In college, I regularly hid from my future in a worn green armchair at a coffee shop called College Drip.

Terrible name. Sounds like something you’d Google in a panic. But it had excellent espresso, constant 90s alternative music, and it attracted the permanently over-caffeinated and existentially confused. So, naturally, it became my second home.

That’s where I met Eve, the barista-poet of the place. Skull tattoos up her arms. Zero tolerance for drama. Endless tolerance for students quietly unraveling in her general vicinity.

“Seventy percent of students change their major at some point,” she said one night, sliding over my latte.

“I think I’ve personally inflated that statistic,” I sighed. “I’ve changed mine three times.”

“Let me guess,” she said. “You wanted to be—”

“Clarice Starling. FBI.” Criminal psychology. Very intense eye contact. A strong personal commitment to justice and good lighting. "But I decided I should probably come up with a more realistic Plan B.”

“What’s Plan B?”

“First, it was parasitology, because I had a crush on my professor… until he brought in a hot stool sample.”

She scrunched up her face. “Ewe.”

I opened the manila folder in front of me. All the letters inside started the same way.

Congratulations…

“Law school?” she asked,

“Apparently. And that’s terrifying. It’s expensive. People hate lawyers. And my only legal victory so far is convincing the library to waive a late fee.”

“You’ll figure it out,” she said. “Go get some food. Future lawyers need carbs.”

So, I wandered next door to the little Chinese place that was always quiet but somehow felt comforting. I ordered Mu Shu Pork. I watched the ice melt in my glass. I let my mind finally go still.

When I finished eating, I opened the small golden fortune cookie on the table.

Inside was a thin white slip of paper with six simple words:

YOU WOULD MAKE A GOOD LAWYER.

I just sat there for a minute. Let it land. Then folded the paper carefully and slipped it into my wallet. Not because I fully believed it. But because… something in me wanted to.

Years later, through law school, through hard days and impossible decisions and moments when I wasn’t sure I belonged in the rooms I had somehow found myself in, that tiny piece of paper stayed with me. Quiet. Patient. Certain.

I lost that fortune, which means it’s probably tucked into someone else’s couch cushion, still being oddly encouraging.

But I don’t need it anymore.

Because, along the way, I became exactly what it said I would be.

And I’m grateful for that.

But these days, when I think about that little piece of paper, the message I hear isn’t, “You would make a good lawyer.”

Right now, teams are shrinking. Roles are disappearing. AI and efficiency are being blamed or celebrated, depending on the day. But a layoff, a pause, or a restructure isn’t a moral judgment. It’s an accountant’s decision.

What that message means to me now is:

You are not just a row on a spreadsheet. You are the judgment in hard calls, the risk that never made the headlines, the calm in the chaos, the momentum behind the deal, the clarity in the gray. A market can’t measure that. A layoff can’t erase that. You ARE a good lawyer.

And a lot of incredible legal professionals need that reminder this Thanksgiving.

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