​On knowing when a chapter has ended

The difference between a rut and a grave is the depth.

Many of the most significant career decisions in law aren't made overnight. They build quietly — in the weight of familiar frustrations, the silence where ambition used to be.

There is an old line that has stayed with me: the difference between a rut and a grave is the depth.

At first, it sounds dramatic. But in professional life — and particularly in law — it is often uncomfortably accurate.

Most partners don't wake up one morning and decide to move. The decision builds slowly. The work feels heavier. Internal politics become predictable. Promises that once sounded exciting fade into background noise. From the outside, everything looks fine. But inside, something has stopped moving.

That is the danger of a rut. It can look respectable. It can even look successful.

Every role has frustrations. Every firm has politics. The real question isn't whether you're uncomfortable — it's whether you're in a difficult season, or in the wrong place.

Sometimes staying is absolutely the right call — especially when the discomfort is temporary, leadership is listening, and the future still has shape. But sometimes the firm that once helped you grow is now keeping you still. Sometimes the structure that gave you opportunity now limits your ambition.

That is when a rut begins to deepen.

Partners often know — long before they say it aloud — that they need a new environment. But they also know what moving involves: client conversations, conflict checks, capital arrangements, notice periods, the emotional weight of leaving people behind. So they stay. Not because the current firm is right, but because moving feels hard.

The problem is that staying is also costly. A year becomes three. The market shifts. The best opportunities pass. The partner who once drove growth becomes someone managing inertia. Professionally, the cost may be missed opportunity. Personally, it may be disengagement. Financially, it may be far greater than the comfort of current drawings suggests.

A better platform isn't just about a larger headline package. It can mean stronger cross-referral opportunities, better support, more aligned clients, improved succession planning, a partnership that backs rather than taxes your practice. The right move can change the economics of a practice — and the psychology of a partner.

Too many professionals make career decisions based on the last ten years rather than the next ten.

By the time a partner calls a recruiter, the decision is often further advanced than the firm realises. They're still billing, leading matters, attending partner meetings — but internally, they're asking different questions. Is this still the right platform for my clients? The right environment for my team? The right place to build the next ten years?

There is nothing disloyal about recognising that a chapter has ended. A partner who leaves at the right time, for the right reasons, with a clear plan, can preserve relationships, protect clients, and move with dignity. A partner who stays until frustration hardens into bitterness may leave badly — or worse, may never really leave at all.

Of course, change for its own sake isn't strategy. Before moving, partners should be honest about what's driving the decision: is the issue leadership, culture, remuneration, clients, support, succession, autonomy, or simply fatigue? What must the next firm provide that the current one cannot?

The goal is not merely to leave. The goal is to move well.

But when the answers are clear, delay becomes its own risk. There comes a point when the sensible thing is not to keep adjusting to the rut. It is to climb out before it gets deeper.

A rut does not become a grave overnight. It deepens slowly. The skill is recognising the depth before it is too late.