When you are struggling with something, how do you get out of it? And when someone in your life reaches out because they are struggling, how much are you willing to give them? It is important to be there – as a friend, a partner, and a colleague – but knowing where your limits are is just as important as being willing to help in the first place.

It is no secret that I love constitutional law, and have since high school. My first indirect experience with it was making my very first election prediction back in the fall of 2016, which opened the door to a broader interest in politics and government; specifically, in campaign finance reform, gerrymandering, and funding bills. By the time I got to law school, Con Law was easily my favorite class. Early last semester, after going over my final with my professor, we got to talking about the possibility of me being her TA for the 1Ls this spring. We both agreed to it, and I have been working in that capacity since January. In a semester that hasn’t been very fun, my office hours are always the best part of my week. Getting to work with 1Ls over a subject I am passionate about that most law students would rather avoid has been more rewarding than I expected.

Late last month, the 1Ls in Constitutional Law were assigned a problem set worth 10% of their grade. It was split into two questions: one involving Congress attempting to alter the Supreme Court’s original jurisdiction under Article III of the Constitution, and another involving a Commerce Clause challenge under Article I. The point of the assignment was to take the abstract concepts from class and apply them to a hypothetical scenario the Supreme Court might actually face. There is no factually correct answer in constitutional law; but rather, the strength and validity of your argument is what matters. That complexity is exactly what makes the subject interesting, and exactly why a lot of students struggle with it.

The Thursday before it was due, I held my normal office hours from 12 to 1. I typically see seven or eight students. That day, twenty-five 1Ls flooded the library the moment their class let out. We moved downstairs into one of the larger rooms in the library, I pulled a rolling whiteboard and got to work. I am a visual learner, so breaking constitutional jurisprudence into flowcharts is how I made sense of it when I was sitting where they were. It seemed to resonate. For an hour, I answered questions, walked through how Article I and Article III doctrine had developed over time, and by the end of it felt like something actually clicked for the room. I also offered to review drafts over email through Sunday at noon (the assignment was due Monday at midnight) and about fifteen students took me up on it.

But I was clear about what that meant and what it did not mean. I was not going to answer the questions for them, make textual edits, or share supplementary materials like my own problem set from the year before. This was their assignment, not mine. I was willing to help them think through it, but I was not going to do the thinking for them. Any email that came in after the Sunday cutoff went straight to deleted. I had my own workload that week between school and work, and I could not spend it reading a hundred emails. A limit had to exist, and I set one.

For the most part, I really like helping people. Law school can easily become a zero-sum environment – the rankings, the finals, the competitive environment – and it is tempting to operate from that mindset. But I have found, consistently, that being a resource for others is not just rewarding on its own terms. It tends to come back around. If you are carrying a zero-sum mentality into your relationships and professional life, I would highly recommend revising it. A rising tide lifts all boats, and helping someone else rarely costs you as much as you think it will.

That said, there is a limit to that mentality, and it is one I have had to really learn over the years. Wanting to help people is a good instinct. Absorbing everyone else’s problems as your own is not. There is a real difference between being an advisor and being a caretaker, and unless caregiving is your actual profession, taking on that role for everyone around you is draining in a way that isn’t worth it.

The limits I set with the problem set were not just about protecting my own schedule. They were also about protecting the students. If I had answered everything for them, they would not have learned anything. Not to mention, all of this material shows up again on the bar exam. Doing the work for them would have felt helpful in the moment but also been a disservice in the long run. Beyond that, I took this position voluntarily, but it is not my entire life. I have other commitments and responsibilities that require my energy too. If I do not draw boundaries, I will eventually reach a point where I cannot effectively help anyone, including the people I want to show up for.

That balance is worth thinking about in your own life. If you tend to hold back from helping others, look for places in your circle where you can show up more. If you tend to overextend, this is your reminder that drawing limits is not selfish; but rather, it is what makes generosity possible in the first place. You can only help people as much as they want to help themselves, and trying to carry someone the rest of the way on your own is a losing game for the both of you. Know what you can give. Give that as you can and should. And protect what you need to keep giving it.

-Colby