury. I then scoured various online databases for any scientific article I could find on facts relevant to our case, so we could try to challenge the opinions of the defense expert. Finding dozens of articles, I even happened upon minutes to a 1994 New Zealand conference—where the defendant’s expert witness had spoken—that addressed the standard of care at issue in our case.
I quickly learned, however, that despite how much we had prepared, it didn’t matter; the facts of the case appeared to change as the trial progressed. For example, defense witnesses offered a new theory of causation for the first time at trial, and an angiogram, which had been available for the duration of the patient’s hospital stay, had seemingly gone missing on the eve of expert testimony. We had to constantly reevaluate our trial strategy. By the end of it all, I wanted nothing more than to hear the jury’s finding of liability for the story I had been obsessing over for months.
But it never came. A few minutes into our wait for a verdict, defense counsel approached the plaintiff with a settlement offer, which he accepted. Handshakes were given and pleasantries were exchanged, but something felt off. How could some money, without a finding of liability, be justice? I couldn’t help but wonder if our work meant anything or if I had somehow failed our client. But after seeing his smile, I knew I was wrong. He was overjoyed. This was a man at his weakest, who needed someone to advocate for him when he and his family realized their lives would never be the same. Whether or not the jury foreman read out a verdict, our client still had his life to live, and this settlement, while maybe not justice in the usual sense, made that possible.
My experiences these past few years have motivated me to apply to law school. I want to become an attorney for the man who worked tirelessly day after day, fixing leaky pipes and valves to provide for his family, just to find out more than four decades later that he would die within the year due to that same work. I want to become an attorney for the man who went to a hospital, seeking the help of medical professionals, only to wake up hemiplegic due to a preventable mistake. Through each of these cases, I have learned not only about the law and legal procedure, but also about what helping a client really means. While the adversarial process seemingly allows for winners and losers, these trials are really about how the outcome—whether verdict or settlement—forever impacts the lives of the plaintiffs and their families. And if I can aid in bringing a sense of resolution to them, then I will be successful.
Personal Statement #7: Hiking & Self-Discovery
This one is just beautiful. Even clients who don’t hike love it. It’s a narrative of solitude, growth, and clarity—and it builds to a law motivation that feels both natural and earned.
Result: Admitted at 5 of the T14 schools with a 168 LSAT score.
Granite pebbles crunch under the soles of my hiking boots, the only sound besides my heavy breathing. At this altitude, I am tired, my water is low, and the trailhead disappeared from view a little over two hours ago. But even in the grit and sweat and strain, I am most alive in the mountains—blood pumping in my ears, muscles driving against the incline, heart aching to push into the wilderness. In a moment of elation, I see the top. A pleasant breeze whispers across the ridge, and I catch a second wind. With renewed determination, I break into a jog and race to the peak.
Since I could walk, I’ve been hiking. I wish I could say that I’m exaggerating, but my mom lives and breathes physical activity, so I am completely serious. When I was eight years old, I hiked my first “14er”—backpacker lingo for a mountain 14,000+ feet in elevation—with my family, carrying a 50-pound pack and about as much resentment that I had to walk for two days straight on summer vacation. Back then, hiking was just a family activity for me, something I was “encouraged” to participate in and occasionally enjoyed. However, that didn’t keep me from doing the whole “Mom, are we there yet?” bit from time to time. Until high school, this was my relationship with hiking, a sort of grudging tolerance. It wasn’t until I was able to go off on my own that I fell in love with the sport.
The first time I prepped my pack for a solo hike, I felt the pull. Visiting my grandparents in Colorado Springs, I heard of a beautiful alpine lake accessible by trail a little out of town, and I decided to go find it. When my granddad went down for his mid-morning nap, I loaded my backpack and gear into the car and drove out to a trailhead in Pikes National Forest. From there, I walked for hours through the woods and up into the mountains, wondering if I should turn around, but quickly realized I was too stubborn to give up even if my lungs and legs hated me for it. Three hours and ten miles later, I reached the most beautiful lake I had ever seen, and I was so grateful that I hadn’t turned back. After standing at the edge of the water for almost an hour, I walked back down in silence, thinking about everything from friendships to life goals, loving the peaceful quiet of my wooded trail and the time to mull things over in my mind. I am naturally an extroverted person, but that day I learned that I need and love time out in nature with no one but myself to entertain.
Since then, I only became more and more obsessed. Living in Fort Worth, Texas, I lacked any meaningful mountain range, but as time went on, I found myself driving out to other states with friends (or alone) any chance I got. With every new mountain I climbed, I fell more in love with the weather, the adrenaline, and the challenge that drives me up above tree line. By junior year of college, I was hooked.
When the spring semester ended, I drove across state lines to spend the summer in Colorado. I hiked all over, spending every moment I had off from work on a different trail. I completely expected to wear myself out, walk to the point that I wouldn’t want to take another step, and be back home within a few weeks. But the opposite happened. The more I explored, the more I wanted to continue. I came to love the routine of waking up early, packing up my car, and driving to the next trailhead. Every day, I saw something new and unique, a little pocket of nature out of sight from the rest of the world, and walked away exhausted, having left all my energy out on the trail. Surfing from one couch to the next, I stayed with family and friends, extending my stay bit by bit until the summer was almost over. Eventually, I had to go home for school, but even as I drove back to Texas, I knew I could have stayed even longer and been completely content.
This past summer, my love of hiking came full circle. For years, my mom and I had planned a “someday” dream trip: hiking the Swiss Alps. After graduation, our dream materialized. Meeting a group in Chamonix, France, we started the famous Haute Route through the mountains, hiking from hut to hut for eleven days. The first two days, it snowed. On the fifth day, I sprained my ankle and had to use electrical tape as wrap until the next town days later. The rest of the way, my mom and I pushed each other as always and she was both impressed and annoyed that I finally outpaced her. By the evening of the eleventh day, we reached the end of the route, having hiked a total of 126 miles, and I could finally say I was ready to take a break.
In the last six years, hiking has become a non-negotiable part of my life. As much as coffee in the morning, it is a rhythm of being that I need and enjoy, a time to air out my soul. Not to my surprise, it was on one particularly grueling trek that I found clarity on my career path. As granite pebbles crunched beneath my boots, I considered my passion for people, love of problem-solving, and intellectual hunger. When my water ran low, I reflected on my inability to quit when I know I am chasing a worthy goal. As I spied the top, it was finally clear—law school was my next step. With this knowledge, I took off running. I reached the peak, bent over with my hands on my knees, and smiled as I breathed a sigh of relief. Law school was my next step, and if I have learned anything, it is that well-placed steps can have some pretty fantastic ends.
Personal Statement #8: Journalism, Human Rights & Beirut Blast
Emotionally devastating and globally aware. It starts with a breaking news moment and ends with a call for international legal accountability. Especially strong for human rights applicants.
Result: Admitted at a T6 law school with a sub-25th percentile GPA.
“BEEEEEEP.” The dozens of TV screens lining the wall opposite me in the USC Annenberg Media Center all flash red at once: “Extreme Red Flag Warning – PREPARE TO EVACUATE.” As I fidget in one of the swivel chairs inside the editors’ circle, I peer out the floor-to-ceiling window facing campus—instead of the usual jumble of students I see racing to class, there’s a cloud of smog and an aura of emptiness. Somehow, the scent of wildfires raging about 55 miles away has crept into the newsroom I consider a second home.
“Scratch what you’ve been working on. Go get interviews with people evacuating ASAP,” I announce to my writers over the sound of phones ringing off the hook. At this point, USC’s campus is safe, but other schools closer to the wildfire have shut down. Many of my peers wait on edge, helpless as their childhood homes risk burning to the ground. Their families flee, with time to only grab a few prized possessions.
It wasn’t uncommon for a news story to start out slow, then, all at once, explode like this one. When I started working on the wildfire story a few days earlier, I followed my usual process. First, I scheduled interviews with experts on the subject. Next, I researched. When writing the perfect piece, researching is an art. Much like how artists immerse themselves in their subject’s world to paint the perfect portrait, I must absorb every detail to create the perfect story. Why does California seem to have so many unmanageable wildfires? What exact protocols are in place to minimize damage? Who is responsible for implementing them? Then, I followed the most important step: remain unbiased and observational. I am not there to get involved, whatever the story might concern. Then, I write. And rewrite. And rewrite again.
Though breaking news like the Red Flag Warning no doubt shifts the narrative, my prior investigation into the problem remains relevant. It led me to one conclusion: mismanagement directly contributed to not just this wildfire but almost every prior one. I lead the story with the emergency notice, but my bottom line is unchanged—the government’s neglect of forests is quite literally adding fuel to the fire. That year, more than a hundred lives and a million acres of land were lost to wildfires. As gut-wrenching as the damage is, as a senior editor, I must keep cool, calm, and collected. I urge my staff to be empathetic but professional in conducting interviews. But staying levelheaded is difficult. A freshman whose family just fled her childhood home at 4 a.m. can barely speak. “How did this get so out of control?” she asks through short breaths. A junior who is having trouble contacting his twin sister evacuating a college near the chaos is bawling. It hits me that I can no longer bear staying on the outside, reporting as an observer. But I push the emotion away—I must remain objective.
For the remainder of my tenure with the paper, this feeling festered. When writing about the rising homelessness rate, though I researched the ways in which LA County’s policies weren’t working, I still felt I needed to do more. When writing about depression on campus, though I researched ways USC’s mental health initiatives could be reworked, still, not enough. I grew restless. In August 2019, I decided to stop feeling the need to do more and to actually do more. I was facetiming my father who wanted to show me a fire blazing a few kilometers from his home in Beirut. Moments later, the screen went black. I heard a blast. The explosion, which put my father in the hospital and killed more than 200 people, was a result of the Lebanese government’s negligence. I was shook, especially knowing the people there have no avenues to fight such negligence.
A year later, I went to Beirut to work for Siren Associates, a human rights organization that addresses a range of humanitarian issues in Lebanon, including public sector accountability and access to justice. The country is still in mourning and the government has yet to take responsibility for their negligence. We try to communicate with the government and advocate for transparency, but it’s no use. They won’t budge. Citizens take the streets and protest in an attempt to hold those in power accountable, but they’re met with excessive force from the military. I tried meeting with military personnel directly, presenting guidelines for handling protests without aggression, but they weren’t interested. And while the court system eventually launched an investigation to prosecute those responsible for the blast, they have hit a standstill as the government has delayed the judicial process indefinitely.
In countries like Lebanon, where governments disregard human rights and accountability mechanisms are ineffective, international courts are the only potential source of justice. However, the current court system is insufficient. It is reactive, first stepping in after disaster hits. I want to go to law school to learn how to prevent human rights tragedies before they occur. I aim to create hybrid court systems, ones that combine state-run courts and international ones to strengthen developing countries’ ability to self-regulate. Only when prevention is prioritized will ensuring human rights stop being a system of reaction. I want to be at the forefront of this movement, and am eager to leverage the observational and analytical skills I mastered during my career, as well as the knowledge I have gained through human rights work, toward achieving human rights for all.
Personal Statement #9: Consumer Law & Systemic Accountability
A sharp, detail-driven essay that exposes institutional failure without sounding preachy. The legal motivation is clear, well-researched, and grounded in real client stories.
Result: Admitted at a T6 law school with a large scholarship, despite a 3.11 GPA.
A soft chime prompts me to check my email. It’s from Flo, a senior case manager at the law firm. “See attached motion for summary judgment. Please work on the opposition. Send your draft to David and Nick no later than July 13.” I flip through the attached exhibits and find what I’m looking for: the defendant’s brief. It’s the typical corporate defendant arguments, ones I had seen and responded to on dozens of occasions. A due date of July 13 would give me two weeks to draft the opposition—more than enough time.
I joined [redacted] Law Group as a law clerk five months prior. The first few weeks were a whirlwind of education in consumer protection law. Our cases usually fall into one of two buckets: the client has identified an inaccuracy in their credit report or they have been subjected to abusive debt collection practices. This case falls into the first. A thief had stolen our client’s credit card and run up a fraudulent balance, after which the client filed a dispute with his bank. The bank rejected it. When our client couldn’t afford to pay, the bank started to tack on interest and reported the debt as delinquent to a credit agency, tanking his credit score. After two years of being ignored while asking the bank to remove it, he disputed the reporting inaccuracy with the credit agency, who submitted it to the bank. The bank rejected this dispute, too. We sued the bank and the credit agency, claiming neither completed a reasonable investigation of the dispute under the Fair Credit Reporting Act. While the agency quickly settled, the bank resisted through discovery and moved for summary judgment.
Proving wrongdoing requires us to show the bank failed to conduct a reasonable investigation of our client’s dispute to the credit agency. Opening the case file, I go directly to the discovery folder, where I look for evidence of an investigation. There are copies of internal records, deposition transcripts, and responses to written discovery requests. The responses are mostly useless, consisting of pages of evasive objections and little more. The transcripts are more promising. They show a pattern of questionable actions by the bank. When it received the dispute, the bank passed it back and forth between two departments like a hot potato. Neither was responsible for investigating this type of dispute, ensuring it wouldn’t be reasonably investigated. This evidence is enough on its own to prove the bank failed to fulfill its obligation to our client and prevail against the bank’s motion, but I review further. I realize the bank’s actions implicate far more than just this one lawsuit.
The bank’s witness identified a third department at the bank that investigates fraudulent transactions, but it was never called upon to look at our client’s dispute. When an attorney from our firm asked why, the witness blamed our client for not filing a dispute in a “valid” or “appropriate” way. Since he filed his dispute through a credit agency, the witness asserted, it wouldn’t be turned over to the fraudulent transaction team. In other words, because the client didn’t file in the bank’s preferred way, they didn’t properly investigate. However, the client did file as required under the Fair Credit Reporting Act; there was nothing else he could have done.
I reread the testimony in disbelief. This is a national bank, worth billions of dollars and serving millions of consumers. It knows it’s required by law to conduct a reasonable investigation of credit reporting disputes—and it must have known it wasn’t by excluding the fraudulent transaction team, the most relevant team, from the investigation. Questions fill my mind. How many times has the bank been sued for this? How many times has it not been sued and gotten away with these practices? Is it just going to continue taking advantage of consumers? The remaining evidence provides no answers. Fortunately, I can draft our opposition to their motion without them.
After we file, the defendant immediately extends a favorable settlement offer, which our client accepts. At first, I feel satisfied he was made whole. But then I feel frustration. The money pales in comparison to the billions of dollars in profit the bank generates annually, and their procedures won’t change. They will continue harming consumers and exacerbating social inequity. According to a 2021 Consumer Financial Protection Bureau report, consumers residing in majority black areas were more than twice as likely to have a dispute on record than those residing in majority white areas. The common theme to the report was that low-credit-score and minority borrowers were drastically more affected by credit reporting inaccuracies. It’s an exacerbating cycle seen beyond banking. Low-income tenants struggle to obtain legal aid and are unable to defend themselves from eviction. Plaintiffs in employment discrimination cases who can’t afford an attorney rarely, if ever, see success in court. Those already in underprivileged circumstances face impeding inequity and the cycle continues.
These examples underscore the need for reform. Marginalized individuals take a back seat to profit as companies exploit them. In many cases, they don’t have the means or familiarity with the law to seek recourse. Protecting their rights is about more than winning individual cases. It’s about eliminating inequity by increasing legal accessibility for those in need. As an attorney, I will fight for reform and creation of laws to empower and inform marginalized individuals. By ending the cycle and improving social equity, perhaps consumer protection firms like [redacted] Law Group won’t be around in the future—hopefully they won’t be needed.
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Frequently Asked Questions
How long should a law school personal statement be?
Most schools recommend ~2 pages with minimum 11-point font, but always check each school’s specific instructions.
What makes a strong personal statement for law school?
Strong law school personal statements illustrate thoughtful reflection, clear goals, and meaningful experiences that connect to the applicant’s interest in law.
Can I reuse my law school personal statement for multiple schools?
Yes, but tailor it where possible. Many core elements can stay the same, but it’s worth customizing if a school asks a unique prompt.
How personal is too personal for a law school personal statement?
It’s okay to be vulnerable, but always connect it to your growth and legal goals. Avoid essays that focus only on trauma without clarity on your direction.
What if I don’t have a dramatic story, can I still write a great essay?
Absolutely. Many successful statements are rooted in simple but meaningful experiences—work, school, or service—that reveal character and purpose.
Should I talk about why I want to be a lawyer in my personal statement?
Yes, but show it through experience and insight. Don’t just say “I want to help people”—demonstrate where that came from and how it’s been tested.
Can I use these essays as inspiration?
Yes, for structure, tone, and insight. But never to copy. The best statements are specific to your values, goals, and growth. These examples are for learning, not imitation.
Where can I learn how to write my own law school personal statement?
Check out my Personal Statement Guide or book a 1-on-1 consultation.