“You can’t talk about your mental illnesses. It’s bad for business.”

I’ve heard this countless times in various forms. And for a long time, I listened.

I bought into the idea that silence was safer, that vulnerability was a liability and honesty could cost me everything.

Eventually, I couldn’t be quiet any longer.

I bought into the idea that silence was safer, that vulnerability was a liability and honesty could cost me everything.

Eventually, I couldn’t be quiet any longer.

The legal profession clings to an outdated belief that vulnerability undermines professionalism.

It doesn’t. In fact, professionalism demands vulnerability.

Vulnerability—when handled with intention—is not weakness. It’s maturity. It’s leadership. It’s human. And in a fast-evolving profession and world, we can’t afford to cling to a culture that punishes the human experience.

According to the National Alliance on Mental Illness, 1 in 5 U.S. adults experiences mental illness each year. For lawyers, the numbers are even worse: we’re 3.6 times more likely to suffer from depression than the general population. I know those numbers aren’t abstract. I’ve lived them. I know firsthand what it’s like to live with mental illness and I’m here to say: Silence is not strength. Silence is suffocation.

The legal industry has operated on a belief system that equates strength with stoicism, success with self-sacrifice and vulnerability with weakness. In that world, showing signs of mental illness isn’t just uncomfortable—it feels like career sabotage. Admitting you’re struggling becomes a risk to your reputation, your competence, and your future. It breeds a constant fear: If they knew the truth, would they still trust me?

I know that fear intimately.

Outwardly, I was composed and reliable. But behind the scenes, I was unraveling—hiding panic attacks behind closed doors, wiping tears away in bathroom stalls and spending precious energy managing the mask of “togetherness” to maintain the outdated image of how a lawyer should be.

The emotional labor of that concealment is exhausting. It’s a second job layered on top of an already demanding profession. It breeds burnout, isolation, diminished productivity and a creeping sense of inadequacy. And those are just the internal effects. When we normalize silence, we don’t just hurt ourselves—we enable a culture that harms everyone, including our clients.

Here’s the irony: A profession built on advocacy should not demand self-erasure.

But the profession is changing.

We use technology to work smarter, not longer. We leverage social media to build community and share truth. We’re beginning to prioritize people over pure productivity. New crops of lawyers are changing the tides. They value connection and imperfections as a way to stand out, not hide. The best lawyers I know today are not the ones who hide behind robotic professionalism. They’re the ones who lead with empathy, communicate with clarity, and show up with authenticity. They’re not afraid to say, “I’m human, and I’m still excellent at what I do.”

Mental health advocacy is not a deviation from professionalism: It reflects where the profession needs to go. And lawyers who embrace that role aren’t liabilities. They’re leaders. They are human.

For me, the turning point came slowly, then all at once.

I reached a place where the dissonance between how I felt and how I was “supposed” to act became unbearable. I started opening up—first to close colleagues, then more publicly. And the response? Not what I feared.

Clients didn’t run away, they ran towards me. They said, “It’s refreshing.”

Colleagues confided in me, “I have the same thoughts”, they said.

Instead of diminishing my credibility, sharing my truth deepened my relationships and enhanced my work. Sharing my vulnerabilities has given me more opportunities and a platform to speak. Transparency didn’t make me weaker. It made me real. It made me trustworthy.

People are desperate for authenticity in this profession. They want permission to be honest. Sometimes, they just need someone to go first.

So here it is: a call to lawyers, law firms and legal institutions. The legal profession stands at a defining crossroads and we as a collective group can decide how we want to proceed.

A 2022 survey conducted by the American Bar Association indicated that 81% of attorneys who reported a decline in their wellbeing were experiencing anxiety and 43% were dealing with depression. A 2023 study conducted by the University of Chicago found that almost half of the surveyed lawyers considered leaving the legal profession due to burnout or stress in the last three years.

We must do better.

And doing better means taking action:

• Make space for honesty. Create environments where speaking up is safe—not brave.

• Redefine professionalism. Let it include vulnerability, not deny it.

• Break the silence. Normalize open conversations about mental health at every level.

• Build protective policies. Formalize mental health protections into firm structures and industry standards.

• Back words with infrastructure. Provide universal access to EAPs, flexible schedules, sabbaticals and mental health stipends.

• Lead by example. Partners and leaders: Take off the mask. Set boundaries. Rest publicly. Model the balance you want others to believe in.

When lawyers thrive—mentally, emotionally, and physically—our entire profession becomes stronger:

• Clients get sharper advocacy, grounded in empathy.

• Firms increase retention and reduce the hidden costs of burnout.

We can’t keep pretending mental illness doesn’t exist. And we can’t keep punishing the people who dare to name it. The next generation of lawyers are watching, and they’re asking for better.

Be the reason they believe the law can be a place where people matter as much as the work.

You can talk about your mental illnesses. It’s good for business.

Allie Levene is the founder of Levene Legal, which specializes in providing affordable and accessible legal services to small businesses and nonprofits.

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