I’ve always been fascinated with workplace cultures. People who have seemingly nothing in common, who would not interact outside of the office, discover their similarities in a breakroom. I grew up in Ames, Iowa, surrounded, yes, by cornfields, but also with all the benefits of a college town: an actually functional public transit system, friends whose parents came from as far away as Indonesia to obtain a graduate degree, and hipster coffee shops. I thought this rather idyllic upbringing exposed me to different viewpoints, but it wasn’t until my job at a local movie theater that I got to know the kids who grew up in the small towns outside of mine: the kids who had ‘bring your tractor to school’ days and maybe not-so lovingly referred to my town as the ‘People’s Republic of Ames.’ Over eight-hour weekend shifts, we sold extra buttery popcorn paired with stale candy, fought the never-ending lines that wrapped around the building for every new Marvel movie, and discussed our political beliefs. It was 2016, and tensions were high, but I was learning how to focus on similarities with people I was predisposed to disagree with.

Moving to Washington, D.C. to work full-time at the Howard Institute marked the first time that I lived somewhere other than my hometown. I had consistently held jobs since I was old enough to work, but I had never worked a job like this before, where the institution was older than my grandparents and seemingly everyone hailed from an Ivy League background. In fact, I was told that I should put my education section at the bottom of my resume when applying, “since some D.C. employers might be turned off by an applicant who went to a state school.”

When, six months after starting the job, it was announced we were returning to the office, I was unsure how I would fit in. And yet, my coworkers had all moved during the pandemic and were equally desperate to make friends. Once again embracing the social power of the workplace, I began organizing weekly happy hours on our mandated in-office day. Slowly, I began to introduce my colleagues to the wonderful world of Big Ten football in a tiny ‘Midwest-style’ bar and the joy of washing down Detroit style pizza and Chicago hotdogs with Malört. In turn, they introduced me to Premier League soccer, the bitter Patriots–Eagles rivalry, and the tradition of Burns Night meals they picked up when they went abroad for ‘uni.’ Where I’d feared I might not fit in, I soon found myself at the center of a new, hybrid workplace culture with my coworkers as my closest friends.

When I heard that my union was looking for more members on the bargaining team, I jumped at the chance and, less than a year later, was elected our first union president. At the age of 24, I was tasked with representing a third of our ancient institution, from research staff just stopping for a two-year stint on their way to their top PhD programs, to near-retirement librarians who came on during the Reagan years. My task was complicated, but my goal was simple: to turn our positive workplace culture into an institution that could represent often competing interests. Even after doing this for two years, I still sometimes feel odd telling people who are so well-respected in their fields how things should be run differently, but I feel confident that I set up a system that could advocate for all of our members’ interests.

It’s ironic that so much of my work life has been about finding common ground with people from different backgrounds, and yet a core part of my job is studying what might be the world’s both most important and most dysfunctional workplace. I love Congress—it’s fascinating how 435 representatives and 100 senators come together for ostensibly the same goal and yet devolve into partisan bickering and backstabbing. My desire to understand the rules and procedures that shape and restrict legislators’ behavior—the why behind why a given approach is taken or a certain issue that seemingly has broad support is left on the cutting room floor—initially drew my interest towards law.

It was the combination of my research background and experience as union president that made me aware of the profound importance administrative law plays in the implementation of legislation. With my background in congressional research, I always thought the real fight was in getting something passed. It wasn’t until I ratified my first union contract and found myself disagreeing with management over how to interpret a particular provision that I learned how much work goes into turning the written word into reality. From there, my interest in how agencies implement legal statutes has grown. I’m particularly fascinated with case studies where decision-makers follow a process with good intentions but end up astray and unable to meet their goal, such as when grants from an infrastructure bill go unused because of overburdensome requirements. With my strong focus on the culture of institutions, I see administrative law as a perfect way for me to engage with the policy process. I have heard that, as a lawyer, it can sometimes feel like you live at work, but in my eyes that isn’t necessarily a bad thing.