It started with a simple, stubborn belief: lawyers are not broken.
They are not villains.
They are human, beautifully and achingly human, and their work matters more than the world often dares to admit.

At a time when suicide rates were climbing and the culture seemed eager to tear them down, I wanted to build something that said the opposite.

I wanted to say: You are needed. You are worthy. Your humanity is not a flaw. It is your strength.

That dream became Lawful Good, a podcast unlike anything else in the legal industry.

We asked for two-hour interviews when the norm was thirty or forty minutes.

We lifted up voices across race, age, gender, income, and journey—from those who grew up in foster care to those who built empires.

We sponsored events for marginalized groups.
We spoke on stages.
We created a space where lawyers could be seen not for what they produce, but for who they are.

Lawful Good was never a chart-topper. It was something quieter and deeper. It became known as the best podcast in the legal space, not because of numbers, but because of how it made people feel. It helped them believe again, both in themselves and in the power of their work.

There are memories from those days that stay etched into me.

Editing interviews on my phone while floating down a river with my family, determined to get the stories into the world.

Sitting in Chris Seeger’s conference room, asking a question so unexpected and tender that he paused, smiled, and said, “Only one or two people in my life know that story.” In that silence, trust was born.

And the conversation with John Morgan—when I asked him about his memories with his mother. He shared a complexity most interviews never touch: the grief of wondering what hurts more, to never know a mother’s love at all, or to know it and then lose it. It was raw and real and unforgettable.

Lawful Good gave me credibility in a space that is notoriously hard to earn trust in. It opened doors to some of the most influential attorneys in the country—people who became clients, collaborators, and champions of my work.

It made me recognizable not because I pushed myself into spaces, but because people invited me in.

This project is where I became known for human-centered legal storytelling.
It was the foundation that allowed me to move from traditional marketing into real movement-building.

And it’s one of the key reasons I now have access to rooms, relationships, and results that most marketers can’t touch.