I rarely write about work on here – and that’s not going to change – but I do want to take a moment to reflect upon and process a major professional change. And to talk about change in general, networking, and bravery.

As many of you already know, I’m a lawyer. Although I started my career in the federal government, I’ve been in private practice (i.e. law firms) since 2008. I’ve been at four different firms during that time, and each one has been a valuable experience in its own way. My most recent firm has been my favorite. I’ve gotten to do interesting work in a collaborative and supportive setting, with colleagues I consider cherished friends. Especially over the past year, I’ve often reflected that I couldn’t imagine “doing” pandemic work-from-home life anywhere else. And now I’m leaving.

Although I really love my firm, my ultimate career goal has always been to join a corporate legal department. (Or, “to go in house,” in lawyer parlance.) Over the years I’ve pursued this goal actively at times, and back-burnered it at other times. I’ve quietly applied to dozens of in house jobs over the years, and have come very close to landing a handful of them – cycling through periods of feverish activity, hope, disappointment, and leaning in at the law firm. In house jobs are competitive and difficult to land; as a former colleague who is now employment counsel at a defense contractor once reflected (during a lunch for the purpose of picking her brain about the prospect of a career move for me), “Law firms need a lot of lawyers. Companies usually only need a few. Or none.” And if you’re specialized, as I am, it’s even harder. To have need of (and a budget for) a specialized employment lawyer on staff, a corporation has to be fairly big. And the jobs that do exist are usually at corporate headquarters, most of which are located in New York City or on the west coast – not where I live, although more and more businesses are locating in the D.C. area these days.

So this goal has felt insurmountable, and for the past few years I haven’t really touched it. After what looked like my best chance at landing an in house job fell through in January, 2020, I decided that I was going to recommit to law firm life. And shortly after that, the pandemic started – and I really did feel grateful for my firm’s liberal remote work policies and my colleagues’ good-humored tolerance when my kids stuck their faces into zoom meetings or interrupted telephone conferences. I was finally in a good place; why change?

Then, one day, I logged into work a little early, and an email popped up in my Outlook folder. A partner from another office was circulating an opportunity to apply for a position as a labor and employment counsel in the legal department of a west coast-based tech company. The position was located at the company’s headquarters, all the way across the country, but “for the right candidate” they were open to allowing an east coast office, including in the D.C. area. I gulped, took a deep breath, and emailed him, simply: “Can I call you?”

He was free at 8:00, so I nervously dialed his cell and told him I was interested. We talked about the position and about my goal. (And I remembered a piece of advice I’ve given to dozens of junior lawyers over the years: most people genuinely want to help you, but they don’t know that you need something unless you tell them.) I submitted my application, and he recommended me to the team. Days later, I had an interview request.

As I often do, I overthought everything about the interview. On the phone with a friend who had joined another business line under the same corporate umbrella almost two years ago, I fretted aloud, “Is this a real interview, or are they just talking to me out of courtesy to R?” (She assured me that it was a real interview: “They don’t do courtesy interviews. They’re too busy for that.”) I spent hours on the phone with the same friend, and with my devoted BFF, Rebecca – also a lawyer – running through interview scenarios and processing wild mood swings in which I alternated between elation (“I think it’s my turn!”) and despondency (“It’s NEVER going to happen for me!”). After a whirlwind, and exhausting, two rounds of interviews – I got the job.

After confirming that they were still willing to let me work from D.C. – and that I wouldn’t have to move to the west coast, as cool of an adventure as that would’ve been – I accepted right away, and then spent the next week freaking out at the prospect of leaving a place where I’m happy and comfortable and walking into a complete unknown. (The last two times I’ve changed jobs, I was unhappy – for different reasons – with my work situation and needed a change. That wasn’t the case this time.) My soon-to-be new teammates seemed great, but what if they were just on their best behavior? What if they wanted me to work on Pacific time, even though I was on the east coast? Worse – what if I am terrible at the job? (The night after I accepted, I had a nightmare that I was placed on a performance improvement plan the very first day.)

I called the recruiter, whom I’d already peppered with logistical questions. “I just have one more question,” I said nervously. “Can you tell me about the team culture?” She gushed that the team I’m joining is great – one of her favorites. Twenty minutes later, my soon-to-be immediate boss was calling. Over forty-five minutes, she assured me that there was no expectation that I’d work on Pacific time (in fact, she liked that I was on Eastern time, since we’d cover more hours of the day) and that she didn’t expect to see me online at the end of her workday in California; that most of the group has young children and totally get it; that everyone was delighted I’d accepted; and that she was going to connect me with another teammate who had recently made the jump from a law firm and could tell me all about it. A few days later, I spent an hour on the phone with that soon-to-be colleague, who raved about the team and in-house life. “It’s such a freaking jackpot of a job,” she enthused. “You’re gonna love it!” There was no doubting her sincerity – and I finally pushed aside the last of my worries and embraced the change. “When are you coming?” she asked. I told her. “That’s soon! YAY!”

It’s scary to stand on a professional precipice. It’s scary to walk away from a place where you’re happy and where you feel valued. (When I broke the news to my current colleagues, reactions were extremely mixed – “SO happy for you, but UGH we’re going to miss you so much!”) It’s a leap of faith to pick up the phone and tell someone at your current place of employment that you’re thinking of leaving. What if they tell your boss, and you get fired for “not being a team player”? (I emailed the partner who had recommended me, to tell him I’d received and accepted an offer. He called, elated, and I thanked him for everything he did for me. “I did nothing,” he replied. “You got that job all by yourself. All I did was refer you. Believe me, they get boatloads of referrals from lots of people. You landed it on your own, and these jobs are not easy to get.”)

And then there’s the job itself. It’s in my specialty, so I am confident that I’m on solid ground substantively. But the technical skill set is very different. I’m expecting a steep learning curve, and my friends who are in house already have told me it takes about a year to get comfortable with the role. But I’m finally pushing those worries aside. I chased this goal for ten years for a reason. This job will give me the chance to do more of what I really enjoy (counseling managers, compliance training, high-level litigation strategy) and – as I said in the interviews – be a true business partner instead of just parachuting in, reacting to a problem, and then disappearing. It’s a good, if nerve-wracking, change. I will have to call upon a lot of bravery, but it finally is my turn.

Have you ever made a professional change? Any advice for me?