This is the personal statement I submitted in my application for Michigan Law in the 2023 application cycle. It helped earn me an acceptance in spite of a below-median GPA and LSAT score. Posting it here so it can provide inspiration for other non-traditional law school applicants in the future. Please ask for permission before sharing or using.

Among all groups of birds, seabirds are the most difficult to identify. If you would like to frustrate yourself with some evidence of this, simply pull up “wandering albatross” and “Southern royal albatross” in separate Google tabs and try to spot the differences. It’s almost as hard to tell these two birds apart as it is to find them in their ocean homes, yet year after year I find myself on the deck of an expedition ship, deep in the Southern Ocean, where one of them will go sailing by in 50 knot winds. The sea is a frenzy and our boat rollercoasters over thirty-foot waves, but the chaos doesn’t stop the dozen-or-so tourists gathered around me from demanding to know which of the two birds this species is. These are diehard birdwatchers, men and women who have invested tens of thousands of dollars to travel to a part of the world where they hope to add another species to their “life lists,” and most have been spent hours clinging to an icy steel rail in anticipation of this moment. One man shouts “that was a royal albatross, right?!”—but another woman needs it to be a wandering. This isn’t your grandmother’s bird feeder. The stakes are bizarrely high for something that most people would regard as a lighthearted hobby, and with all eyes suddenly upon me, I can tell my reputation as their naturalist and guide is on the line.

Navigating such situations requires a razor-sharp eye for detail, a deep well of background knowledge in the subject, and a confidence in my ability to synthesize all of this information in the heat (or chill) of the moment. Wandering and royal albatrosses can often be differentiated only after the evaluation of several factors: varying amounts of white on the wing, the extent of black in the tail, the shape and size of the nostrils—you get the idea. Knowing what to look for allows me to explain how I can tell the bird in the distance is a wandering albatross, and the identification is enough to satisfy most of the birders. But keen observation can also reveal so much more about who this bird is. I notice its primary wing feathers are dark and conspicuously newer than its tattered old secondaries, indicating it’s just about five years old and likely a female. She has a pale head—a suggestion that she belongs to a population of birds that breeds almost exclusively on the island of South Georgia. Since wandering albatross rarely come back to shore before they’re at least six years old, the bird has likely spent the last four years on the open ocean, and based on the way she keeps eyeing the ship’s wake I can tell that she’s learned how to live off the bycatch of anchovy boats. Even in a brief encounter, it’s the scrutinization of such minute details that allows me to tell nature’s most vibrant stories—to turn the albatross from an object in our lives into the subject of her own tale. My work as a professional naturalist and expedition guide grants me the extraordinary privilege to tell these stories against the backdrop of the world's most rugged and remote areas. Even now, I struggle to believe that it’s all been real—working face-to-face with polar bears in the heart of the Northwest Passage; coaxing rubber Zodiacs past humpback whales in the ice-choked fjords of the Antarctic Peninsula; cataloging endangered species and exploring abandoned historic sites alongside professional archaeologists, film crews and scientists. With these deeply profound experiences often come sobering reminders of our impact on the world—islands where the bones of slaughtered whales litter the ground like driftwood; ancient glaciers that groan and crumble as they retreat at ever- increasing speed; temperature spikes that can cause whole colonies of penguins to drop to the ground from desperate heat exhaustion. It’s been an emotional job, equal parts grueling and thrilling, awe- inspiring and heartbreaking.

It all abruptly ground to a halt when the coronavirus hit, and contract after contract dissolved before me as we waited for the return to “normalcy” that would never truly come. But for all the stress and uncertainty the pandemic wrought upon our world, it also provided me with a resource that I didn’t know I had been craving: time to think. I had been drawn to the field of science communication because I felt it was my medium for making a difference—a chance to share my passion for the natural world with others, to advocate for the protection of wilderness areas, and to share with others the sense of wonder that has driven me throughout my own life. While I’ve loved my work connecting people with nature, I’ve also often struggled to shake the persistent feeling that I am becoming a narrator to the gradual destruction of our planet. As the pandemic waged on, I grew to contend with the notion that the potential to affect positive change as a guide may simply not be enough to satiate my desire to make a real, tangible difference. I grew determined to figure out a way to address environmental challenges more effectively, and to channel my commitment to environmental stewardship through a new medium. While I knew there were lawyers who took on this work, a career in law felt far outside the scope of my world. Interests in nature and the visual arts had formed the core of my identity since childhood, and I had grown up with the impression that the skills I had acquired through these pursuits were simply irrelevant in other careers— especially those as prestigious as law. But a few months into the quarantine, I found myself combing through statutes in the California Civil Code, hoping to defend myself and my roommates against what I believed was the unlawful withholding of our security deposit by our apartment’s management agency. I was surprised to discover how much I enjoyed reading this dense legal text—I would sit for hours, nursing a cup of coffee while mulling over the ways that the law could be interpreted in our favor. I threw myself down the ultra-specific rabbit hole of tenants’ rights legislation in our state, and quickly found that reading case files and court briefings drew upon the same skills that were required for understanding the natural world: an acuity for extracting important details from an abundance of information; a willingness to leave no stone unturned in the pursuit of getting to know your subject; and an ability to consolidate all of this knowledge into an articulate, well-reasoned idea. Winning back our security deposit was an inconsequential victory in the grand scheme of things, but the process of researching the law and using sound arguments to assert our rights was a revelation for me. The skills that had helped me become a successful naturalist weren’t irrelevant—in fact, they could be weaponized to fight for a greater good.

Now, when I step back and envision my future career, law school doesn’t just make sense—it is the fundamental next step on my journey to be a part of the solution. For years I’ve used my platform as a lecturer to instill an appreciation for law and policy in my audiences. While this is not, strictly speaking, my job, I’ve always found it hard to talk about the world’s most pristine wilderness areas without mentioning the documents that serve as their greatest defense. Among these laws is the Antarctic Treaty, a Cold War-era agreement declaring all land below 60°S “a natural reserve, devoted to peace and science.” Despite its short length, notoriously ambiguous wording and limited capacity for enforcement, I have developed a deep admiration for the Antarctic Treaty as the revolutionary first attempt to safeguard an entire continent from human exploitation. A core part of my educational messaging has always underscored the fact that this treaty is due for renegotiation in 2048, at which point the fate of the world’s largest wilderness will be in the hands of future world leaders. I’ve talked a great deal about this particular law over the years, and I now realize that I don’t want to spend my career simply warning others about the implications of its dissolution—I want to earn myself a position at the table when its terms are rewritten. To get there, I know I’ll need to strengthen the abilities I already have, as well as master an entirely new set of skills across disciplines with which I have no current familiarity. I would be lying if I claimed that the rigors and challenges of law school do not intimidate me, but as someone who has grown used to managing the daily risks involved with polar expedition guiding, I’ve come to learn that such discomfort is the first sign of every positive transformational experience.

I am excited to indulge this discomfort over the next three years, and to develop my skills as a thinker, a writer, a negotiator, and a leader. When I began this journey, I felt like an outsider struggling to navigate a foreign new world, but the further I pursue the path to a legal career, the less it seems like a change in direction at all. I am a naturalist and conservationist at heart, and a desire to understand and protect the natural world will forever remain at the foundation of my identity. I look at law school as an opportunity to arm myself with the tools to make a real difference—to further hone my analytical abilities, to understand how to wield language more effectively and to inspire systemic change through a career at the intersection of both science and law. I’m inspired by the work of advocacy organizations like the Sierra Club, the NRDC and the National Wildlife Federation, and hope to lend my voice to the important discussions that will shape environmental policy in the 21st Century. I will be 54 years old when the Antarctic Treaty is renegotiated, and when that happens, I want to be there, bringing the perspective and life experiences of a naturalist and lawyer to the conversation.

© 2022 Matthew Messina, all rights reserved.