In law school, no one gave you a handout titled The Hidden Curriculum. But you still absorbed the unspoken rules: that your worth is tied to the hours you work, how available you are, whether you can ask for help, how you handle mistakes, and even what it means to look “professional.”

And of course you followed them. Law school and the profession trained you to. Belonging mattered. Breaking those rules could feel like a threat to your career, your reputation, even your identity.

So if you’ve been living by them, hear me on this: you’re not weak, and there’s nothing wrong with you. You’ve been surviving exactly the way you were taught.

But here’s the shift: these aren’t truths. They’re training. And they were never meant to define your real worth as a lawyer - or as a person.

Welcome to The Lawyer Burnout Solution, the podcast for women attorneys who want to stay in the careers they worked so hard to build, without running themselves into the ground.

I’m Heather Mills, and every week I share tools, strategies, and mindset shifts to help you reclaim your energy, confidence, and career.

Last week we talked about the badges of honor in law:  the visible ways lawyers try to prove their worth. Today we’re going deeper. Because those badges didn’t appear out of nowhere; they were taught from the very beginning, through what I call the hidden curriculum of law.

I’ve come up with five unwritten rules most lawyers internalize. It’s not an exhaustive list, but these are the ones I see most often in my clients, and lived myself. Let’s walk through them, one by one.

Rule number one is that hours equals worth. Law school trained you to equate long nights in the library with seriousness. Then when you started practicing, billable hours cemented the belief that how many hours you put determine your worth as a lawyer.

I remember preparing for a trial and realizing I couldn’t even turn my neck to the right. I squeezed in a quick massage, then went right back to work. That’s how deeply I’d absorbed the belief that the hours I logged were what determined my value as a lawyer.

The hours you log don’t define you. They don’t measure the impact you have, and they certainly don’t measure your worth as a human being. You are already worthy: right here, right now, no timesheet required. I know how easy it is to believe that one more late night, one more marathon day, might finally prove you’re enough. But your enoughness was never on that timesheet. It’s been in you all along.

And for women, the pressure to prove your worth through hours often lands harder because we’re already pushing back against stereotypes about whether we’re serious or committed enough to belong here.

But the real mark of a resilient lawyer isn’t endless grind; it’s knowing when to protect your energy and step back. Those fleeting moments you reclaim: an actual lunch, shutting your laptop at 8pm, or refusing to push through pain—aren’t weakness. They’re judgment, boundaries, and loyalty that lasts longer than the next billing cycle.

And yes, your brain may protest: If I don’t work harder, won’t I fall behind? Won’t someone think I’m not committed? Those worries are real. But your brain exaggerates them into absolutes. In reality, no one’s career collapses from a single protected hour. Your ability, reliability, and value you create for your clients aren’t defined by sacrifice alone.

Have you ever pushed through pain or exhaustion just to get the work done? What did it cost you? This week, protect one hour, maybe stop billing at 8pm or take a real lunch, and notice how nothing bad happens.

Rule number two is that availability equals loyalty. In law school, saying yes to everything signaled commitment. In practice, that became 24/7 responsiveness, phones by the bed, vacations interrupted.

One of my clients missed her kid’s birthday party because a partner dropped an emergency brief on her desk. She finished the brief the day of the party, and the partner praised her. She told me, “I felt proud and ashamed at the same time. Proud because I pulled it off. Ashamed because I missed my daughter’s face when she blew out the candles.” Of course she felt both. That’s what this culture trains us to do.
 

For many women, saying yes feels even less optional because a no can get you labeled uncommitted, difficult, or not a team player in ways men are less likely to face.

Lawyers have been conditioned to equate availability with loyalty. But 24/7 access doesn’t prove your loyalty. Real loyalty is about showing up clear, rested, and able to give your best. Protecting dinner, a weekend, or a full night’s sleep isn’t disloyal. It’s discernment.

And yes, your brain might protest: If I’m not always available, won’t I be replaced? That fear makes sense; the profession has rewarded availability for decades. But one protected evening won’t erase years of commitment. In fact, I’ve seen lawyers step away for dinner, for weekends, even for vacations—and not only keep their jobs, but gain respect for their boundaries.

Where do you see this rule showing up in your own week? Pick one dinner where you put your phone away and let yourself be fully present. Notice how it feels.

Rule number three is that asking for help makes you weak. From day one, law school taught you to muscle through alone. The Socratic Method and curved grading made asking for help feel like failure. And When you started practicing, that hardened into fear of looking incapable.

One client told me she once handled three urgent matters at once rather than admit it was too much. “I got it all done,” she said, “but I felt like I disappeared in the process.”

Lawyers have been conditioned to believe that asking for help equals weakness. But muscling through isn’t strength; it’s a fast track to burnout.

But real leadership isn’t doing it all yourself. It’s knowing when to bring others in so the work—and you—are sustainable. Asking for support doesn’t make you less capable; it shows judgment and responsibility.

And yes, your brain might say: If I ask for help, won’t they think I can’t hack it? That fear makes sense. But silence often backfires—matters derail when no one speaks up until it’s too late. In reality, colleagues usually respect clarity and honesty more than quiet suffering.

Where in your life do you bite your tongue instead of asking for help? This week, ask for support on one task—even something small. Notice how people respond, and how it feels to let yourself receive help.

Rule number four is that mistakes mean catastrophe. In law school, it seemed like one wrong answer could tank your grade. In practice, the pressure only grew, with high expectations and little room for error.

One client told me, “If I make a mistake, even a small one, it’ll ruin everything—my credibility, my career.” Just thinking about it put her body into fight-or-flight.

Lawyers have been conditioned to treat mistakes as if they’re catastrophic. But perfection isn’t possible, and mistakes don’t erase your competence. They’re part of practicing law, and part of being human.

“And for women, especially those navigating more than one marginalized identity—whether that’s race, sexuality, or being first-gen—the margin for error can feel even smaller. One slip can feel like it proves every stereotype you’ve been pushing against.”

Accuracy matters, but bracing against every slip doesn’t make you safer—it just keeps you exhausted. The real mark of a seasoned lawyer is how you recover and learn, not whether you avoid every misstep.

And yes, your brain might protest: But if I make even one mistake, won’t it ruin my reputation? That fear feels real—I’ve been there too. But most colleagues move on from our mistakes much faster than we do. Your brain magnifies them into catastrophes, when in reality most are fixable, forgettable, and survivable.

Have you noticed yourself bracing for mistakes, like you’re waiting for the other shoe to drop? Next time you catch yourself holding your breath over a brief or an email, pause and exhale. Remind yourself: one mistake does not define me.

Rule number five is that professionalism means that you can never show feeling. Law school rewarded composure under pressure. In practice, that expectation expanded into courtrooms and boardrooms, where masking your feelings became the definition of professionalism.

I remember when my father passed away suddenly. I stayed with my mom for two weeks, and then I was back at work —as though nothing had happened. That’s how deeply I’d absorbed the rule that my feelings and needs came second to the job.

Lawyers have been conditioned to equate professionalism with hiding their feelings. But suppressing them forever isn’t strength; it’s disconnection.

But real professionalism isn’t pretending you’re made of stone. It’s knowing how to process your emotions so they don’t leak out sideways. Those moments when you cry in the car, or talk honestly with a friend, don’t make you less professional. They make you more whole—and able to keep showing up.

And yes, your brain may whisper: If I show emotion, won’t I be dismissed as too emotional? For women, that bind is especially tight—show feeling and risk being dismissed, stay composed and risk being called cold. 

For men, the cost looks different but just as real—never being allowed to show vulnerability. 

Everyone loses when professionalism is defined this narrowly. But the truth is, when emotion is acknowledged in the right context—naming frustration in a strategy meeting, showing empathy with a client, it can build trust rather than erode it. Feeling doesn’t erase your professionalism; used with discernment, it strengthens it.

What happens when you notice your emotions and let yourself feel them? Notice when you’re holding it all in. And you may not be able to let out those emotions in the moment. Let that be your cue to come back to it later and let yourself feel it. 

All of these rules share one thing in common: underneath them lives the same fear—that if you don’t follow them, you’ll lose your place. Like you don’t belong here anymore.

And for women, that indoctrination runs even deeper. First, the culture of law rewards overwork, punishes vulnerability, and glorifies perfection. Then, the culture we grow up in as women teaches us to be accommodating, agreeable, and responsible for everyone else. It’s a double bind: praised for putting yourself last in both arenas, terrified there will be consequences if you don’t.

One client told me, “It feels like I’m walking a tightrope with no net. If I don’t follow the rules, I’ll fall—and everyone will see I don’t belong.” That’s the shame talking. Shame convinces you that one slip—saying no, making a mistake, even just needing rest—could expose you.

If you’re a woman of color, LGBTQ+, first-gen, or carrying more than one marginalized identity, the stakes feel even higher. The hidden curriculum lands harder, and the margin for error feels smaller.

Here’s what I want you to hear: it makes sense you followed these rules. They were taught, reinforced, and rewarded. Following them wasn’t weakness; it was survival. And every time you test a small experiment—protecting one evening, skipping one late-night email—you gather proof that you’re safe to step outside them. That’s how real relief begins.

We’ve walked through the top five unwritten rules. Let’s hear them back to back:

Rule #1: Work longer, and you’ll prove you belong—even if it means running yourself into the ground.
Rule #2: Be available at all hours, and you’ll look loyal—even if it costs you the moments that matter most.
Rule #3: Never ask for help, or they’ll think you can’t hack it—even if you’re drowning.
Rule #4: Make a mistake, and it could define you forever—even if it’s something every human does.
Rule #5: Keep your emotions off your face, or risk being called unprofessional—even if it disconnects you from yourself.

These aren’t truths. They’re training. Every rule whispers: follow this and you’ll belong. Break it and you’ll be exposed. Of course you followed them—you were trained to. But because they were taught, they can also be questioned and slowly unlearned.

This is your chance to rewrite the syllabus, to live and practice by rules that honor your values, your humanity, and your future. Belonging starts when you choose yourself.

This week, test one experiment. Protect an hour. Put your phone down at dinner. Ask for help. Pause and exhale. Notice what happens. That’s how you start proving to your brain that a different way is possible.

If you’re ready to step outside the hidden curriculum, you can book a free 20-minute call with me at heathermillscoaching.com/call. It’s simply a space to identify what’s been draining you and one small step that helps you get your energy back.

So if you’ve been living by these rules, hear this: they kept you safe and helped you belong. And now, you get to choose differently—not because you’ve failed, but because you deserve a way of practicing law that doesn’t cost you yourself.

Thanks for listening. Be kind to yourself this week. Every small step you take away from those old rules is proof that a different way is possible. I’ll see you next time.