Commencement Overview

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!