A Letter to Young Women Entering the Legal Profession

Dear Young Lawyer,

If you are reading this at the beginning of your legal career, chances are you are feeling a mixture of excitement and apprehension. Law school prepares you for statutes, precedents, and the craft of constructing arguments. What it rarely prepares you for is the social ecosystem of the profession you are about to enter.

The law is an old profession. It prides itself on traditions that have produced brilliant legal reasoning, but also professional cultures that can feel bewildering, and occasionally hostile, to those entering them for the first time.

And if you are a young woman walking into this world, you may occasionally feel like you have arrived at a dinner party that began several decades before you were invited.

To celebrate Women’s Day, the profession will do what it does every year. Panels will be organised and successful women will be invited to share their journeys. Some will tell you that women must work “twice as hard as men.” Others will urge resilience and multi-tasking. And then, when the bouquets are thrown away and the festoons are taken down, you may find yourself in a meeting where someone assumes you are the assistant. Conversations with male colleagues will revolve around politics, or sport, while conversations with you will drift towards family. You may also discover that the invisible labour of the office - organising events or taking notes, quietly gravitates toward you.

None of this may be intended to offend. But over time, these small signals accumulate, and they can make even the most confident young lawyer pause and wonder whether they are being seen fully as a professional.

When I began my career, I did not have the vocabulary to describe these experiences. Today we call them implicit bias, microaggressions, or casual sexism. Back then they simply felt like background noise.

It took me years to realise that these moments reflected structures in a profession historically dominated by men. The encouraging thing is that structures do change, albeit slowly and unevenly. And they change because each generation quietly pushes the boundaries of what the profession looks like.

Many women grow up with an instinct that is so deeply ingrained we hardly notice it. The instinct to step aside. We shift when someone walks toward us in a corridor. We wait an extra moment before interrupting a discussion.

Years ago, a British columnist jokingly proposed a game called “Patriarchy Chicken.” The rule was simple: when walking toward a man in public space, do not step aside first. Let him move. Women who tried this experiment discovered something startling - men almost never expected to be the ones to shift.

The small physical spaces we yield are often mirrors of the psychological spaces we relinquish - in conversations, negotiations, and boardrooms. Learning to calmly, confidently and unapologetically occupy space is often the first act of professional self-definition.

Across the world, organisations have begun recognising a phenomenon sometimes called the “broken rung.” Women enter the legal profession in roughly equal numbers to men. But somewhere between the early years of practice and leadership roles, many disappear. The problem is not only the glass ceiling at the top. It is the missing rung - the point where men are promoted to their first leadership roles far more frequently than women.

From there, the gap compounds. Fewer promotions lead to fewer mentors, fewer leadership opportunities, and eventually fewer women in decision-making positions. This pattern reminds us that careers are not shaped by individual effort alone, but by institutional dynamics.

Institutions can be changed. In fact, they need to be changed. But for that, the uncomfortable questions need to be front and centre. Call out “manels” when you see them. Question an employer on their diversity policy. Demand transparency and accountability in promotions. They are the actions that move institutions forward.

And when you are eventually in a position of influence, as you hopefully will be, remember the broken rung. Pay attention to who is being promoted, who is being heard, and who is quietly drifting out of the room. Sometimes the most meaningful act of leadership is simply making sure the ladder actually has all its rungs.

Another weight many young women carry is imposter syndrome - the quiet suspicion that you somehow slipped through the door by accident and this fact might be discovered at any moment.

When I was elected to the Board of the International Trademark Association in 2013, my assigned mentor gave me one piece of advice that has stayed with me. “Asians are expected to be quiet,” he said. “So speak up.” For Asian women, the conditioning is often doubled. Be polite. Be accommodating. The result is that we sometimes edit ourselves before the world has even had the chance to respond. So here is a useful rule: there is no such thing as a wrong question. Questions ought not to be weighted down by value judgement.

Let me share a small Buddhist teaching that has stayed with me.

The Buddha once explained that when something painful happens in life, it is like being struck by an arrow. That first arrow might be criticism, rejection, failure, or an uncomfortable professional moment. The pain is real and unavoidable.

But then, he said, most of us immediately shoot ourselves with a second arrow, which is the story we begin telling ourselves.

I am not good enough. I shouldn’t have spoken. I don’t belong here.

In other words, the first arrow is what happens to us. The second arrow is what we do to ourselves.

In the legal profession, you will occasionally encounter the first arrow. A judge may dismiss your argument. A partner may critique your draft. A case you have worked on for months may simply not go your way. All of that is part of the profession.

But the second arrow - the spiral of self-doubt, the conviction that you are somehow an impostor in the room - is optional.

By all means learn from the first arrow. But do not reach for the second one. The law will challenge you often enough. There is no need to become your own harshest adversary.

Another myth that quietly stalks professional women is the Superwoman trope.

You are expected to be brilliant at work, emotionally generous, socially graceful, and somehow maintain a perfectly balanced personal life along the way.

For years I tried to live up to that ideal. I worked impossible hours, volunteered for everything, and measured my worth by how indispensable I appeared to others.

A friend once gave me a set of Post-it notes that read: “Stop me before I volunteer again.”

It remains right up there on the list of the best professional advice I have ever received.

From law school onwards, we are trained to treat mistakes as catastrophic. All-nighters become badges of honour. Exhaustion becomes proof of commitment. We begin measuring our worth by how indispensable - and how indefatigable - we appear.

Reject the Superwoman myth.

You are not required to do everything. You are allowed to rest. You are allowed to say no. You are allowed to be ambitious without being superhuman. You are not a hero. You are a tired lawyer trying to get through the week. And that is perfectly acceptable.

There is another reality we must acknowledge honestly. Many women will encounter behaviour that crosses a line - bullying, harassment, inappropriate comments. For decades, the professional advice given to women was simple: ignore it and move on. That culture of silence protected institutions, not individuals. Today we have stronger legal frameworks, clearer policies, and greater awareness. Use them when necessary.

But remember this as well: you do not carry the burden of representing all women. Whether you choose to confront, report, disengage, or simply walk away from a situation is a decision only you can make because your safety, well-being and mental health come first.

For all its challenges, the law is also a profession that produces extraordinary friendships. Over time, colleagues become confidantes, mentors become allies, and professional acquaintances become something much closer to family. When I first began attending international IP conferences as a young lawyer from India, I knew almost no one. I spent my earliest meetings navigating crowded receptions, trying to reconnect with faint acquaintances and hoping the conversations might someday turn into work. What I did not anticipate was that many of those tentative professional interactions would grow into enduring friendships - the kind where you can call someone at three in the morning and discuss everything from trademark law to life’s more existential crises. Over the years, that network of work friends became the village that sustained me - the people who celebrated my successes, offered perspective when things went wrong, and reminded me that the profession is ultimately made up of human beings trying to navigate the same uncertainties.

Build your relationships deliberately. Invest in them generously. One day, often without realising it, you will look around and discover that the people who once sat beside you in conference halls or across negotiation tables have quietly become the community that carries you through your career. They will become your “chosen family”.

Which brings me back to Women’s Day.

Some dismiss it as symbolic - a brief moment of celebration that disappears the next morning. I disagree. Days like this give us permission to ask uncomfortable questions:

Why do so many talented women leave the profession mid-career?

Why are leadership tables still so uneven?

What structures still need dismantling?

So, Finally

If there is one thing I hope you carry with you as you begin your career, it is this:

You do not need to become someone else to succeed in the law. You do not need to mimic the loudest voice in the room or measure yourself against someone else’s template or edit yourself to be more “likeable”.

Bring your curiosity, your unique perspective and above all, your integrity. The profession needs all of that. Now, more than ever!

And one day, perhaps sooner than you imagine, you will find yourself mentoring a young lawyer who is just beginning their journey. When that happens, make the path a little easier for them than it was for you. That, more than anything else, is how professions evolve.

Warmly,

A fellow traveller in the law

P.S. If this letter resembles an overlong written submission, I apologise. Old habits die hard. Unfortunately, this is perhaps the one brief you will read this week for which neither of us will get paid.

Shwetasree Majumder is the Managing Partner of Fidus Law Chambers.