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I want to have my cake and eat it too. More than that, I want to make the cake, admire it, slice it perfectly, and also quietly savor every morsel.
Lawyers are notoriously want-it-all people. Even as end-of-the year deadlines loom, we yearn to spend time doing the things we love.
My cake, ideally, is a yule log: chocolate sponge rolled around tart raspberry curd and whipped cream, finished with a thick ganache and a whisper of powdered sugar.
Christmas jazz plays while I bake. Mulled wine warms my mug and insides alike. The house smells like chocolate and competence. I cut the cake on a diagonal, revealing the perfect swirl, a ribbon of dark red—proof that I have achieved balance and seasonal magic. I have made my cake. I have eaten it.
This is not, however, what December looks like.
What actually happens is that by night’s end I can barely hold my head up, so no baking occurs. I’m also out of cocoa powder, which feels symbolic. I lie awake anyway, my mind pinballing between a brief that needs finalizing, a colonial history test my daughter needs help studying for, and considering whether Amazon can still save Christmas.
Eventually, I migrate to the couch and turn on “The Great British Baking Show,” falling asleep sometime after the biscuits are out of the oven but before anything is frosted. My couch is three and a half steps from my kitchen island—so close to baking, yet impossibly far.
The next night, dinner materializes in Culver’s parking lot: devil’s food cake folded into chocolate ice cream, because this is the chocolate cake actually available to me in December. I eat it in my minivan, trying to summon gratitude. I’ve read the book. I have the app. So, what’s my deal?
There are times during the year when I can maintain the pleasant illusion of control. December offers no such mercy.
Lawyers often live with mental and emotional reserves equivalent to living paycheck to paycheck. December serves up expenses that cannot be reconciled. Hours must be billed. Reviews submitted. Clients want year-end reporting. Everything feels urgent. Everything insists it matters most.
Meanwhile, my brain is expected to retain facts about Roanoke Island, divide fractions (why is this harder now?), parse distinctions in indemnity provisions, and help my son find E-flat on the clarinet.
Eventually, I “crash out,” as the kids call it (I hate when they’re right). The real equation isn’t fractions—it’s how many hours are left in the year and how much focus you can coax from someone who’s already running on crumbs.
December is also when I realize, with total clarity, that I cannot have it all.
I can’t be the mom with homemade cookies and the perfect Christmas breakfast. I can’t volunteer at the class party while managing finals and year-end deadlines. I haven’t invited my friends over for a drink. The Advent wreath is forgotten. Even pulling off a pair of nylons without a run feels ambitious. The holidays expose how delicately life is balanced—and how easily it tips.
If you’re glowing with holiday magic, this article is not for you. Fold it up (the paper copies, that is) and use it to light a cozy fire in your well-appointed hearth.
For the rest of us, take heart: December is not the recipe for having it all. It’s only one month out of twelve. May you find whatever balance you can. Stay upright. Sorry about the holiday cards. And I’ll see you in January—when the oven will be waiting.•
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Kayla Goodfellow is of counsel in the Indianapolis office of Ice Miller and serves on the DTCI Board of Directors. The opinions expressed are those of the author.
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