The silent trial of LinkedIn profiles

In a profession obsessed with evidence, the most damning trial has no judge, no jury - just a LinkedIn profile and a thousand silent verdicts. No cross-examination, no rebuttal. Just a scroll, a sigh and a quiet sense of inadequacy.

LinkedIn was meant to be a bridge connecting young lawyers to mentors, chambers and opportunities. But somewhere along the way, it became a courtroom. Every post is a performance. Every certificate is a plea for relevance. Every internship update is a whispered prayer: please notice me. Please believe I belong.

Law students are taught to argue with precision, cite with flair and draft with dignity. But on LinkedIn, they learn something else: how to curate a persona. The “LinkedIn lawyer” is always achieving, always grateful, always broadcasting composure. They win moots, publish papers, intern at top firms and still find time to post about mental health and mentorship.

But behind the polished prose lies panic. The fear that if you don’t post, you don’t exist. That silence equals failure. That your worth is measured not in skill, but in visibility.

You upload a post. You wait. You refresh. Three likes. One from a batchmate, one from a cousin, one from a stranger who likely misclicked. Meanwhile, your classmate’s post - same internship, same firm - has 300 likes and a comment from a partner.

You tell yourself it doesn’t matter. You tell yourself it’s not a competition. But the algorithm disagrees. It rewards polish, pedigree and proximity to power. It amplifies those already seen. The rest orbit in silence.

LinkedIn claims to be democratic. But in law, democracy is often a myth. The platform mirrors the profession’s inequalities: elite colleges, fluent English and family connections. A student from a tier-3 law school with a brilliant mind and no network is invisible. Their achievements, however hard-won, vanish in the feed.

Merit exists, but it’s filtered through a lens of privilege. The platform doesn’t ask what you did. It asks where you did it, who liked it and how well you phrased it.

Scroll through LinkedIn and you’ll find a parade of senior lawyers posting about “uplifting juniors.” They speak of guidance, empathy and the joy of teaching. But send them a message, no reply. Tag them in a post, no acknowledgement. Ask for help, radio silence.

Mentorship on LinkedIn is often theatre. A velvet curtain of hashtags hides a backstage of neglect. The same seniors who post about “building the future” rarely build anything beyond their own brand.

Every scroll is a cross-examination. You compare your profile to others. You question your choices. You doubt your worth. You wonder if you’re falling behind, or worse, if you were never in the race to begin with.

And the verdict? Always the same: not enough internships. Not enough publications. Not enough likes. Not enough.

There is, of course, a defence. Proponents will argue that LinkedIn merely mirrors reality. That ambition, networking and self-projection are integral to professional life. The argument is not without merit.

But the defence collapses when the mirror begins to dictate behaviour. What began as a reflection becomes coercion. The platform no longer records progress; it prescribes it. The narrative of success becomes so homogenous that deviation feels dangerous. The illusion of meritocracy masks a quiet tyranny of sameness.

The social consequences are subtle, but corrosive. A generation of students learns to measure worth in endorsements and impressions rather than competence or character. Genuine curiosity is replaced by strategic learning, the pursuit of skills that look good on profiles rather than those that build understanding.

In law, where nuance and patience are virtues, this trend is especially destructive. The art of deep reading or silent reflection is sacrificed at the altar of “engagement.” Thought itself becomes a performance metric.

What is lost is not only sincerity, but intellectual privacy: the freedom to err, to evolve, to remain unseen while learning. The digital stage allows no such liberty. Every milestone must be broadcast; every silence must be explained. In a profession obsessed with appearances, young lawyers begin their careers defending themselves not in court, but in their own feeds.

It is a subtle but profound inversion of priorities.

The burden of constant exhibition is rarely acknowledged. Behind polished posts lie private anxieties: fear of inadequacy, dread of being forgotten and the fatigue of perpetual self- curation. The law student who scrolls through a feed of triumphs begins to believe she alone is uncertain, ordinary, or late.

The truth, of course, is that everyone else feels the same, but the architecture of the platform ensures that no one admits it. LinkedIn thus becomes not a network, but a masquerade: a collective performance of composure.

This is not an argument for retreat or cynicism. Visibility has its uses; connection is valuable. But the true failure lies in how easily intellect is reduced to optics, how swiftly potential is traded for performance. LinkedIn does not try us; we try ourselves upon it.

The challenge is to participate without performing, to be present without pretending. A digital presence can illuminate one’s work, but it cannot substitute for it. Perhaps, then, the quietest act of resistance is restraint. To post less and think more. To learn in silence, without the applause of algorithms. To remember that one’s worth is not a function of one’s profile.

Until then, every login remains a quiet cross-examination, every scroll is a trial of self-worth. The judgment, as always, is silent but rarely merciful.

Isha R is a second year B.A. LL.B. (Hons) student.