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Law school personal statement help

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WebFollow these tips to make sure your law school personal statement really shines. Related: 4 Outstanding Real-World Law School Personal Statement Examples. Tip 1: Focus on WebThis is no small matter for a writing intensive profession such as the law. As Cornell Law School notes, personal statements are evaluated for “both content and construction, WebFeb 08,  · A personal statement might: Demonstrate your personality and intellectual and emotional fit for the program. Explain why you want to pursue a legal WebOct 18,  · Part 4: Law school personal statement brainstorming. Before you begin writing, you should spend time brainstorming ideas. Because law school personal WebAug 09,  · There are other ways to start a law school personal statement that doesn't drop the reader in the middle of the action. Some writers may begin their law personal ... read more

Not the people or work that influenced you. We want you to use the personal statement to show us that you have the skills needed to succeed in law school, beyond what your LSAT score or GPA can tell us. We're looking for things like a strong work ethic, motivation, and the determination to overcome obstacles. Think about your strengths, defining characteristics, and values—especially the ones that might come into play as a lawyer: Are you thoughtful, analytical, empathetic, service-oriented? Think about how you spend your free time: Do you love traveling, researching, or volunteering? Think about what motivates you: Do you want to work in a burgeoning legal field like intellectual property law, help others by developing public policy, or start your own firm?

The personal statement often gives you lots of freedom in what you write about, so feel free to brainstorm broadly about possible topics. Handy tip: update your résumé before you brainstorm personal statement topics. And those experiences and accomplishments might make great essay topics! You can show your passion, dedication, and law school readiness in lots of everyday anecdotes from your life. You can even write your personal statement about a mistake or a weakness—just make sure you turn it around to show how you ultimately overcame that mistake or weakness. We can tell. And we will check. Related: Everything You Need to Consider in Choosing a Law School.

Once you have a personal statement topic in mind, set aside some time to write—and just let yourself go. Give yourself permission to bang out a crummy first draft. Write in a stream-of-consciousness style. This will make the process much easier when you go back to edit the application essay later see tip 9! You want to go to law school to work in the legal field. But why? Why is law school a critical next step in your career plan and life path? For example , maybe you want to be a lawyer because you want to correct the injustices you see in the world around you. You might write your personal statement about a memorable protest you once participated in as an undergrad, and how it made you want to do even more to help people.

Keep your essay focused on a particular theme, thesis, or even moment in time. A ganglion cyst in the center of my wrist was compressing a sensitive nerve. Although the cyst and nerve were surgically removed, I lost flexibility in my wrist, so I could no longer snap it to generate my powerful serve. After 15 years of hard work, my body destroyed my dream of playing college tennis at the worst possible moment. I was no longer was the girl with a passion for tennis. Each day, I would still call my dad. Instead of talking to him about tennis practice, however, I began telling him stories about an art history class I was taking. Professor Jones lectured in a way that I could only explain as a dance across the room, as her passion for art bounced off the walls of the cinderblock lecture room.

I was engrossed as I furiously wrote each of her words into my spiral notebook. My excitement on these calls was apparent. Instead of telling me to dream of playing college tennis, he told me to dream of a career in art history. My dad and I melded our discussions into a research project that brought together art history and medicine, proposing a diagnosis of epilepsy for van Gogh. This specific area can be the source of hallucinations, déjà vu, delusions, and other symptoms of the madness that possessed Van Gogh, and which manifested in his art. We suggested that subconsciously the artist was, in effect, painting the location of his affliction in Starry Night.

Today, as I continue down my path as an art historian, I know the importance of protecting the creation of all art and cultural heritage. I believe we are living in an era when artists, museums, and even nation-states need lawyers to safeguard artistic achievements. For instance, Greece is fighting for the return of the Elgin Marbles from the British Museum, which has created a decades-long legal tangle. A lawyer who understands art can collaborate with all of the players in the art world to protect cultural and artistic achievements. Art history is my identity and my passion, and I aspire to bring my knowledge to a career of melding of art and law. Her demeanor was uneasy as she handed me the phone. Immigration and Customs Enforcement ICE. This incident marked me indelibly and forever shaped the woman I am today.

Nevertheless, my father was trapped in this immigration system that imposed enormous hardships on my family. Our everyday rituals had been completely altered, but we eventually adapted. Between the immigration court proceedings in Virginia, my mother would drive three hours so my two siblings and I could have a thirty-minute visitation with my father in the Hampton Roads detention center. With the phone connected to the glass, I would give him updates on my grades and what I had learned in class. After these visitations, my father sent us letters and drawings of our family.

When we returned home from our visits, my mother reminded us to stay strong because this was the card we were dealt. My siblings and I helped after school. Her strength empowered me to pursue my dreams. At that time there was very little media coverage of this issue. At the age of 15, I wanted to start a venture that would help individuals trapped in the injustices of the U. Immigration system. I reached out to my high school teachers and received county funding for an after-school tutoring program for ESOL students who wanted to enhance their education. Many of these students skipped school because they worked to support their families, and often they had to choose between school or work. The more I was consumed by their hardships and my own, the more I realized I wanted to become a lawyer so I could provide legal help to these students and their families.

He came here legally as a teenager and overstayed his visa, so he had a deportation order. Twenty years later, the order remained, and because of that, as a thirteen-year-old I saw two ICE agents handcuff him and haul him off in a van to a detention center at five in the morning. I was bewildered that the U. government would detain my father who had contributed so much to this country. In college, I reached a turning point when I read Phyler v. But discussing the law abstractly does not convey the damage the U. immigration system inflicts on families like my own. Thankfully my father has been released, but in the current political climate I must worry that my extended family members may not be so lucky. This institutionalized injustice has to change.

Obtaining a legal education would allow this twenty-one-year old woman to devote her professional life to that change. I reach into the cab to grab my legal pad, and slam the car door shut. The warm Orlando sun immediately reminds me that I am no longer in Delaware. I step onto the stage, and the ballroom, just moments ago filled with inaudible voices, becomes silent. I lean into the microphone. I wanted to be just like my dad. I looked up to him — the way he talked, the way he saw the world; he was my hero. We would talk for hours after dinner about his upcoming trial, about a suppression motion he had argued that day, or about a cop he had cross-examined earlier that week. I did not understand most of what he told me; after all, I was still in elementary school. And although I could barely see over the bar the first time my dad took me to see a real trial in a real courtroom, I knew I was where I wanted to be.

I wanted to be a lawyer. Despite my desire to apply to law school, I ignored her; adjusting to a new school was challenging enough. But she was persistent. Give it a chance. I was given a binder filled with affidavits, legal documents, and exhibits. My team was to portray attorneys and witnesses, cross-examine opposing witnesses, make objections, and argue in front of scoring judges seated in the jury box. My team would compete in these mock trials against other schools. I was immediately fixated. Before I knew it, I was a sophomore, and named captain of the team. I recruited friends to join, we won tournaments, and by my senior year we were the Philadelphia city champions, finishing second in the state of Pennsylvania, the most successful team in school history.

There was no greater feeling than standing in front of a panel of judges and delivering a closing argument, or sitting down at counsel table after an effective cross-examination. And now, instead of peering over the bar at my dad, it was my dad watching me. He was the first person I spoke to after trial. What did you think of that judge? They were perfect. While my mom was interested in the size of the dorms and prices of meal plans during college visits, I only had one question for our tour guide. Made up of only seven students, the team was struggling. Despite this, I was not deterred. I continued poring over the case, offering new case theories, and working to help my team become competitive.

By my sophomore year, things started to change. At the end of that season, I was elected president of the entire club, which has continued into my senior year. We had evolved into an organization of over thirty members that I had recruited, with a coaching staff that I had put together and more support from the university than ever before. During my junior year, I led my team to win all four trials at the Opening Round Championship Series in Philadelphia, earning an invitation to the National Championship Tournament for the first time in school history. My time as a mock trial competitor is quickly coming to a close. When I reflect on the person that I was before high school, I realize the impact that mock trial has had on me.

It has taught me to be a more effective speaker, an engaged listener, a more approachable teammate. It has taught me that hard work is the most important predictor of success. From the time I first peeked into a courtroom as a child, to just earlier this year, energetically stepping out of that cab and into the federal courthouse in Orlando, I have watched myself evolve into the person I have always strived to emulate, my dad. And over the last eight years, the law, like him, has already left an indelible footprint on my life. I am ready now, ready to give back to the law what it has already given to me.

When I was young, I used to fall asleep to the sound of the crickets chirping. Sound nice? They were living down there with me, lurking in the corners, hiding under my bed, terrorizing me. My earliest memories take place in a rundown basement apartment, where I lived with my mom, dad and the cave crickets. It was all we could afford and I was told to be grateful for it. They did try, but were caught in a cycle of American poverty that has been drowning the lower class for generations. My great-grandparents were teen parents. Both of my grandparents were teen parents and my parents followed suit. My father was born to a single mother in the 70s. His mother and the multiple men that came in and out of their lives were addicts and alcoholics. He lived mostly with his grandfather, my namesake, until he died of lung cancer when my dad was fourteen, leaving him without a home.

He moved from place to place with only enough energy to continue rather than improve his situation. His troubled life became even more complicated when he too became a father at the age of eighteen. He was faced with the easy choice of leaving, like his father had done, or he could sweep up any sort of foundation that he could muster from the rubble of his past and attempt to build a life for us. I will be forever grateful he chose the latter. This is the station I was born into, two teenage parents, no home, and no stability. With no father of his own, mine could only try to piece together what he thought a dad should be. For him, this meant providing a home, food and clothes, all of the things that had been so scarce to him.

He took as many jobs as he could find; working in the freezer of a chicken factory, giving baths to the elderly at nursing homes, and doing handyman work in the fraction of free time he had left. Starting school freed me from the run down basement, but I was different from the other kids and I knew it. I was the poor kid. Everyone else had Legos and Imaginext in their toy boxes. They went on trips over their breaks and always had stories to tell. For me, none of this was possible. None of this was affordable. And it made me awkward and nervous. Star Wars backpacks, stickers, pencils, posters and snacks seemed to be forever circling around me, yet always out of my reach. When my classmates recounted the scenes, I listened closely to absorb every detail so that I could pretend I had seen it too.

One day while shopping with my mom, I glanced hope. I begged my mom to buy it for me and she caved right before checkout. I was ecstatic, believing this would be everything required to finally be like everyone else. When we got home, my dad helped unpack the groceries. He pulled the shirt out of one of the bags. When I was finally old enough to understand the despair that had gripped my childhood, I decided I could either succumb to the vulturous cycle of poverty, or I could tear its hooks out of my skin and pursue a better life. Now, it is my quest to continue the climb and fight my way out. I have promised myself that no matter what, I will do whatever it takes to succeed so that my children will be the first in my family not born into poverty. I am determined to work hard and take advantage of every opportunity afforded to me.

I am determined to be the difference for the countless children struggling to stay afloat. I believe a career in law will give me the opportunity and strength to pull back the curtains, giving light to all those born into the shadows of poverty, so they too may see the path to a brighter future. The gust of wind rippled across my partially zipped-up jacket, a consequence of being hurriedly slipped on. The chill was intense, but I hardly noticed; I was already numb from the heart wrenching ache that originated deep in my core. I tried the handle, but it was locked. I trudged down the front steps, shivering in the cold. I threw the single stuffed backpack that was slung around my shoulder into my car and drove off into darkness.

Some people might say the family experience they are most thankful for is an especially joyous holiday, birthday, or family gathering. Mine is the day my mother stopped putting up with my crap and kicked me out into the cold. I had a very privileged childhood but not a happy one. My parents were both lawyers, and their marriage was adversarial. My father was brilliant: a mathematician turned legal professional. He had a booming personality, and his occasional guffaw would echo across the house. However, he had underlying anger issues, and alcoholism abetted his explosive temper.

While equally brilliant, my mother was thoughtful and introverted. She cared immensely for my sister and me, but was forced to become the only breadwinner after my father lost his job. As home stresses worsened and my parents drifted apart, I gravitated towards marijuana abuse. I threw parties, ditched school early that is, when I even bothered to show up , and continued to abuse drugs. When I was 16, my parents finally divorced. I was relieved by the cessation of hostilities, but was also enabled as my parents competed to see who could create a more permissive environment since custody would influence the division of wealth. Shortly thereafter I dropped out of high school due to excessive truancy, subsequently obtaining my GED while turning to more hardcore drugs.

I worked as a dishwasher, then busboy, and eventually waited tables as the financial support of my disappointed and exasperated mother waned. With nowhere to go, I drove and drove and drove. For a while, the high of the drugs compensated for the low of disappointing the person I loved the most, but such a life was unsustainable. Six months later, I was reading Dostoyevsky, Nietzsche, and Camus, and a philosophically nihilistic disposition paired with untreated, self-medicated depression. My life felt worthless. Then something broke through the haze of drug addiction and self-loathing.

On a hot day in the middle of July, I found myself again standing at the door to the security I had previously taken for granted. I knocked once. No answer. Why would there be? My insecurities bounced through my head as I descended the front steps for the last time. Or so I thought. The door opened, and I saw my mom. I love you. I want to be better. I could see myself doing guardian ad litem work, just as my mother did in her early career, advocating for children who have neither privilege nor happiness. I could see myself drafting legislation regarding alimony, which can punish spouses who bear the financial obligations in a marriage.

Even more, I want success in the field, so I can help my mother live comfortably after working so hard for me and my sister for so long. I hope to deliver the news of my acceptance to law school along with this statement to my mother. Two days ago Sam had bolted with a guest, dumping him soundly, before he then bucked off the wrangler who was sent to ride him back. Now Sam danced skittishly as we waited for our guest riders to fall into line along the fence rail. Wranglers on the ground explained the basics of western riding to first time trail riders: pull right to go right, left to go left, back to stop.

As we began our ride up the eastern ridge of the Colorado Rockies, Sam eyed me suspiciously. Passing the campground he quivered and spooked, but then he settled into the climb as we headed up the switchbacks. At the front, lead wrangler Jones engaged guests in friendly conversation: a German father riding with his two daughters, and some businesswomen out for adventure. The sun was warm as we climbed the two-hour trail, and I had settled in with Sam by the time we were reaching the last few miles. Rounding the bend into a meadow, it happened. Without warning Sam lurched forward into a dead run. My seat stayed in the saddle even as my mind whiplashed to catch up. Pull back! In the chaos, my mind remained clear. A bolting horse can be curbed by directing it into a large circle, cutting off a dead run into a manageable situation.

With strong leg and rein, I began working him into an arc, but we were quickly heading for a steep downhill studded with jagged rocks and sporadic pines. And in that moment, Sam shifted. Suddenly we were no longer a trail horse and rider, but an animal running with wild abandon who could not care less about the person on his back. The crash landing felt like somersaulting in an ocean wave, minus the water. Grabbing desperately at bushes, I finally skidded to a stop and instantly hopped up, thoughts focused on my guests. Jones thundered by, pulling furiously at his out of control horse.

Two other riders had already passed; three were charging straight towards me. Throwing my arms wide, I forced my shaky legs into confident strides towards the agitated horses. Stumbling downhill, dragging back on a horse trying to join his fellows, I refused the instinctual panic at what we might find at the bottom of the hill and how then to help the father if we encountered the worst. But in a moment there she was — sitting upright, shaky but seemingly okay. I gave her a first aid once over, and then as we waited for the rescue team, I told stories of my own mishap riding adventures, helping them normalize the situation.

It was not until father and daughters were safely in the truck headed to the barn that I felt the stinging across my own face that would leave a good-looking cowboy scar for the rest of the summer. But I counted it a success that Sarah — I found out her name talking at the bottom of the hill —wrote on her incident report that she still loved horses. They are living breathing animals that will at times act unpredictably. A rider must know how to respond in unpredictable times. In the moment, my thinking was clear and my decisions purposeful.

To remain calmly confident in an unpredictable and high-risk situation are the skills of a good rider. They are also the skills of a good lawyer. We must prepare and research, just as riders must train for years in the ring. Yet when it comes time to go into action — to ride — you have only yourself. Stanley was four years old but looked two and a half; he had a bloated belly, no muscle tone, and a protruding collar bone. He showed no interest in anything and lacked both the curiosity and energy of a typical toddler. If you tried to talk to him, he would simply stare at you with a blank look in his eyes. I met Stanley while visiting Haiti, where he was living in a safe-house with ten other boys. His mother was suffering from severe psychological issues and his father had died in an earthquake.

On my trip to Haiti, our goal was to help teach English to the boys at this safe-house. However, Stanley was too young to participate in the lessons, so I volunteered to keep him busy while the other boys worked. I immediately established a connection with him and made it my goal to give him the attention he deserved. I wanted so badly to see this sad little boy smile. On the last day of my trip, I finally got my wish. As a reward for working so hard throughout the week, we took the boys to the beach to celebrate our last day in Haiti. Stanley and I played in the sand for hours and eventually made our way toward the ocean. Stanley seemed scared, but he held my hand as I moved forward inch by inch.

Soon we were jumping over the waves and splashing around. Before I knew it, Stanley was smiling and laughing. This was how a four year old was supposed to look: happy and innocent. Though I had finally gotten my wish to see him smile, it broke my heart to know that the next day I would be on a plane back to Delaware and Stanley would stay at the safe-house, neglected and lonely. When I took a job as a camp counselor a few months later, I was faced with the sad reality that problems of child neglect were not isolated to third world countries. Though I worked just forty minutes from my home in Massachusetts, I had campers that came every day without lunch or water.

Others wore the same outfit all week, no matter how sweaty or dirty their clothes became. Many would come in with bruises, black eyes, broken bones, and burn marks all over their bodies. While it was my responsibility to report these injuries and to make sure my campers felt safe for the few hours they were at camp, at the end of the day I had to send them home to parents that I knew would abuse and neglect them. I was powerless; there was nothing I could do beyond the confines of camp except report the problems and hope someone took care of them. On the last day of camp, when one little boy asked if he could come live with me because he was scared to go home, I broke down in tears.

These children all lived very different lives, but they had one thing in common: the adults in their lives had let them down. Stanley was severely underdeveloped because his mother had neglected him. My campers were terrified because they were abused by the very people they relied on to love and care for them. None of these children have a voice to speak out against the atrocities bestowed upon them; they are essentially helpless. Thankfully, I have been dealt a different hand — one that consists of an education, a conscience and the opportunity to create change.

These were the words that I repeated in my head and that echoed repeatedly for the next couple of months. Sarah is gone. My sister went missing the weekend of Super Bowl XLIII in My mother received a call from her ex-fiancé saying she had not come home in days and he was leaving her and taking their kids to Georgia. This was a major red flag. My sister loved her kids more than anything and would never leave them. My mother began to panic. My sister was not answering her phone, and a winter storm was brewing in upstate New York. There was an unsettling feeling in the air as fear sank in. I was sent to live with my aunt as the next few months were filled with news reports, missing person flyers, search parties, prayer services at church, and many tears of anguish and grief.

As spring emerged on the horizon and the snow began to melt, a confession halted everything. With that, my world fell apart. My sister, my hero, the person I looked up to was gone, and she was not coming back. My sister was 16 years older than me and losing her felt like I had lost my mom. At 12 years old, I fell into a major depression, and I wanted to give up. I was no longer that carefree and bubbly girl everyone knew. I became quiet and reserved, I would not eat, and I was filled with anger. My mother cried every day. Even as she tried to shelter me from this storm. This agonizing situation suddenly had a little light at the end of the tunnel. As I adjusted to having my nieces and nephew living with us, I realized that I had to be strong if not for myself, then for them. I may have lost my sister, but they lost both their parents.

While my mother spent hours commuting to and from work, I had to get my nieces and nephew ready for school, help them with their homework, and at times, make them dinner and put them to bed. I had to be mature and strong for them. My nieces and nephew taught me how to be resilient and how to persevere in the face of adversity. They depended on me and looked up to me. I believed my sister was watching over us, and I would make her proud by making sure my nieces and nephew did the right things in life. I threw myself into my studies and joined many extracurricular activities in high school to ensure I had a competitive college application.

I took several AP courses and maintained an A average in them all. I volunteered to be a math and Spanish tutor, became the editor of our school newspaper, and joined different sports teams. When the time came to apply for college and choose a major, I chose Psychology. I wanted to have a better understanding of why people did the things they do, and I wanted to help other families cope with the same situations I had endured. A large part of me thought by going into Psychology, I could understand why my sister was murdered. But in the end, my studies helped me realize I may never understand the emotions behind it, and I should not try to. Attempting to understand the psychological motives behind something this horrible is impossible. I was continuously reopening a wound I was so desperately trying to close.

As I have learned how to cope with my grief and deal with closure, I have come to realize that the best way for me to help other families is to fight for them. I want to help other families receive justice and closure, by being a prosecutor and fighting on their behalf. While it may have seemed like her older sibling was trying to drown her, she was in fact saving her life. Up above, Pakistani fighter jets flew by. These planes were known for picking off their enemy, regardless of age, gender, or religion. A few miles up the way, a boy woke in the middle of the night and fled his home with his family to avoid being killed by the approaching Pakistani Army.

During this period where food and medicine became scarce, the boy and his family starved and lost one of their sons to malnutrition. When the family returned, they found their house looted and partially destroyed. They had to rebuild from virtually nothing. My parents survived the genocide of Bangladesh. Eventually we won the war and established the nation of Bangladesh. In s my father was granted asylum in the U. In NYC my father worked as a taxi driver, and while doing that he tried to educate himself. He had only a third-grade education in East Pakistan — public schools did not exist there, and he had to go to work as a clerk at age 8 while overcoming polio. Even so he earned his General Education Diploma in America. Soon he began working for Wachovia as a loan officer. My mom was a housewife who raised me and my brother.

My brother and I were raised to embrace my Bengali heritage. After all, East Pakistan fought a war to preserve its language. Pakistan wanted those in what it called East Pakistan to stop speaking the language. That would erase our national identity and allow Pakistan to absorb us. But we fought back so ferociously that eventually Pakistan gave up. My parents instilled in us a tremendous pride in what our people accomplished. We celebrated the Bengali New Year by dressing up in traditional clothing. For me that was a Sari, a long piece of red fabric that was draped around me. Music was a major part of our culture, so we listened to Bengali music played on a sitar and a harmonium. After the fasting month of Ramadan, we celebrated Eid, a three-day Muslim holiday.

One of our pillars in our religion was that we should perform charitable acts, and the more successful we become, the more you can give back. But my Muslim religion had a negative side as well, and that is the expectation that women should stay home and raise a family rather than pursue a career. This did not mean I should not have an education. It only meant that my role was pre-defined as that of wife and mother. I rebelled against that. I told my parents I would not marry at age 18 as they expected. I refused to circulate a bio data resume, which is essentially a portfolio for marriage. In fact, I was insulted by the very idea that I should be auctioned off like cattle. Even now, at 22 years of age, my parents will not allow me to date, so I have had to live a double life in my relationships with men.

In fact, I hope to change Bengali attitudes toward child marriages — soon I will travel to my motherland to educate those who believe their girls should marry at As a lawyer, I will continue trying to rectify this sort of unfairness, and I looking forward to doing that through the U. legal system. On August 28 th , , I had just turned twelve years old and was en route to see The Rolling Stones for my first concert. During the car ride from Wellesley Island, New York to Ottawa, Ontario, everyone was anxiously predicting what songs The Stones would play and in what order. Most people, including myself, were proudly wearing t-shirts sporting the provocative, red tongue logo.

We found our seats, which were by no means close to the stage, but when the pyrotechnics began, we could feel the heat from the flames on our skin. I looked up at my mother with a huge grin. By the beaming smile on her face, I could tell she was as excited as I was to finally see her favorite band perform. From an early age, music has been important to me. Over time, my musical palate evolved beyond that of the typical Parrot Head the name given to members of the Jimmy Buffett fan club to include genres varying from country to hip-hop, just to name a few, and my method of listening evolved from CDs to iPods. My own experience mirrors the changing music industry. Fans can watch their favorite artists perform on television or through a live stream on the internet, but these broadcasts can adversely affect ticket sales.

Another music digitalization consequence is the quality and ease with which music can be copied, leading to greater concern over piracy and copyright infringement. The heavy metal band Metallica is known for their legal efforts to combat piracy such as when they sued file-sharing service Napster. Regardless of approach, I intend to use the law to assist artists and consumers in dealing with these changes. I have already gained experience through an internship with the Alliance of Artists and Recording Companies AARC , a non-profit organization that collects and distributes home-taping royalties to musicians and copyright owners. Through the internship, I became familiar with home-taping royalty collection worldwide. I also assisted with complex copyright lawsuits.

At issue in one case was whether in-car recording device manufacturers need to pay royalties for their product production. The manufacturers believed their products deserve a royalty exemption, similar to MP3 players, while AARC disagreed. Another case involved what constitutes being a featured artist on a recording in order to receive royalty payments for that recording. My experience with AARC has reaffirmed my aspiration to practice law. Attending [university name] will allow me to follow my desired career path. Obtaining a law degree will grant me opportunities to pursue what I love and I am looking forward to beginning the next process in my academic and professional careers.

It was almost midnight, and my thumb hovered over the green button on my phone. The number was already dialed. My best friend was the victim, so what authority did I have to be upset on her behalf? I remained in shock for almost a month after I went to the local movie theater with Jane over spring break, where she told me about her sexual assault at a party. She was dancing with friends whom she trusted, so when one of them led her away from the group, she went with him. He pulled her into the bathroom and locked the door. She was too drunk to fight him when he started taking off her clothes. She only remembered fragments of what he had done after that, but she knew she had to go to the police for a rape kit, which would ultimately confirm the assault.

After talking to Jane in the theater, I distractedly stuck to my usual academic routine for the next few weeks, but almost every night I would either call Jane to check in or call my mother to cry. I had never felt so helpless. Ultimately, her college found her assailant guilty and handed down his punishment: a request that he transfer. Jane was more surprised by the verdict than the so-called punishment. Over the course of the investigation, school administrators attempted to undermine her story with questions about her clothing and her conduct at the party. As a last resort, I thought I could move past my frustrations and fears by venting them aloud, so I considered calling Sexual Offense Support at my university. As I struggled with the decision, I glanced back at the website open on my laptop.

My phone lay forgotten beside me, the call button unpressed. As I perused the instructions for applying to work as a victim advocate, I realized how I could combat my constant feelings of helplessness. I may not have been able to help Jane, but I could help others. Anger and sorrow had been draining me for weeks — but I could channel emotion into action. I looked into the sexual assault support programs and rallies on my campus. I attended documentary screenings, student rallies, and my first Take Back the Night march. I volunteered for the campus gender equality organization. When I left campus for a semester abroad, I became a volunteer translator for Warriors Japan, an advocacy group that supports survivors in Japan.

All the while, I continued to send Jane a flurry of supportive messages. Never before had I felt such urgency to act. This has spurred me toward a legal career. Now I have another reason: I want a career that would give me the power to effect change. And if it were me, I know I would. The priority red line flashed across the laptop screen at pm. The car lurched forward as it accelerated to 90 miles per hour down the long, dark, narrow street. My heartbeat accelerated and my seat belt pressed tightly to my chest, suppressing my rapidly beating heart. If perpetrators are visualized, shots will be fired and I will be banished into the floor of the police cruiser, tucked in the fetal position.

Yellow caution tape defined the perimeter. Emergency vehicles parked at staggered angles. Red lights flashing. Sirens droning. A plethora of officials were tending to their respective responsibilities. After the scene was declared inactive, we approached the victim lying face down in the street, bleeding from three bullet wounds: one in his right arm, one in his left arm, and one in his lower back. After assuring him the ambulance would arrive momentarily, the lieutenant briefed us as we surveyed the chalked off areas.

Next, we documented the bullet fragments and shell casings, counting forty. This shooting was another turf war between rival gangs over drugs, one of many in this crime-ridden part of town. I looked around and noticed faces in windows and on every porch. They seemed interested, but not alarmed. This was their reality. My adrenaline level was elevated to match my heart rate. Seven hours had elapsed in what felt like one. I flashed back to the beginning of the semester. Professor Jones had seventy-five sleep deprived, unemotional faces staring back at him until he waved a crisp ten-dollar bill. With our curiosity piqued, he promised ten dollars for every perfect exam score. Upon completion of my oral presentation, Professor Jones motioned me to approach his desk.

He recognized me as the only student to achieve an overall perfect score in his course and to empty his wallet simultaneously. He inquired about my plans for graduate or law school and was shocked I had not yet chosen an undergraduate major. Because of my demonstrated potential, he encouraged me to further pursue a major in Criminal Justice, which would place me on a trajectory to attend graduate or law school. The three crisp ten-dollar bills I received from Professor Jones were spent on coffee and bagels; however, they represented so much more than perfect scores and pocket money. An increased confidence, sense of direction, and subsequent conversations with Professor Jones, solidified my educational direction in Criminal Justice and the foundation for my post-graduate plans.

Instead of the stereotypical intern fetching coffee, I attended weekly misdemeanor court, learned to write Three weeks into my internship, I even witnessed the prosecution of a Class A felony, a woman on trial for the murder of her mother-in-law. On the day of the trial, I approached the courthouse where several media trucks and crews were lined up jockeying to get the best vantage point and latest statement. I hesitantly entered the courtroom and the judge instructed my fellow interns and me to take seats in the jury box. The tension in the courtroom was palpable. The son-in-law, leaning over the bar, shouted so violently at the co-conspirator that the court officers had to restrain him.

This was a real life drama unfolding before my eyes. The culmination of these experiences, the coursework, and my instructors along the way has left me with a unique sense of the law. When I reflect on the person I was my freshmen year of college, I realize I had no educational direction and no real sense of who I was as a person. Subconsciously I was searching for a focus that aligned with my values of respect, empathy, commitment, and justice. Through the combination of knowledge and experience, I realize these values are all personified in a lawyer. After years of disappointment, my aunt carried a child to full term. I was excited when she went into labor because I would have another cousin to play with. No one was. He was airlifted to another hospital before my aunt could even hold him.

No one could have prevented it. But, this was far from the truth. When my aunt went into labor, her regular doctor was on vacation, which left her at the mercy of an on-call doctor. She was cared for by a surgical resident who was not trained in the United States. This meant she could not communicate with my aunt. When my aunt voiced her concerns, the on-call doctor insisted that she wait to deliver until he arrived at the hospital and assured her that he was on his way. Neonatologists worked on his limp body for 9 minutes, until a needle of epinephrine injected into his chest revived him. But it was too late. The lack of oxygen to the neural tissue caused swelling that impeded on his underdeveloped skull, causing him to hemorrhage and suffer massive brain damage.

After a month in the Intensive Care Unit at Jefferson Hospital in Philadelphia, John was released with little hope for the future. Neurologists were not sure how his frontal lobe and motor cortex damage would manifest as he developed. He needed special attention, including physical and speech therapy. These were expenses that my aunt and her husband could not afford. They decided to sue the hospital and the doctor. I was only in grade school, so I had little knowledge of what this meant. When I met the lawyer representing my cousin and aunt, I sat in a large leather chair at the opposite end of the adults at a board-room style table with a coloring book. My parents thought that would distract me from why we were there.

I listened to the jargon about how the deposition would go for my mom, the compensatory damages my aunt sought for the pain and suffering she endured, and the amount for which they would settle that would allow John the medical attention he needed. I pretended to color while I learned the on-call doctor was out to dinner with his family when he got the call that John was in distress. He claimed he was stuck in traffic, which would excuse his lateness. However, traffic cameras revealed that he was lying. He also lied when he said he was not aware that the surgical resident was not qualified to deliver a baby.

The lawyer was confident that he could prove, by a preponderance of the evidence, the doctor was negligent and because of that, John was gravely injured. The lawyer did lessen the financial strain on my aunt and uncle with the compensation he received on behalf of my aunt and cousin. I admired what the lawyer did for our family. He used his knowledge of the law to reach a settlement that allowed his clients to get what they needed, without fear of therapy and medical costs. Watching him be the voice for my cousin and aunt, inspired me to go to law school. I will advocate for those who are at the mercy of someone who holds a position of trust, just as that lawyer did for my family members.

One October morning in my freshman year, I woke up with blood in my mouth and purple spots starting at my neck, spreading down my shoulders. However, each time I saw the physician he neither ran blood tests nor stopped the antibiotic that was causing these problems. By the time I made it to the health center that afternoon, the petechiae — reddish or purplish spots containing blood that appear in skin as a result of localized hemorrhages — had spread over my face and entire body and the sores in my mouth had worsened.

Instead of being alarmed at my appearance, the doctor once again sent me home with the instructions to rest and take a Zyrtec. Despite the lack of concern expressed by the health center, my mother was convinced something more serious was going on and drove 2 hours to come to my dorm and take me to the nearest emergency room. I remember complaining on the car ride to the hospital that I would get behind in school and that this was a waste of time because the doctor at the health center said I was fine. After a few rudimentary blood tests, the hospital discovered that my platelet count was 2, — dangerously below the normal range of ,, — and my white blood cell count was also extremely low.

It was a rare allergic reaction to the antibiotic I was on and if my mother had not taken me to the emergency room that night, I would have died. As I improved over the next two weeks, my family, friends, and professors still expected that I would take the rest of the semester off. This experience is a prime example of my determination and ambition in my academic and personal life. My university acknowledged the medical malpractice on their part and fired the physician who was in charge of my case, but did not offer any type of monetary reparation. My parents did not want to sue my school and I was left powerless to deal with the aftermath of this situation which only fueled my desire to practice law one day.

Even after my financial situation threatened to force me out of the University of Delaware, I persevered and forged my own path. I devised a plan to save money by taking some credits at an in-state school which would also put me on track to graduate a year early. I figured out what I needed to do in order to succeed and I did everything in my power to make those dreams my reality. The fact is, though, my hair has seen almost every color under the sun — red, black, maroon, and even blue streaks on a dare. When I was thirteen, I stood up at the dinner table and proclaimed that I wanted to be a lawyer. She sought out opportunities that were seemingly out of her grasp; she was intelligent and determined while maintaining her poise under pressure. I began to realize that when my life was compared to Legally Blonde , it was more than just a contrast of pre-law sorority girls: it was a positive reflection of my personality and drive.

While three generations of my family urged me to follow tradition and attend Lafayette, I chose to attend the Honors program at the University of Delaware. My academic achievements, including the Honors and Woman of Promise awards, have proven that UD was the right decision. After arriving at UD, I was the only one of my friends who wanted to join a sorority — and, without an ounce of apprehension, I walked into the recruitment process alone and smiling. This proved to be the opening chapter of a new volume in my life.

The experiences from my London semester have inspired me and altered the way I view everyday life, and I now see the world with a broader perspective. Whether it was an inside tour of the Bank of England or a lecture comparing political structures of European nations, immersing myself in international cultures has only reinforced the need for greater awareness of events and cooperation on a global and national scale. Furthermore, spending time away from the US has enabled me to take a more diplomatic view of current affairs and has heightened my desire for political involvement.

Maintaining this passion and inspiration, and sharing it with others, is one of the greatest facilitators of change, and precisely why I want to study law. Atlantic City, New Jersey: the large metal doors slowly closed in front of me. I shut my eyes, clenched my fists and began to breathe heavily. My mom always told me to count down from five, so I started. We were there, the eighth floor of the Hilton Hotel. I had just survived another bout with the elevator. Fairfield, Connecticut: huge raindrops fell from the dark sky. The loud smacking sound of the rain against the side of the car made my heart pound as I prayed our car would not float away. Knowing that I was stuck there in traffic, I blasted my CD Walkman as loud as I could, to try to drown out the storm.

Liberty, New York: it was our first Fourth of July at our new vacation home. I heard a whistling sound as the first firework took off. I looked up at the sky with a smile, only to then hear a loud crack. Wincing, I looked back up at the sky. This time six or seven fireworks were shot off in quick succession, erupting in a huge boom. My mom saw me tightly pressing my hands against my ears and as I returned her gaze. I could see the look of disappointment in her eyes. I think she was really hoping that I could actually enjoy this. Elevators, rain, fireworks, just some of the many childhood fears I lived with. I was afraid of nearly everything.

Everyone told me my fears were just a phase that I would grow out of, but, by the time I was a teenager, they had become almost crippling. I became adept at keeping my fears hidden. That was, until high school, when I heard my class was going on an overnight trip to Howe Caverns. They were excited and so was I, until I found out that I would have to take a small, creaky elevator feet below ground. I could barely handle the million dollar elevators in Atlantic City, let alone a rickety, old one in Howe Caverns. Without any explanation, I simply told my friends that I could not go. I sat home alone, thinking about how my fears were affecting my life, controlling everything I did.

I realized that I had a decision to make. I could either continue to be a victim of my fears, or find the power within myself to conquer them. I am now in college and am proud to say that I no longer have an issue with fears. Now a senior, for the past year and a half I have been serving as the Vice President of the Planning to Achieve Collegiate Excellence program for the National Society of Collegiate Scholars. The P. program mentors and guides underprivileged children who are struggling in High School, with the hope that they will continue on to college.

More importantly, for the past year and a half I have been a mentor to Mikey. When we met, Mikey held a 1. He told me that he loved lacrosse and wanted to play for the University of Delaware someday. We talked about the importance of school and how he would need to improve his grades. Mikey then confided in me that he knew he was not stupid, but was just afraid of trying his best, yet still failing. When Mikey revealed this to me, it really hit close to home and compelled me to tell him about how I faced my own fears. I explained to Mikey that realizing your fears are holding you back is the starting point to overcoming them.

Because I understood the position he was in, I told Mikey that he had to work through his fears and make progress within himself. I was able to connect with Mikey enough to motivate him to face his fears and get his grades up. I continue to work with Mikey and am pleased that his GPA has improved to a 2. As for me, I am just proud that Mikey has benefited from my advice. While I do not know exactly what I will be doing after law school, I do know that I will meet any challenges that I face, head on and without fear.

Sign In. Forgotten password? A law personal statement is essential when applying to enrol on an LLB law course as an undergraduate or an LLM degree as a postgraduate. Get advice and tips on writing good law personal statements. Most law schools require a personal statement. A law personal statement is the final step in your UCAS application. A good law personal statement brings your interest in the legal profession to life, and demonstrates to university admissions teams why they should offer you a place on one of their law degree courses. If a lot of students applying for law degree courses have achieved the basic entry requirements, university admissions teams use UCAS law personal statements to decide who is more suited to their learning programme.

Some law schools will read every personal statement and score them. They then use this score alongside your qualifications and grades to decide whether to offer you an interview. Your UCAS personal statement can be up to 4, characters long — approximately — 1, words with spaces. This means that to write a law personal statement, you have to be concise, and tell your story in a way that stands out. A personal statement for law students is the one opportunity to grab the attention of university admissions teams, a chance to tell them who you are and why they need you on their course. Your law personal statement structure, and the content you include, is crucial to ensuring that admissions teams get to know your personality and why you want to study law.

Your law personal statement opening lines are the foundation for a strong start. Right from the beginning you need to grab the attention of university admissions teams and sell yourself to them. Your opening paragraph should be filled with positive adjectives that describe your motivation, determination, and commitment to law, while revealing aspects of your personality. Next, you need to tell your story, the one that put you on the path to studying law. University admissions teams will be keen to know why you chose law. Not only should you tell them what inspired you, but why you were inspired. Perhaps it was a podcast, a TV programme or film. Maybe you researched law as a profession and decided it was the right career path for you. Have you been shadowing someone already in the legal profession, which inspired you to pursue a career?

Or, do you want to study law to help tackle social issues that matter to you. Within your story, you need to demonstrate that you have the skills and competencies to study law. Law degrees are demanding and rigorous, and university admissions teams are looking for you to show times in your life where you have shown determination, resilience, self-motivation, initiative and problem solving skills among others. These are key attributes of a lawyer. You can use examples from everyday life, your education, extracurricular activities or work experience placements, to highlight your key skills and competencies.

Finally, you need a big finish, a strong concluding statement that leaves university admissions teams with no option but to enrol you. Tell them what will make you a great student, why you chose their university, and how you plan to put your law degree to use once you graduate. Make sure you check your law personal statement before you send it. The care you put into the presentation of your statement is just as important to university admissions teams as the content it contains. Ensure that you stick to an active tense to keep the reader engaged and strike the right balance with your tone. Watch this video from Solent University Law School, Southampton, which is packed with great tips on how to write a strong law personal statement.

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How to Write a Law School Personal Statement + Examples,How Do Universities Use Your UCAS Law Personal Statement?

WebThis is no small matter for a writing intensive profession such as the law. As Cornell Law School notes, personal statements are evaluated for “both content and construction, WebFeb 08,  · A personal statement might: Demonstrate your personality and intellectual and emotional fit for the program. Explain why you want to pursue a legal WebAug 09,  · There are other ways to start a law school personal statement that doesn't drop the reader in the middle of the action. Some writers may begin their law personal WebFollow these tips to make sure your law school personal statement really shines. Related: 4 Outstanding Real-World Law School Personal Statement Examples. Tip 1: Focus on WebMake sure you check your law personal statement before you send it. The care you put into the presentation of your statement is just as important to university admissions WebOct 18,  · Part 4: Law school personal statement brainstorming. Before you begin writing, you should spend time brainstorming ideas. Because law school personal ... read more

Over the next ten years, I labored over the Baby Grand my father had rescued from a cobwebbed corner of the basement at his office. Medical School Admissions Consulting MCAT Tutoring Residency Admissions Consulting. Life is an intricate and stunning accumulation of the beauty of humanity, and this is reflected in the ways that we impact others every day. The conclusion of your statement should be where you reiterate the message of your personal statement and answer the question of what you're a good candidate for admission. I felt as if I was climbing to the top of a roller coaster. My music has shaped me. One October morning in my freshman year, I woke up with blood in my mouth and purple spots starting at my neck, spreading down my shoulders.

That night, my call home to my dad was heartbreaking. In track and field, one second is an eternity. Less than thirty seconds after forcing me in the car, the police officer jumped out law school personal statement help the car, pursued an unsuspecting boy riding his bike in the neighborhood, aggressively pulled him from his moving bike, and placed him in handcuffs. Attempting to understand the psychological motives behind something this horrible is impossible. He always had a bubbly personality, but the accusations transformed him into a somber, dejected introvert.

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