Growing up, I was told—more times than I care to remember—that I would never do as well as my older sibling. The comparisons came fast and loud. Teachers. Family. Friends. And those comparisons didn’t just sting—they stuck. They formed the walls I had to learn to climb.
I remember getting A grades in my mock GCSEs. Not one or two—consistently strong marks across the board. And I thought, maybe I’m not so different. Maybe the gap everyone keeps pointing out is imagined. But then came the diagnosis: dyslexia and previously dyspraxia in my early years.
Suddenly, my path wasn’t mine anymore. It was rewritten by others. I was moved into lower sets, told I couldn’t handle the more challenging curriculum, and—perhaps the greatest blow of all—I was restricted to foundation-tier exams. The ceiling was set before I’d even stepped into the hall to sit the real thing. All the evidence of my potential—my mock grades, my work ethic, my ability to keep up—was ignored. The label took over.
As if that wasn’t enough, a few years later came the treble whammy—I came out as gay. I was young, already trying to navigate a world that didn’t seem to have much faith in me, and now I was being sent to counselling because of it. That experience didn’t feel supportive—it felt like another brick in the wall. Another subtle (and not-so-subtle) message that I was broken. That I wasn’t worthy.
I was mocked constantly. For my terrible handwriting (it’s still kind of bad—though thankfully readable now), for my sexuality, for my Scottish accent. Every difference I had became a target. And then there was my mother—a convicted fraudster who, despite openly despising me, seemed to show up at every event just to humiliate me. Imagine trying to grow into your best self with that as your cheerleader. Then we have my father—also a convict, for attempted murder, of me, when I was 2 years old, trying to drown me in a bath.
All I wanted was to fit in. To blend, to be accepted, to be enough.
But I’ve grown since then. And somewhere along the way, I stopped wanting to fit in. Now? I want to stand out.
I look at the people above me—managers, senior professionals, the gatekeepers—and I don’t flinch anymore. I say to myself: I’m coming for you. Not with rage. Not with bitterness. But with purpose. I will be better than you. I will be your boss one day. Or you’ll need my services when I’m a solicitor.
It might sound like I’m fuelled by rage, like I’m scorned. But here’s the truth—I feel no anger. What I feel is resolve. Absolute, unshakable determination to become the very best in everything I do. And yes, let’s be honest—I want to make some decent money along the way and live a damn comfortable life.
Right now, I’m working full time. I’m studying for a law degree full time. I’m completing business management qualifications and other professional courses. I’m running a legal blog. I’m doing consultancy work on the side. And yes—I still find time to sleep (well, except that one time I overslept for work last week and woke up in sheer panic, which was a first and absolutely not recommended).
My ambition is the magic circle. Not just to enter it—but to lead in it. I want to be the person people look to. I’ve built a detailed roadmap to get there. And I’m walking it, step by step, no shortcuts, just grit.
I will prove my doubters wrong. Every person who scoffed at my CV, especially recently. Every recruiter who passed me over. Every teacher who decided I wasn’t worth the top-tier paper. Every member of my estranged family who decided I was a write-off. They should have looked closer. They should have read more than the name at the top of the page.
Because I’m not just building a career—I’m building something formidable. And I’m only just getting started.
When I read Phill Bratt’s story on the Law Society website, it was like seeing a mirror held up to parts of my own life. He spoke of getting a 2:2, of being diagnosed with dyslexia later in life, and still becoming a partner within just eight years of qualifying. That level of tenacity hit home.
Phill’s story is important because it disrupts the myth that there’s only one path to success in law. Like him, I know what it’s like to have people write you off before you've even started. To be told—explicitly or otherwise—that you're not cut out for this world. But like Phill, I’ve never let those judgments define me. Instead, they’ve defined what I’m determined to overcome.
His voice is one I’m grateful to see represented in legal spaces, and it gives me even more motivation to keep writing, keep pushing, and keep building not just for myself—but for the others coming up behind me who’ve also been underestimated.
We need more Phill Bratts in the profession—and more space for people like me too. Because if there's one thing I’ve learned, it’s that the law doesn’t belong to the privileged few who fit the mold. It belongs to those willing to fight for their place in it.