What was I thinking? How could I possibly survive this, competing with kids who had no families and no pets and no responsibilities, who could close the law library and then go out for drinks and convivially debate legal theory over pitchers of beer, who could read textbooks with their breakfast cereal? In contrast, I had four kids, a dog, two elderly horses, and a marriage that was teetering on the verge of collapse. My sense of doom right then was as deep and all-consuming as a black hole.
But on the ride home, I reminded myself that I’d already borrowed the money for the first year…and I might as well show up for class the following week. I soon found a comforting road rhythm in driving the thirty miles to school, studied like crazy for four hours every Friday morning, kept ferrying children as usual to tennis and soccer and gymnastics and volleyball, skipped class whenever there was a field trip or it was my turn to be the “hot dog mom” at the grade school. And somehow, through it all, I managed to keep a decent grade point average.
There was one serious barrier for me to conquer, though. All my life I’d suffered from a tremendous, crippling fear of public speaking. Call it panic attacks, anxiety attacks, sheer nerves, I was unable to get up in front of a room full of people without my heart racing and my breathing going tight and shallow, and my voice starting to shake with dread. I will never forget the first time I was called on to “brief” a case in front of a law class. Standing near the back row of an amphitheater classroom, I could feel the cold wind of fear and desperation creeping up my back, and while I knew the subject well, I barely choked out the words. The professor sat, motionless, on the edge of his desk at the front of the room. I have often imagined what must have been going through his mind. Two questions, really. First, if I died of fright, what on earth would he tell the dean? And second, what would he do with the body?
