Thank you, Patricia, for the generous
introduction—and Dean Abril, for the warm
invitation. To President Echevarria, trustees, and
faculty: Thank you for your leadership of this great
institution. To all the moms out there, especially
my wife Maria: Happy early Mother’s Day. And,
most importantly, to the University of Miami
School of Law Class of 2025: Congratulations!
Graduates, when I look out at each of you, I feel a
real connection—and that’s because of something
I know we share, a genuine attachment to this
special community.
For the past few years, I’ve come down from
Delray to teach in Marc Trestman and Greg Levy’s
class on leadership. As they can attest, each
year I’ve made it a point to arrive earlier and stay
longer, to soak in the camaraderie on the Bricks
and later over a few beers at the Rat.
It’s been inspiring to witness you bantering at those
round tables, tussling over ideas with faculty. And
what’s been most inspiring is how you do this, all
in the spirit of striving together, pushing one
another, taking pride in each other’s success.
So, once more, Class of 2025, I congratulate you
and I celebrate you. I celebrate your dedication
and discipline that brought you to this special
day—and your decision to join this noble
profession, the law, especially now.
That said, have one message for you: Do not strive to
be just a lawyer, not even a great lawyer. Instead,
strive to become a great leader who practices
law. I offer this to you as the most principled and
practical advice I can give, informed by my own
journey in and around the legal arena.
Believe it or not, my entrepreneurial journey
began with a buddy and a bucket of soap,
washing Lionel Richie’s cars. Back then, I was an
undistinguished student; turns out, I struggled
with dyslexia.
A few days before the start of college, I wrote
UCLA a hardship letter. I explained that I needed
to pay for college—that the only way I could do
that was by staying in Los Angeles, so that I could
continue washing Lionel Richie’s cars. Since
UCLA already admitted my car-detailing partner,
I respectfully requested that they admit me too.
And, amazingly, they did, provided I enroll in
Remedial English.
Because I was accepted so late, there was literally
only one open class left, Moral Philosophy, a
course so undersubscribed that it was a test of
moral courage itself to enroll in it. But I fell in love
with philosophy.
With the encouragement of caring professors,
philosophy helped me overcome dyslexia.
Philosophy transformed my seeming curse
into a blessing by rewarding me for the careful
consideration of just one idea. It armed me with
the three most important tools in a lawyer’s
toolkit: Clarity, clarity, and more clarity.
Fast forward through law school, I was at a big
firm, O’Melveny & Myers. I had great reverence for
the law. But as I toiled away, billing by the hour
on topics about which I knew little, I began to
think about disrupting the business of law with a
company that would democratize legal knowledge
by offering fixed-priced research through a
network of legal experts.
Seven days after we opened our doors, the Wall
Street Journal ran a front-page story calling my idea
“revolutionary.” They thought our 800
number—1-800-LAW-MEMO—was pretty clever, so
they included it, and we received 3,000 phone calls.
Then, The America Lawyer magazine jumped in
with a profile describing me as a “brash rookie
lawyer with a persuasive spiel, elbowing his way
and peppering his speech with buzz words.”
They titled the story “Should You Be Afraid of
This Man?” and mocked my double-breasted
houndstooth suit and butterscotch shoes—not
exactly the ideal introduction to a conservative
profession.
We didn’t hit our revenue targets once in our first
six years, but I persisted. I’ll spare you the full
roller-coaster ride—except to say, I kept going
because I found myself in the grip of one idea that
would define my life’s philosophy and guide my
entire career.
In a word, how.
Not “how” as in “how’s it going, buddy?” Or, “how
many hours did you bill?” I mean the noun—as in,
how matters, because how you do anything means
everything.
Or, as Justice Potter Stewart put it: “There’s a
difference between doing that which one has a
right to do and that which is right to do.” In other
words, there’s a critical distinction between what
you can do and what you should do.
For decades, through my company and institute,
my colleagues and I have helped leaders to get
their how right—to build winning cultures that
inspire people to go beyond what they can do and
focus on what they should do.
I feel blessed—honored—to be standing here,
33 years after I graduated from law school, and
on this first day of your own journeys as legal
professionals.
And I’ve learned two things about professional
journeys that I think may apply to you:
First, journeys are paradoxical. Like happiness,
if you pursue professional success directly, it
will, today, increasingly elude you. But when
you pursue significance—by passionately serving
others—success tends to find you. There’s a
profound difference between doing something
in order to succeed and doing something
and succeeding.
The second thing I’ve learned is that professional
journeys, like life, are curvilinear. They, too, go up
and down. There was once a time when you could
land that perfect first job, put your head down,
work hard, and climb straight to partner. Not
anymore. Linearity is over.
In my own career, I had to get good at going up
and down every ten years. You’ll have to get good
at going up and down every ten minutes, every ten
tweets, every ten tariffs. But that’s okay—because
smooth seas have never made great sailors, and the
same is true for great leaders.
Now, leadership isn’t just about responding to the
headlines in our turbulent world. It’s even more so
about making sense of the underlying trendlines
and forging a purposeful path ahead.
I’d be remiss to not at least acknowledge that law
firms are in the headlines, caught between their
oath to the rule of law, client interests, and political
dynamics that test the boundaries of our legal
system. I’d also be remiss if I did not acknowledge
that the world is coming at us fast—and artificial
intelligence even faster.
So, here’s the most counterintuitive thing I’ll say
to you today: The faster the world gets, the more
that comes at you, the more digitally assaulted and
FOMO you might feel, the more important it is
to pause.
You see, when you hit the pause button on a
machine, it stops. But when we as humans pause,
we begin. In the pause, we reflect. We reconnect
with our values. We rethink assumptions. And we
then reimagine better approaches. So, I’d like to
pause for a moment and reflect with you.
There are three powerful trendlines profoundly
reshaping our world—and each one points to why
I urge you to become a leader in the law.
First, we’ve gone from interconnected to
interdependent. If the pandemic taught us
anything, it’s that we rise and fall together.
Interdependence isn’t a choice. It’s a condition. Our
only choice is to create healthy interdependence
sin our relationships, so we rise together.
This leads to the second trendline. The
philosopher David Hume said that our moral
imagination diminishes with distance. So, as
distance decreases, our moral imagination increases.
We now live in a zero-distance world. With one
click, we feel the dreams, plights, and behaviors of
people oceans away—viscerally—on tiny screens
in our hands.
I get it, we all want to stand out. My generation
did it through conspicuous consumption: work hard,
buy a Ferrari. Your generation does it through
conspicuous expression: become a TikTok
influencer, build a movement, go viral with your voice.
In our zero-distance world of conspicuous
expression our only good choice is to initiate
conversations that build common ground, even
amid disagreement, and to stand out with a
constructive voice.
And, if all of this weren’t challenging enough,
you’ll be making these choices during a once-in-
500-year revolution. Trendline number three.
A few centuries ago, the Enlightenment ushered
in the Age of Reason, the scientific method, modern democracy, capitalism—the radical idea that every individual has rights, even the right to
pursue happiness. We decided that what made us
uniquely human was our intelligence. Descartes
said, “I think, therefore I am.”
Now, AI is forcing us back to the drawing board.
If we no longer have a monopoly on intelligence,
then what does it mean to be human? And in a
world where AI can draft contracts, analyze
cases, even predict rulings, what will it mean to
be a lawyer?
Ask ChatGPT or DeepSeek what they can’t
replace, and they will tell you: Ethical responsibility.
Moral reasoning. Trusted human relationships.
In other words, an algorithm can do the next thing
right, but only a human being can do the next
right thing.
Our interdependent, zero-distance world of
conspicuous expression and artificial intelligence
leads to one inescapable conclusion: While how
has always mattered, it now matters more than
ever, and in ways it never has before.
And all of this brings me to the greatest leadership
challenge of the 21st century: How do we—and
how will you, as lawyers—help us— move from a
world primarily administered by can to a world
more fundamentally inspired by should?
Let me explain.
The world—and especially our country, whose
institutions are defined and legitimatized by law—
would not work without formal authority. Imagine
universities without presidents, companies
without CEOs and general counsel, teams without
coaches, courts without judges. Chaos would
reign. But what makes institutions really work—
and what society needs now more than ever—
is for leaders with moral authority to occupy
positions of formal authority.
Formal authority can be bestowed, seized, or
locked up with supermajority shares. Moral
authority must be earned, by who you are and
how you lead.
Formal authority is about wielding power over
people. The currency of formal authority, therefore, is coercion and motivation. You know,
“the stick,” like the fear of being fired, reminds
people of what they can’t do. “The carrot,” as in
“bill baby bill,” encourages more of what they can do.
Moral authority, on the other hand, is about
generating power through people based
on what they should do. The currency of moral
authority is inspiration. Whereas coercion and
motivation happen to you, some things (like
taking responsibility, caring, courageously
speaking out, and acting honorably and fairly,
however inconvenient or unpopular) can only be
inspired because they happen in you, where our
values (like integrity, truth, and empathy) reside.
In many ways, formal authority is the province
of lawyers. As officers of the court, you’ll hold
greater formal authority than 99 percent of
citizens—and as you grow into legal experts you
will certainly inspire confidence in your capability.
But when you earn moral authority, you will
inspire trust in your character.
This is why you are uniquely positioned to not just
excel at both formal and moral authority, but to
help others navigate the interplay between them.
A virtuous spiral awaits you: Lead with moral
authority, and you’ll be granted formal authority.
Wield it well and more will follow.
Now, moral authority isn’t a status to achieve,
but rather a call you hear. It’s a lifelong journey
you pursue, sharpened by the questions you ask
yourself in each pause along the way.
It was my son, Lev, who reminded me of the inner clarity that comes from asking questions
of yourself. One morning, when he was seven, I
drove off to work without kissing him goodbye.
He called and calmly asked, “Daddy, what kind of
father doesn’t kiss his son goodbye?” He made
it a matter of character, and I now ask myself this
question every day—and others like it—as as I try
to be a good father.
Here’s my version of that question for lawyers:
What kind of lawyer only asks what they can do
and not what they should do? So, I ask you, what
kind of lawyer will you be?
Let me tell you how my friend Rick Boothman
answered that question.
Rick was a trial lawyer who defended malpractice
cases for the University of Michigan Health
System. He deployed the conventional playbook:
“Deny and defend.” He won many cases. But the
more he won, the worse he felt. So, he paused
and reimagined a change. When a doctor made
a mistake, he encouraged them to do something
radical: To apologize.
Some colleagues resisted: “If we apologize,
it’s an admission of guilt. Legal suicide.” But
more doctors embraced it. Apologizing aligned
with their oath to heal. So, Rick persisted, and
together, they transcended the can and reached
for the should.
Ultimately, they sparked a should renaissance in Ann Arbor. Malpractice claims and defense costs dropped by 50 percent. Patient outcomes
improved, as doctors were free to learn from
mistakes and focus on healing, not hiding.
Other hospitals followed. States passed laws
protecting doctor apologies from being used in
court. All because Rick chose to be more than
a great lawyer. He became the conscience of
the organization, a custodian of its values, and a
coach and counselor to his clients. In short, he
became a moral leader in the law.
How do you become a conscience, custodian,
coach, and counselor?
Start by viewing humility not as a weakness, or
something you signify, but as a strength you
embody. This isn’t a conception of lawyering we
often celebrate. What do we call a top-notch
attorney? “Oh, he’s a killer.”
Don’t get me wrong, winning is great, especially
in our adversarial system. But great leaders want
to win big—and they do that by doing the right
things for the right reasons.
When parents tell their kids, “Just say you’re
sorry,” they’re offering a verbal escape route. And
when doctors are told the same, they actually get
sued more because they didn’t mean it.
There’s an adage: Only that which comes from the
heart enters the heart. So, the Michigan doctors
apologized only when they were wrong. When
they were right, they stood on principle and
earned a reputation for integrity so strong that
cases were dropped when they chose to fight.
Doing the hard work of creating this kind of moral
clarity? That takes humility. I’m not suggesting
you think less of yourself, but that you think of
yourself less.
And when you do, your phone won’t ring only
when somebody else determines there’s a legal
issue. It will ring every time there’s an important
issue, because you will be the first person who
comes to mind. In this way, humility can be your
superpower.
The confidence this superpower generates can
springboard you from defense to offense.
Lawyers are often viewed as goalkeepers—there
to keep the company out of trouble. You know,
“Keep the SEC off our backs and we’ll handle the
rest.” That’s important work. But world-class
goalies focus on culture, on how the whole team
plays and keeps the ball on offense.
Early in my career, I was hired to create courses
on the rules of “careful communications.” But I
paused. Telling people to be “careful” is actually
insulting; it treats them, and their words, like
liabilities. So, I reimagined things, and pitched
some general counsel a new approach: “respectful
communications.” We built a course that has
since reached over 50 million employees in over
100 countries.
Here’s what became clear: When you’re
respectful, you’re naturally careful—and you can
simultaneously lean into the world, build trust, and
outbehave the competition, so long as you take
the value of respect with you.
Unlike rules, which keep the ball out of the gutter, values do double-duty. They keep the ball out of the gutter, while guiding it toward the strike.
They don’t just restrain the can’t; they inspire the should.
Another way to outbehave the competition:
Performance-enhancing drugs.
That’s right. You heard me. The best leaders in
the law are drug dealers.
Now, I’m not talking Miami Vice. I’m talking about
the only legal performance-enhancing drug: Trust.
When I extend trust to you, your brain releases
oxytocin, the neurochemical of human connection.
I’m not talking about “trust but verify.” Not even
“trust and verify.” The virtue of trust lies with the
person who thoughtfully gives it away.
Take Domino’s. Many of you probably fueled study
sessions with their pizza. But some years ago,
Domino’s was struggling. So, they did something
bold: They ran ads that said “our pizza sucks” and
posted videos of their executives admitting, “this stuff tastes like cardboard.” Like the Michigan doctors, they trusted people with the truth and
embarked on a journey to get better. Today,
they’re the top-selling pizza chain in our country.
As lawyers, you’ll be paid to write bulletproof
contracts. That’s formal authority. But leadership?
That’s coaching your clients to build the trust that
keeps the contracts in the drawer.
And when it’s decision time, don’t ask “whose
call is it,” emphasizing the formal authority of
decision rights. Instead, trust your colleagues, and
ask “what’s the right call,” drawing on their
moral authority.
If the decision involves justice, counsel that justice
is not a nail to be hammered, but a scale to be
balanced. If it’s efficiency you’re after, coach
them on how to wield a scalpel rather than swing
a wrecking ball. And show them that you can, in
fact, move fast and not break things. When you
do, they will extend trust right back at you.
So, Class of 2025, if I were to pull it all together for you in one sentence—admittedly a long
one—here goes:
Being a great leader in the law means unlocking
the should by embracing humility as a
superpower, going on offense with values, dealing
trust like a legal performance-enhancing drug, and
harmonizing your formal and moral authority by
mixing a powerful cocktail of coercion, motivation,
and inspiration.
Let me give you one final metaphor for what this
kind of leadership looks like in action—something
that happens right here in this very arena.
I’m talking about the wave.
Ocean waves are energy. Stadium waves are
human energy. And it turns out, it only takes 12 to
20 people—spirited students, or soccer moms and
dads—to start a wave.
Think about it. You can’t coerce a wave—“stand up or I’ll punch you”—because you, over there, are safe from my reach. You can’t motivate a wave,
either—“here’s twenty dollars to stand up.” That
would cost around a hundred and sixty grand in
this arena. Pretty steep—and that’s just to stand
up once.
The wave is the ultimate inspired act of
leadership and community. So, let’s start a wave
for our graduates.
Class of 2025: When you get out there, start your
journey with a pause—and in that pause, hear your
call of leadership. Then, find your 12 to 20 people,
and count me as one of them. Help them find
another dozen, and then, strive together, to inspire
waves worth standing for.
I wish you significance—and, in turn, much success.
Congratulations. And go ’Canes!
