WHY

Justice Lives in the Gut

In Lisbon, I chased a man down a cobblestone street after watching him steal a girl’s purse.

I saw him before he moved. Something in the way he lingered—too casual, too close—sent a signal. My gut noticed what my mind hadn’t yet named. And when he made his move, I made mine. I ran.

What followed was a blur: narrow alleys, uneven stones, strangers gasping as we passed. I caught him. Recovered the purse. Returned it to a girl who had already accepted its loss. She cried. I exhaled.

That moment wasn’t about being fearless. It was about being awake. About paying attention when it would have been easier to look away. About acting—when the only thing telling me to act was instinct.

This is, in many ways, what it means to be a lawyer.

We imagine justice in marble buildings and courtroom dramas, but it starts much smaller. It starts with noticing. It starts with choosing not to walk past something that doesn’t sit right. And it continues when we decide to do something about it—whether or not anyone else does.

Access to justice, to me, isn’t just a legal principle—it’s a moral one. It's not about grand gestures; it's about everyday courage. It’s about a grandmother who’s never written a Will because she thought she couldn’t afford one. A tenant signing a lease she doesn’t understand. A parent afraid to speak up in a system that doesn’t speak their language.

Malcolm Gladwell wrote in Outliers that success is often less about ability and more about access. About the doors that open—or don’t. And the same holds true for justice.

The Charter of Rights and Freedoms promises equality before the law. But promises mean little if they don’t reach the people who need them. That’s why I do this work—not to perform the law, but to translate it. To bring it down from the rafters and into real life.

Harold R. Johnson, a man who carried law and ceremony in the same breath, once said:

“Justice should be a process that heals.”

And I believe that. Not because justice is easy, but because it’s human. Messy, necessary, unfinished. It’s the work of reconciliation. Of restoring trust where harm has lived. Of making systems fit the people they claim to serve.

So I practice law the way I ran that day in Lisbon—with attention, instinct, and the willingness to act even when it’s uncomfortable. Especially then.

Because justice doesn’t always roar. Sometimes, it whispers: This isn’t right.

And if you're listening closely, you’ll know when it’s time to move.