Price of Conformity

As I sit in another lecture hall, surrounded by laptop screens and side conversations, I can’t shake the sense that something is off. Law school, for all its reputation as a crucible for sharp minds and principled advocates, often feels more like an assembly line—carefully calibrated to produce professionals who think, speak, and act a specific way. From day one, we’re trained to adopt a particular way of thinking—one that prioritizes efficiency, precedent, and deference to established norms. There’s little room to question why the system works the way it does or who it truly serves.

For instance, in our Legal Writing Program (LPW), we are not taught to write. Instead, we are taught to use a formula, IRAC. We are told that IRAC is the best way to organize and convey our argument, without being presented any other alternatives to compare or experiment with. Relying on IRAC comes with a heavy price. Our creativity and individuality can get lost in the process, and before we know it, we find ourselves writing in a voice and style that is not ours. And it’s not just writing. The structure of our law school pushes us toward uniformity. The Socratic method, cold calls, casebooks create a culture of performance and competition, not curiosity. We’re encouraged to admire legal reasoning, not to interrogate its origins or consequences.

There’s also the pressure of public perception. The image of the lawyer as composed, competent, and respectable is a powerful one. Deviating from that image script—questioning the law, challenging its foundations in the classroom—risks more than a bad grade or an awkward moment in class. It risks alienation and judgment among social networks., and, ultimately, a harder path forward. It becomes easier to keep your head down, to play the game, to believe that once you “make it,” you’ll circle back and start pushing for change. But the longer you play the game, the harder it becomes to remember why you wanted to change it in the first place.

The economic reality of law school only makes matters worse. For many of us, staggering debt means trading in big dreams for big salaries, just to get by. Even students who enter with a deep desire to serve the public good often get funneled into private practice, simply because they have been made to feel that there is no financial alternative. The system ensures that even the most idealistic students accept roles that reinforce the hierarchies they went to law school to dismantle.

Most of us tell ourselves that conformity is temporary, that we’ll reclaim our voice once we have the degree, the title, the paycheck. But by the time we get there, the transformation may already be complete and it may be too difficult to break away. We’ve internalized the rules, the language, the values. And even when we see the flaws, we may find ourselves perpetuating them—teaching the same methods and validating the same system.

Conclusion

It means refusing to accept that success is defined solely by prestige, salary, or title. It means finding—and protecting—spaces where deeper, more disruptive conversations can happen. It means seeing the cracks in the system not as dead ends, but as openings for something new, and being willing to question even the things we’ve been told are beyond question. This path is harder, more isolating, and it requires risk.But it’s the only one that feels honest. As I make my way through law school, I try to remind myself of why I came here: not to replicate the status quo, but to confront it. Not to be shaped by the system, but to shape it in return. If I can hold onto that—if enough of us can—then maybe this place can become more than just a factory.

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