That Was the Plan I Had for My Life, or So I Thought.
There was a time in my life when I could see it all so clearly. I would become an attorney, build a successful legal career, and eventually take my place on the bench as a judge. I had mapped out my future with the kind of certainty that only a young woman with big dreams could possess.
Or so I thought.
If you could define a person who would read every law book, magazine, article, and legal resource relating to civil rights, constitutional law, and the American justice system, that person was me.
I was fascinated by the law. I studied it, questioned it, challenged it, and imagined myself one day standing in a courtroom, fighting for those whose voices had been silenced.
I can remember holding court in my house as a teenager. If there was a case on television, I was taking notes, writing down names, following the proceedings, and forming my own conclusions. I wasn't simply watching the news; I was studying the administration of justice.
I had an opinion about everything, and I wasn't afraid to express it.
Perhaps the most memorable case of my early years was the O.J. Simpson trial in 1995. I remember those days vividly, working at Phoenix Accounting on Chicago's West Side, following one of the most widely publicized criminal trials in American history.
I was captivated by the evidence, the arguments, the attorneys, the jury, and the profound questions the case raised about race, policing, reasonable doubt, and the American justice system.
Even then, I understood that the law was about more than statutes and courtroom procedures. It was about people. Their lives. Their freedoms. Their futures.
I had everything planned, from my custom suits to my legal team and the staff I envisioned surrounding me. I could practically see the courtroom doors opening.
But life has a way of taking us down roads we never anticipated.
And sometimes, the calling we thought we were preparing for finds us in a completely different way.
When Advocacy Becomes Personal
Today, I challenged myself in a way I never expected.
I began advocating for a woman I have never met. I don't know her personally, but when I heard her story, something inside me broke.
I gasped for breath. I clutched my chest. And I began crying uncontrollably.
The words that came out of my mouth were simple:
"She is me."
Before I could even gather myself, I prayed. It was one of those prayers that comes from somewhere deeper than the heart, spoken as quickly as my spirit could form the words.
I am certain I surprised everyone, from my White House Group to my Media Team. I haven't sent an email in weeks, and suddenly, here I was, stepping back into a space that I had seemingly walked away from.
But some stories won't allow you to remain silent.
Some injustices demand that you stand up, even when standing up hurts.
And some people become a reflection of everything you have survived, everything you have endured, and everything you know about the fragility of human life.
Justice Without Mercy Is Not Justice
What troubles me most is the thought of a woman being subjected to what I can only describe as cruel, unusual, and inhumane punishment.
A woman who was herself shaped by an environment that failed her.
A woman whose circumstances deserve to be examined with compassion, humanity, and a full understanding of the experiences that brought her before the justice system.
How do we reconcile the pursuit of justice with the possibility that we are perpetuating another cycle of suffering?
How do we justify the public torture of a human being while claiming to uphold the principles of a civilized society?
There are violent criminals walking our streets today who have committed horrific acts and yet were afforded opportunities for mercy, rehabilitation, and another chance at life.
So I find myself asking: What does mercy look like when the person standing before us is a woman whose own life has been marked by trauma?
What does justice mean when compassion is removed from the equation?
And what responsibility do we have to examine the circumstances surrounding a person's actions rather than simply condemning the person herself?
These are not questions I ask lightly. They are questions that deserve serious consideration, particularly when a human life hangs in the balance.
When God Says No
I have always believed that when man makes a decision that is contrary to God's will, the outcome is never beyond God's authority.
Man may hold the courtroom. Man may write the judgment. Man may determine the sentence.
But man does not hold the final authority over life.
I am not pretending to understand the divine purpose behind every tragedy, every injustice, or every unanswered prayer. I don't know why some people are spared while others are not. I don't know why suffering falls upon one person and not another.
What I do know is that I have witnessed the power of God in my own life.
There have been people who planned my death. There have been moments when I should not have survived. There have been circumstances that could have ended my story long before today.
And yet, here I am.
Because God said NO.
I cannot tell you how many times I have missed death, how many times I have been brought to the edge of something I could not have survived on my own, or how many times I have had to gather the pieces of myself and keep moving.
But I am still here.
And perhaps that is why this woman's story has affected me so profoundly. I know what it feels like to have your life reduced to the decisions of other people. I know what it means to face circumstances that seem impossible to overcome.
I know what it means to need mercy.
Women Give Life
There is something about this situation that continues to weigh heavily on my spirit.
Women give life.
We nurture. We endure. We survive. We carry burdens that the world may never see. We are often expected to rise above circumstances that would break others, all while maintaining the appearance of strength.
And yet, when a woman finds herself in the darkest chapter of her life, where is the compassion?
Where is the recognition that she, too, is human?
Where is the acknowledgment that the conditions surrounding a person's life can profoundly shape the choices they make?
I am not a member of this woman's jury. I am not her attorney. I do not possess every piece of evidence in her case.
But I am a woman who believes that every human being deserves a fair examination of the facts, meaningful consideration of mitigating circumstances, and the opportunity to be heard.
I have questions about her guilt, and I cannot bring myself to dismiss them. I believe those questions deserve answers grounded in evidence, not assumptions.
And if there is an opportunity for mercy, I pray that those entrusted with the power to grant it will consider the full humanity of the person before them.
The Calling Never Left
Perhaps I was never meant to wear the custom suits I once envisioned.
Perhaps I was never meant to sit behind the bench and issue judgments.
Perhaps my purpose was never about the title of attorney or judge.
Maybe it was always about advocacy.
Maybe the courtroom I imagined as a teenager was simply a metaphor for the battles I would one day fight outside its walls.
I don't know what the message is in all of this. I only know that something compelled me to speak, to pray, and to stand up for a woman whose story has touched a place in me that words cannot fully explain.
And if my voice can bring attention to a cause that might otherwise go unheard, then I will use it.
Not because I have all the answers.
Not because I believe I am above the law.
But because I believe that justice and mercy must never become strangers to one another.
To the woman whose story brought me to my knees: I pray for you.
I pray for truth. I pray for justice. I pray for mercy. I pray that every person entrusted with a decision about your future remembers that you are a human being, not merely a case number.
And I pray that whatever happens, you know that someone, somewhere, heard your story and cared enough to speak.
Because I know what it means to have people plan your ending.
I know what it means to have the world believe your story is over.
But God had another plan for me.
And until God takes me home, I am here.
I am still here.
Amen.
