I first met Sandra (a pseudonym) at a small dinner party she and her husband were hosting in honour of recently married colleagues. The food was perfect, the conversation was perfect, her elegant wool suit was perfect. Her two boys, one a toddler, the other a fair-headed preschooler, made a just-bathed, slicked-hair appearance before bedtime and then quietly disappeared with the babysitter. More help was in the kitchen and, as the courses kept coming, it became clear that this evening had been planned by a pro. No one was left out, nothing forgotten. The wedding gift was a carved wooden box that was passed around so each guest could insert his or her good wishes, and it conveyed a sense of ceremony, as if this were not just a small gathering for working buddies but a rite of passage. As a corporate litigation lawyer with two children under 5, Sandra had to be organized, but this party involved more than just making a few lists. Everyone's needs were considered. Sandra seated like-minded people together, launched their first conversations, and interjected at critical moments to keep the social interaction flowing. As the evening rolled on, she leaned back in her chair with one leg tucked under her and cracked a private grin.
When I met her again a few years later, she had opted out of a dozen years of excellent suits and 14-hour days as a corporate litigator. Her coterie of professional and domestic helpers had been let go, and she'd foresworn planning perfect social evenings. When I asked why, Sandra explained that she'd felt conflicted about her work for years. At first she didn't mind pulling all-nighters, and enjoyed the rush that came after an intense push to get a legal problem solved. But after 12 years of extreme hours, after managing a case with 112 plaintiffs and 11 defendants, she felt dragged down. One of her boys, a fragile child, was showing signs of strain, with crying jags and behaviour problems in school. She felt he was acting out the pressures of their family life, and she had been advised by her doctor to take a little time off to shore up her own resources. That was the beginning of a longer hiatus—one she was still assessing. She wanted to keep working, but something essential wasn't quite right—there was something off-kilter that she couldn't name.
Sandra had tried everything she could think of to find a fulfilling position in which she could reconcile the demands of a law career with family life. She'd moved from a big firm to a boutique firm, back to a big firm, and then to a position as in-house counsel. This peripatetic journey finally convinced her that there was no perfect job for her in corporate law. It took her two years to make up her mind to quit; staying home with children was never part of her plan. "It was a surprise, even to me. I grew up thinking the workplace was so marvellous. After watching my mother at home, I felt so lucky to be working. I thought work would be a place where you could realize yourself. But I was naive. Work is just work."
Sandra thought hers was a unique, singular experience. But when she invited eight female lawyers who had also left practice to a social event, she discovered how similar their experiences were. The half hour she'd pegged for introductions took four hours as each of the lawyers, all with more than 10 years of experience, talked volubly about why they had ditched their jobs. Fed up with the hours and unable to meet brutal work demands even after making partner or after choosing in-house positions that would allow them to work a little less, like Sandra, they'd eventually tossed it all to stay home with fragile children, to start businesses or university degrees that would allow them more control of their time. All successful women, they wanted to work but found law practice unforgiving. One lawyer in her late 40s, Louise Fournier, avowed that if her 19-year-old daughter chose to go into law, she'd go into mourning. "It's not a life," she said.
