As a fledgling attorney in 1972, I watched a woman walk into a San Francisco courtroom alone to obtain an uncontested divorce. I had no idea that day would forever alter how I viewed our legal system—or, for that matter, how I would end up practicing law, serving on the bench, and later mediating disputes. But it did.

Back then, California law required divorcing couples to appear in court in person to finalize a judgment of dissolution. They had to testify under oath that they met the state’s residency requirements and that their marriage had broken down due to “irreconcilable differences.” This was the tail end of the era when divorce was still somewhat shrouded in formality and awkwardness, despite the emergence of “no-fault” divorce statutes.

That day, I was in court with a client to finalize his own uncontested divorce. We were on the calendar, waiting patiently in a packed courtroom with that odd blend of anticipation and tedium that only morning call can produce. The case called before ours involved a woman representing herself. She looked prepared—or at least hopeful—as she walked briskly to the witness stand.

She sat down as instructed and dutifully swore to tell the truth. And then… silence.
The judge swiveled his chair around to face the rear of the courtroom and began to stare longingly at the door to his chambers. The silence grew heavier. The woman looked around in quiet panic. Finally, she burst into tears and admitted she had no idea what to do next. Still nothing from the bench.

At that point, something pushed me out of my seat—some mix of indignation, compassion, and perhaps just youthful idealism. I asked the judge whether, if the unrepresented woman agreed, I could ask her the standard boilerplate questions needed to move the case along. He didn’t object, though his reply was less than enthusiastic: “It’s OK with me if you want to stick your neck out.”

This was likely a nod to the specter of malpractice liability, or perhaps just an old-school jab at younger lawyers taking unnecessary risks. I told him I’d take the risk. The woman, visibly relieved, nodded her agreement. I gently asked her the routine questions. Ninety seconds later, her judgment was granted.

She walked out of the courtroom with her divorce finalized—and, I hope, with her dignity somewhat intact.

What stayed with me wasn’t just the moment itself, but everything around it. At no point did the judge ever make eye contact with her. It wasn’t hostility. It was more like total disengagement—a lack of emotional vocabulary for how to deal with a pro se litigant.

I would see that judge many more times over the years. We had a cordial enough relationship. He once referred me to his cousin for a family law matter in Marin. He was, in fact, a nice man by most measures. But that day, it was clear that “nice” didn’t mean “equipped.” He simply had no idea how to deal with someone who didn’t have a lawyer.

And that was the day I realized something crucial: the legal system isn’t just about laws and rules—it’s about access. It’s about who knows how to navigate the system and who gets left behind. That courtroom moment became a touchstone for how I approached the law, not just as an attorney, but eventually as a judge, and now, in my third act, as a mediator.
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From the Bench to Self-Help

When I was appointed to the bench in 1999, I brought that courtroom memory with me. It was already clear, even back then, that the number of self-represented litigants was growing rapidly—particularly in family law. From my earlier work with the Family and Children’s Law Center, I’d seen the trend from the trenches. But as a judge, I now had a bird’s eye view of the system—and its increasingly creaky joints.

Our court, like many others, was operating under an outdated premise: that nearly everyone who came through its doors had legal representation. That might have been a reasonable assumption in 1965. It was laughably off-base by 2000. People were showing up in greater numbers, alone, confused, and anxious, trying to navigate a legal maze with no map.

Some were simply unable to afford legal help. Others had grown wary of lawyers (yes, it happens). Still others believed, often with misplaced optimism, that they could handle things themselves thanks to the internet and a few downloadable forms.

And so, in 2003, the Legal Self-Help Center of Marin was born.

Our aim wasn’t to replace lawyers, but to meet people where they were—offering information, tools, and a little dignity for those who had no choice but to represent themselves. We wanted to offer a flashlight and a trailhead sign to people who had been walking into the forest blind.

The effort was met with all the reactions you might expect: enthusiastic support, cautious curiosity, and a few raised eyebrows from colleagues who feared it was the first step toward eroding the profession. It wasn’t. It was a safety valve for a system already bursting at the seams.
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A Bit of Historical Company

One of my unlikely heroes is Mrs. Georgina Weldon—a name unfamiliar to most, unless you’ve stumbled across her Wikipedia page or happen to have a fondness for 19th-century English legal history.

Weldon was a self-represented litigant who famously took on multiple legal battles in the 1870s without the benefit of legal counsel. She sued her estranged husband, members of the medical establishment, and various other parties who underestimated her tenacity. Was she eccentric? Absolutely. But also fierce, focused, and decades ahead of her time.

I like to imagine her in a Victorian courtroom, flanked by scowling barristers, holding her own without a wig or a title. She would’ve fit right in with some of the self-represented litigants I’ve seen—armed not with legal training, but with moral conviction, a stack of highlighted paperwork, and three copies of everything.
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Access, Dignity, and Humor

Even today, courthouse doors may be technically open, but the rooms inside are often functionally inaccessible. We say “equal justice under law,” but too often it feels like one side has a compass and the other side has a blindfold.

For many self-represented litigants, it's not the law that’s intimidating—it’s the process. It's the unwritten rules, the silent expectations, the way everyone else seems to know what to do except them. As legal professionals, we sometimes forget how alienating our world can be. We speak a language that isn’t taught in most schools. We wear robes. We rise and say things like “may it please the court” with straight faces.

And yet, access to justice isn’t just about outcome—it’s about the experience of being heard, seen, and respected.

I've learned over time that a little kindness goes a long way. Humor helps too. I’ve had self-represented litigants inadvertently address me by my first name. These aren’t moments of disrespect. They’re moments of disorientation.

A warm tone, a plain-English explanation, and a little patience can restore balance in a system that too often feels lopsided.
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Full Circle

Today, I spend much of my time as a mediator, trying to help people find solutions outside of court. The courtroom still matters, of course. But for many people—especially those representing themselves—it remains an intimidating last resort.
That moment in 1972 still sticks with me. The image of the woman crying on the witness stand, the judge staring at the door, and the thick silence that hung in the air like fog in the Bay. What she needed that day wasn’t a miracle. She needed someone to look at her, talk to her, and guide her through a process that felt foreign and cruel.

I happened to be the one to do it, not because I was brave or brilliant, but because I couldn’t stomach the silence.

And as it turns out, that willingness to “stick your neck out” became a theme that followed me through my career. It led me to push for court innovation, to champion self-help centers, and to see the law not just as a profession—but as a public service.

So, to my fellow lawyers reading this: let’s keep sticking our necks out when it counts. You never know whose day, or career, you might change in 90 seconds flat.