Earlier this year, I was at a legal forum in Medellín, Colombia. I had flown in to speak on a panel about business immigration, and my firm had a booth at the event.

As the session ended and people started mingling, I noticed you walking toward me. You hesitated for a moment, studying me closely. Then, when you got close enough, you leaned in and whispered:

“Do you have alopecia?”

For a split second, I panicked. I reached up and instinctively touched the front of my wig, making sure it hadn’t slipped. Then I smiled nervously and said, “Yes… how did you know?”

You told me you noticed my eyebrows were drawn on with makeup, that I had no eyelashes, and that you could tell because — in your words — “I always stare at eyebrows and eyelashes. I fixate on what I lack.”

Then you confessed, quietly, that you also have alopecia. You told me you have never left your house without your wig, that you were terrified and embarrassed for anyone to find out. You said you admired my confidence — that you wished you could be as strong as the woman you saw standing in front of you.

So, I pulled up my Instagram and showed you photos of myself bald. Completely bald. On stage, on TV, at events. And I told you: I wasn’t always like this.

And I did this for a very important reason. The same reason I’m writing this piece.

I Once Stood Exactly Where You Are

Back in 2008, my world collapsed. My husband — who I’d met in law school — left me suddenly for another woman. I had just started my “dream job” at the largest immigration law firm in the world. I had finally made it to where I thought I was supposed to be.

But within weeks, the stress and heartbreak triggered my alopecia areata to flare with a vengeance. What had once been small, manageable patches quickly turned into total hair loss. Then my eyebrows. Then my eyelashes.

I was devastated. I was newly single, terrified, and watching pieces of my identity literally fall away. I cried every day in my car. I lost so much weight I barely recognized myself. And I still remember one dark morning, driving to work, thinking — What if I just drove into that wall? Who would even care?

But I kept going. I kept pretending. I wore a wig, drew on my eyebrows, tried (and failed repeatedly) to glue on false lashes, and tried to hold it all together. Until my firm told me, “You’re not the person we hired.”

And they were right. I wasn’t. I was lost, heartbroken, single, bald — and now, unemployed.

For years, I told people I left that job by choice to start my own firm. But the truth is, I was fired. I was embarrassed to admit it, even to myself.

Losing Everything, Finding Myself

At my sister’s urging, I went to a personal development program called the Landmark Forum. I didn’t know what to expect, but I was desperate. That weekend, I learned how to let go — how to forgive my ex-husband, how to forgive myself, and how to start again.

So, I did.

I started my own law firm — NERO Immigration Law — as a temporary lifeline while I “figured things out.” That was nearly 17 years ago.

Around that same time, I met a photographer who helped me see myself differently. He took stunning photos of me bald, and we dated for a few months. When I saw the pictures, I was shocked — they were beautiful. I was beautiful. Strong. Sexy. Whole.

That was the day I decided to stop hiding. I changed my Facebook profile photo to one of those bald shots and wrote a post telling the world I had alopecia areata. My heart pounded as I hit “publish.”

But what came back wasn’t judgment — it was love. Support. Connection. (Except for the one friend I hadn't seen since 5th grade who just posted "but why are you bald?") Cue the eye rolling…there is always one!

That’s when I began my journey with the National Alopecia Areata Foundation (NAAF) — speaking, fundraising, advocating, and connecting with others who understood what it meant to be visibly different in a world that prizes conformity.

And little by little, I began to heal.

Two Worlds, One Advocate

Now, all these years later, I find myself living in two worlds: The world of immigration law, where I advocate for my clients — companies, investors, families — helping them navigate complex systems to find a way forward. And the world of alopecia advocacy, where I speak up for visibility, acceptance, innovation, and understanding.

The common thread? Advocacy.

Whether I’m helping a client achieve the American Dream or fighting for greater awareness of alopecia areata, I’m doing the same thing: using my voice for people who feel voiceless.

But I won’t pretend it’s always easy. Even now, I sometimes wrestle with whether or not to wear my wig when meeting clients or attending professional events. I wonder if I don't, will they think I’m sick, or incapable, or be distracted? The legal profession is still a largely conservative space. It’s dominated by polished appearances and unwritten rules about how we “should” look.

There’s pressure to perform — to appear “put together,” confident, composed. Vulnerability isn’t exactly rewarded in law.

But here’s what I’ve learned: If the stuffy legal profession full of mostly white-haired men can’t handle my authenticity, that’s their problem, not mine.

To You, My Fellow Bald Attorney

You told me you couldn’t imagine leaving your house without your wig. I told you I once felt the same way. I understand that fear — the tightness in your chest at the thought of being “found out,” the dread of someone noticing, the exhaustion of pretending. Denying my hair is a wig while claiming to have a "really great hairdresser."

You’re standing today where I once stood — uncomfortable in your own skin, convinced that if anyone saw the “real you,” they’d think less of you.

But here’s the truth: you are already enough.

It will take time, and support, and grace with yourself. You don’t need to go bald on social media tomorrow or make any grand statements. Just start by being kind to yourself. Allow yourself to exist fully, even privately, without shame.

And when you’re ready — and you will be — you’ll find freedom in no longer hiding.

Still Learning

Even now, I don’t always feel like I am getting it right. There are days I proudly go out bald into the world. And there are days I reach for my wig because it feels easier. I no longer see that as weakness. It’s simply part of being human.

We don’t have to be perfect to be authentic. We just have to be honest.

So, to you — the younger attorney in Medellín, the woman staring at eyebrows because you fixate on what you lack — please know that what you have is strength, compassion, and courage you haven’t even tapped into yet.

And one day, maybe you’ll stand on a stage or write your own article and tell another woman:

“I know what you’re going through. I was you once.”

Owning the Story — and Expanding the Mission

I used to think I was only an advocate for two groups: immigrants and people with alopecia. But over time, I realized there’s a third group I advocate for every day — my peers.

Fellow lawyers, colleagues, and professionals who need to know that it’s okay to be human. That perfection isn’t the price of admission to this profession.

By showing up authentically — bald, emotional, imperfect, real — I give silent permission for others to do the same. Maybe that’s how I make it okay for them: not through speeches or slogans, but by being the example.

And here’s what I’ve found — authenticity isn’t just healing; it’s powerful leadership. When I lead my firm and my team from a place of honesty and vulnerability, my relationships deepen. My clients trust me more. My business grows stronger. My team feels safe to bring their full selves to work, too.

Because people — whether clients, colleagues, or strangers — don’t connect to perfection. They connect to humanity.

In a profession that often rewards the mask over the truth, choosing authenticity is an act of quiet rebellion. It’s also how we move the legal industry forward — by making space for empathy, diversity, and real connection.

We can all relate to living in a world where being human, proudly, with all our imperfections, isn’t a weakness — it’s what moves people. It’s what inspires people.

I used to think that losing everything — my marriage, my job, my hair — was the worst thing that could happen to me. Now I see that it’s what made me who I am.

Seventeen years later, I’m still standing, still bald, still advocating — in immigration law, in alopecia awareness, and in reminding my peers that we can lead with grace, strength, and humanity.  Not to mention married to another lawyer, who loves me without hair, who encourages me every day to ditch the wig once and for all, but who gives me the space to decide if and when I will.

Because at the end of the day, I am an advocate. For immigrants. For people with alopecia. And for every professional learning to show up as their whole, imperfect, authentic self.

You don’t have to be two people. You can be both professional and human. You can lead with grace and still be vulnerable. You can take the wig off — when you’re ready — and still be every bit the lawyer, the leader, the woman you were meant to be.