By Scott Merrill
Editor’s note: Names and identifying details of attorneys quoted in this story have been withheld to protect confidentiality.
On the surface, attorneys appear to be experts in control. They master rules, endure the rigors of law school, hold tight to deadlines, and stake their reputations on precision. But beneath that polished exterior, the profession can carry a heavy toll. Depression, anxiety, and substance misuse afflict lawyers at rates far above the national average. For some, the consequences are career-ending or even life-ending. For others, recovery is possible, but often only when they find the courage and support to seek help.
A landmark 2016 study conducted by the American Bar Association and Hazelden Betty Ford Foundation found that more than one in five attorneys screened positive for problematic drinking, while nearly 30 percent reported symptoms of depression and 19 percent reported anxiety. About 11 percent said they had experienced suicidal thoughts.
More recent surveys suggest little improvement. A 2024 Law.com and ALC Intelligence report found that more than a third of practicing lawyers said they experienced depression in the past year, and anxiety remains persistently high. Reviews highlight the elevated risk of suicide.
While New Hampshire has not conducted a statewide survey of its roughly 8,000 Bar members, national figures suggest hundreds, perhaps thousands, may be living with depression, substance misuse, or suicidal thoughts.
That reality underscores the role of the New Hampshire Lawyers Assistance Program (NHLAP), established by the Supreme Court under Rule 58. The program reflects the recognition that sometimes the best support comes from a colleague who has walked the same path. NHLAP offers confidential counseling, referrals, and connects attorneys through its Lawyers Concerned for Lawyers (LCL) peer network – part of a national movement, coordinated through the ABA, where attorneys struggling with drugs, alcohol, or mental health find support.
At the heart of NHLAP is Executive Director Jill O’Neill, a mental health professional who guides lawyers through some of their most difficult moments.
“This work is about making sure people know they’re not alone, and that getting help won’t cost them their career,” O’Neill explains.
The First Step
For many attorneys, the hardest step is admitting they need help. In the LCL community, attorneys call this overcoming terminal uniqueness: the belief that no one else could possibly understand your struggles.
One New Hampshire prosecutor, sober for more than 20 years, recalls how that barrier nearly cost him everything.
“We are taught to be self-sufficient from day one in law school,” he says. “But you need other people to understand you’re not different. Fellowship is one of the foundations that’s so important. To find other people who are like you and to go and meet with them.”
For him, anonymity in recovery – the bedrock of Alcoholics Anonymous – is not just courtesy but a lifeline.
“Recovery is the greatest club that nobody ever wanted to be a part of,” he says. “A lot of people show up trying to figure out why they don’t fit.”
O’Neill agrees.
“When you’re working through the steps, you’re doing self-inventory and eventually you realize you’re not that different,” she says. “The circumstances may vary but we’re all fighting the same battle. We encourage people to come to the lawyer recovery meetings. You will relate.”
The Struggle to Stay Sober
Another long-serving prosecutor traces his alcoholism to the culture of law itself: gearing up for exams and trials, then crashing.
“That carried right into trial work,” he explains. “You spend weeks preparing, you’re in court for three or four days, and then there’s this crash. That’s part of the price you pay for staying calm during the trial, not letting your emotions or fatigue take over. But when it was over, I tried to cram three days’ worth of relaxation into a few hours with the help of Uncle Jim Beam.”
By his late 30s, he knew he couldn’t do it alone.
“I thought AA was some cultish waste of time, but they said that’s where people like me go,” he says. “I went, and at the first meeting three people told my story. Drinking at noon, waking up not knowing how I got home, finding my car sideways in the driveway. They laughed, they cried, and I thought, ‘These are my people.’”
What kept him coming back wasn’t instant understanding of the 12 steps but fellowship.
“Being with other people trying to do the same thing – that’s what held me there.”
The Three-Legged Stool
Sobriety, he learned, requires balance, which he describes through the AA metaphor of the “three-legged stool.”
“The first leg is fellowship. That’s being around other people who are trying to stay sober,” he explains. “The second is service – giving back, sponsoring others, showing up for the next person who’s struggling. And the third is spirituality. Not religion but believing in a power greater than yourself that allows you to live sober and deal with life on life’s terms. If one leg is missing, the stool collapses.”
He emphasizes that sobriety isn’t simply about not drinking. It’s about building a new way of life.
“When I was drinking, I carried so much shame,” he says. “I wouldn’t chase after clients who didn’t pay because deep down I thought I didn’t deserve it. Recovery gave me the courage to say, ‘Wait a minute, I did the work, I earned the fee.’ That’s the spiritual growth part – learning to live without shame.”
Stigma and Denial
For another attorney, who spent years as a diplomat in Africa, stigma and denial delayed her recovery.
“I didn’t drink every day, and I didn’t have DWIs, so I didn’t think I was an alcoholic,” she says.
It wasn’t until she heard a visiting AA member share his story that she recognized herself.
“He was successful, professional, just like me. And I realized: not so different after all.”
Fellowship is Medicine
The longtime prosecutor says recognition is what sustains recovery.
“An alcoholic alone is in bad company,” he says. “That’s why fellowship matters.”
He laments the smaller-than-desired turnout at LCL gatherings.
“Out of 8,000 lawyers in New Hampshire, maybe 800 are alcoholics,” he says. “But we get 10 people in a meeting. That’s not even one percent. I’d love to see more meetings across the state so people can find each other. Because fellowship is medicine.”
Another attorney recalls getting sober before law school, only to relapse years later. What brought him back was a friend who reached out to NHLAP.
“That’s what I couldn’t hide from, somebody who knew me and cared enough to make the call,” he says. “Coming back to LCL was huge. It’s our little community. They are just like me when it comes to addiction.”
The Weight of the Profession
Part of what makes recovery especially difficult for lawyers, O’Neill says, is the nature of the job.
“Even if you work for a firm, lawyers are really independent practitioners. You’re managing cases and clients on your own,” she explains. “That independence means you can fly under the radar more easily. But it also means you feel like you can’t step away, can’t get help, because no one can cover for you.”
Add to that the fear of reputational harm.
“Think about the weight of the decisions that lawyers and judges are holding,” she says. “If they’re not performing optimally, it can have significant consequences. So they shoulder it and without a healthy outlet, stress turns into illness, unhealthy coping, or substance use.”
National Movement, Local Lifeline
LCL programs now exist across the country, usually funded by bar dues or judiciary support. The former diplomat first discovered the network in Massachusetts before moving to New Hampshire.
“It’s a national program now. Almost every state has one,” she says. “And it makes a difference to know you can walk into a room of other lawyers who understand.”
O’Neill stresses that recovery is not just about abstaining from alcohol or drugs. “It’s about emotional sobriety too,” she says. “Addressing the emotional components of getting and staying sober. That’s a big focus in our meetings.”
Some participants are years into recovery. Others are still struggling, unsure if they’re ready. “That’s okay,” O’Neill says. “You don’t have to qualify. You just need to show up.”
Beyond Survival
For those who stay, the rewards extend far beyond not drinking.
“It just doesn’t come up anymore,” says the prosecutor. “I’m practicing, I’m living my life, and alcohol is not an issue. It used to be a big problem. Now it’s not a thing.”
“You get to learn a new way of thinking about life and connection,” the former diplomat says. “The opposite of addiction is connection.”
Another prosecutor agrees.
“We lawyers overthink everything. But recovery isn’t about thinking – it’s about showing up, taking action, and helping others. That’s what keeps me sober.”
A Culture of Breaking Silence
The culture of law is slowly changing, O’Neill says. Employers are more willing to call NHLAP out of concern for colleagues rather than disciplining them in silence. Lawyers themselves are speaking more openly about stress, depression, and substance misuse.
But stigma remains.
“Even if you’re not someone who struggles with addiction, there’s this internal, self-imposed stigma about appearing weak,” O’Neill says. “That alone keeps people from getting help.”
The challenge now, she adds, is to normalize conversations about lawyer well-being.
“When you look at the statistics, when you hear these stories, you see this is not rare. It’s part of the profession. And that means we all have a role in making sure help is available and accessible.”
Connection as the Cure
The stories of New Hampshire lawyers in recovery share a common thread: none of them did it alone. Each found, in time, that fellowship with others and self-examination are the keys to becoming healthy.
As one LCL participant puts it: “Recovery is not for people who need it, and it’s not for people who want it. It’s for people who work at it.”
In courtrooms and conference rooms, New Hampshire attorneys shoulder immense responsibility. But in church basements, diners, and Zoom rooms, they shed their armor, share their stories, and remind each other that they are not unique after all.
“It’s about being whole with yourself,” O’Neill says. “That’s what really matters. And that’s what keeps people alive.”