Veronica Unfiltered

By Veronica

I didn’t become a lawyer because I thought the system was fair.

I became a lawyer because I knew what it felt like to be discussed in courtrooms without a voice.

I was the child sitting silently while adults—lawyers, judges, caseworkers—debated what should happen to me. At first, I accepted it. I didn’t think I had the right to speak. But by the time I was sixteen, that changed.

I started speaking up in court because I was tired of being talked about like I wasn’t even there. I didn’t have formal training, but I had something else: a quiet knowing that my voice mattered, even if no one had ever told me that before.

I found my voice at sixteen. But when I signed for that two-year sentence, I still hadn’t figured out how to use it to protect myself.

I had been drawn to the idea of being a lawyer since ninth grade—before the chaos, before the heartbreak. But it got buried under disappointment and survival. For a long time, it felt out of reach.

Before prison, I had enrolled in college to study criminal justice. I was trying to turn my life into something meaningful. But I was also trapped in an abusive relationship—physically, emotionally, sexually. That relationship cost me everything. I prioritized a man who broke me, and I ended up in the Texas Department of Criminal Justice serving a two-year sentence.

Prison Didn’t Break Me— Shit, I Was Already Broken

It took me six months behind bars to realize that I had been my own undoing. That realization hit hard. But I didn’t process it with peace or acceptance. I spent the next twelve months angry—at the guards, at myself, at the world.

I didn’t follow rules. I refused to turn out for work. I shut down. I acted like I didn’t care, even though deep down, I did. The staff wrote me up over and over, and I stopped trying to explain myself. I wasn’t fighting—I was just done.

Eventually, the warden placed my mom—who was also incarcerated—on the same unit as me. We were assigned to the same dorm. I was bunk 9; she was bunk 10. The warden said she hoped it would calm me down. And strangely, it did.

Seeing my mom reminded me of how far I’d come just to end up here. I was taken from her at 9. And now we were sleeping just feet apart in a prison dorm—like some full-circle trauma I never asked for.

Starting Over Isn’t the Same as Healing

After I was released, I tried to start over in Lubbock. I was on extended probation from one county and had just served time for charges from another. I moved in with my sister. Found a job. Fell into more relationships I had no business being in—some emotionally unavailable, some dishonest, most damaging in one way or another.

But I was raising children now. Trying to hold it together. Trying to be good, stable, and safe—even when I didn’t feel good, stable, or safe inside.

That’s when I went back to school, this time for social work. I wanted to help people, but even more than that, I think I was trying to understand people. Understand myself.

Still, nothing about rebuilding my life was easy. I was a Black woman with a felony conviction. That combination came with stigma, silence, and doors that closed before I could even knock. I couldn’t afford to mess up, be late, or be tired—not if I wanted people to see more than my record.

I had to outwork what people assumed about me before I said a word.

Law Was a Way Back to the Table

I eventually started working with youth who had survived trafficking. It was heavy. I saw kids being misunderstood, misjudged, mishandled—again.

And this time, I wasn’t the kid in the courtroom. I was the social worker in the hallway watching lawyers speak on behalf of children they barely knew. That was my tipping point.

I decided to go to law school—not because I believed the courts could fix everything, but because I couldn’t stand to be powerless again. I wanted to be in the room where decisions were made. I wanted to be heard. I wanted my clients to be heard.

But even getting into law school was layered with fear. I didn’t know if I’d even be allowed to practice. I was chasing a dream I wasn’t sure I had permission to hold. But I went anyway—because deep down, I knew: I didn’t come this far just to ask for permission to exist.

The Weight of Performance

Law isn’t my whole identity—and I don’t always feel confident in it, either.

Imposter syndrome still shows up more often than I’d like to admit. There are days I question whether I belong in the spaces I’ve fought to be in. But law has given me structure. It’s given me purpose on days when everything else in my life felt unstable. And for a long time, I leaned on it—hard.

And the truth is, I didn’t realize I was using work to cope. Not at first. I thought I was being productive. Responsible. Strong.

But slowly, I began to feel the cost.

I stopped sleeping well. I gave everything to my clients and kept nothing for myself. I tried to hold it together in court, and most days I did. But the pressure built up.

At times, the frustration showed—in my tone, in my posture, in moments I couldn’t keep quiet. I wasn’t unraveling. I was burning out. And it was getting harder to hide.

I didn’t know how to stop. I only knew how to perform. To produce. To push through.

Eventually, it wasn’t sustainable.

Learning to Pause

My therapist suggested that I prioritize my mental health. My kids—my kids—begged me to rest. My body broke down in a way I couldn’t ignore. My surgeon’s medical recommendation was six weeks or more for recovery.

That’s when I realized something that should have been obvious:

I had turned my career into a coping mechanism.

And I was confusing survival for success.

It’s hard to untangle your worth from your work when work has been your anchor for so long. But I’m starting to try. I’m learning to slow down. To listen to my body. To recognize when I’m performing strength instead of actually feeling okay.

I’m Still Here

I’m still a lawyer. I still show up for my clients.

But I’m no longer willing to disappear inside the work. I’m done sacrificing my health, my peace, and my sense of self just to prove I belong.

I’m not here to pretend like I’ve got it all figured out. I’m still healing. Still trying to slow down. Still learning what rest feels like—and what I might find in it.

But I do know this: I am not my productivity. I am not my past. I am not just the woman who always gets it done.

I’m beginning to wonder who I am beneath the performance.

What life might feel like when I’m not constantly bracing.

And maybe that’s the beginning of softness—not a goal, but a question I’m finally letting myself ask.

Let’s Engage

Have you ever used work—or something else—as a way to cope?

What has burnout looked or felt like in your life?

What helps you slow down when survival mode has been your default?

Who are you, underneath the performance?