Have had many people ask me to share sample client personal statements. Here are a few I am especially proud of.
1) This is one of my all-time favorite personal statements.
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.
2) Names and locations were removed from this personal statement to maintain anonymity.
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.
3) This client didn’t actually go to Hogwarts. They did really go to university, though.
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.
4) I have nothing witty to say to introduce this one.
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.
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