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| Concillia Muonde |
In family law, especially, the pressure to be constantly available is often intense, emotional and entirely artificial. Most “emergencies” are not real emergencies. Most urgency is client-driven, not legally required. And yet, many of us hesitate, sometimes for years, to use a simple tool of professional sanity: the out-of-office message.
We are afraid. Afraid that clients will think we have abandoned them. Afraid opposing counsel will use it against us. Afraid the court will find us unavailable and therefore unprepared. And so, instead of stepping away, we sneak away. We check emails from the beach. We roam on vacation. We pretend.
And we pay the price — in burnout, resentment and the erosion of our boundaries.
At the Friendly Bar, we tell the truth about this.
The truth is: many of us have spent years dodging the out-of-office message like it was a trap. I know I did. In my early years of practice, I avoided it entirely. I would rather pay a $400 roaming bill than let a vulnerable client think I was off duty. I have deleted auto-replies in panic. I have answered emails from wedding receptions and family funerals, convincing myself it was necessary. That I was needed. That I was proving my commitment.
But eventually, I began to see it differently. And what helped was seeing how deeply broken our sense of time has become in legal practice.
Mikhail Spaskov: ISTOCKPHOTO.COM
So yes, I now use an out-of-office message. But I still hesitate. I still check my phone. I still flinch when clients reply “Urgent!” within minutes of receiving it.
And every time I hesitate, I remind myself of where I began.
Before I had a calendar, I had the sun.
In the Zimbabwe of my childhood, time was not something managed. It was something felt. We knew it was breakfast when the sun cast a long shadow behind us. Noon arrived when the shadow disappeared beneath our feet. The time to herd goats came when my shadow walked ahead of me, longer than my body. And bedtime? That was when the fire burned low, the peanuts were gone and the elders had run out of stories to tell. The embers of the evening fire turned to ash and silence fell across the yard, warm and final.
No one needed to be available. We just were, or we were not. The world went on.
So now, when I consider stepping away, I think of that rhythm. I think of what it means to be present, truly. And what it means to withdraw, without apology.
I also think of the out-of-office message I am still working up the courage to send, the honest one. The one that names the absurdity of our professional culture while still protecting the licence I worked so hard to earn.
Here it is.
The out-of-office message I am working up the courage to send
(A cautionary fantasy)
Thank you for your email.
I am currently out of the office, allegedly “on vacation,” though let us not kid ourselves: I am probably checking my phone, spiralling about deadlines, and debating whether reading this email constitutes billable time.
I will not be responding unless your matter involves one of the following:
- A child who has physically gone missing (not just metaphorically “lost” because they stopped texting back).
- A literal fire in your home (not a figurative one in your marriage).
- You are being detained, and the arresting officer has inexplicably asked to speak to your family lawyer.
- A surprise court appearance that I was somehow supposed to predict.
If you are unsure whether your matter is urgent, please ask yourself the following:
- Did this problem exist for three weeks before I left?
- Is the urgency mostly emotional?
- Have I delayed acting on this until now?
- Do I just feel ignored?
If you answered yes to any of the above, I suggest hydration, fresh air or journalling. I will be back soon.
This is not my real out-of-office message.
Actual message:
“Whatever the Law Society of Ontario says we should say, blah blah blah.”
That fantasy message lives in my drafts, like a little act of rebellion. A whispered truth.
But even when I do not send it, I remember what it represents. The simple act of saying: I am away. Not vanished. Not irresponsible. Just away.
And while we are being honest, there is one more thing I wish we could release ourselves from: the need to justify our time away with personal disclosures.
I have watched colleagues — brilliant, dedicated counsel — explain to a court why they need an adjournment because they have marriage counselling scheduled that day. Or because it is their child’s therapy intake. Or because it is their anniversary dinner, rescheduled three times already. I have seen the discomfort in their faces, the slight tremble in their voices as they tried to sound both professional and apologetic.
That is not fair.
It should be enough to say: I am not available. Not because I am ill or dying, or appearing at the Supreme Court of Canada, but simply because I am a whole person with a life that includes things outside of litigation. And yet we do not trust that. We feel compelled to offer proof of our unavailability, like an emotional invoice.
Let us call that what it is: performative penitence. It is a culture of guilt masquerading as accountability.
When I think of what it felt like to fall asleep as a child, when the elders ran out of stories to tell, when the embers of the evening fire turned to ash and the silence between us became its kind of comfort, I remember that absence, too, can be an offering. It does not have to be explained or excused. It just is.
And perhaps the hardest part, for those on the receiving end, is that first sting of not being answered. Of feeling overlooked or neglected. But maybe, just maybe, that is where the healing begins: when we realize that being heard does not always mean being answered. That sometimes, the space between emails is where the most important work is happening, quietly, away from view, in the shadow of a setting sun.
That is what I want for us. A practice that allows for quiet. A profession that makes space for people. A bar that knows the difference between urgency and mere noise.
We do not glorify overwork. We do not moralize absence. We understand that professionalism without preservation is performative. That presence is not the same as productivity. That a lawyer who rests is a lawyer who can think, advise and — imagine this — listen.
So let me say it again, plainly, as I began: set the out-of-office message. Let it do its job. Let your clients trust the boundaries you set. Let yourself remember the sun, the shadow, the goats and the silence that follows stories well told.
The work will wait. The law will wait.
And you are allowed to rest.
This is part seven of a series, a collection of reflections on how we build a more respectful, inclusive and ethical legal profession, one relationship at a time. Read previous parts of the series here.
Concillia Muonde, B.Sc. (Econ), B.S.W. (Hons), M.S.W., J.D., is the founder and principal of Concillia Muonde Law Office, a family law practice based in Ottawa. Drawing on a multidisciplinary background in law, social work and economics, she brings a trauma-informed, client-directed approach to resolving family law matters. Her practice is focused on supporting survivors of family violence, LGBTQ+ clients and others navigating complex parenting and relationship breakdowns.
The opinions expressed are those of the author and do not reflect the views of the author’s firm, its clients, Law360 Canada, LexisNexis Canada or any of its or their respective affiliates. This article is for general information purposes and is not intended to be and should not be taken as legal advice.
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