Why I have cried on the bench

I served 22 years as a Minnesota district court judge, and I have a confession to make: I have cried on the bench. And in chambers. And at home. Maybe a dozen times over the course of my career.

The first time was during the sentencing of a drunken driver who killed a 16-year-old high school student. The victim's grieving family displayed a larger-than-life size portrait of their loved one and tearfully read their victim impact statements to the tune of Sarah McLachlan's "Angel."

Another time, the mother of a schizophrenic young man testified in his mental commitment trial, describing his stabbing her 20 times with a kitchen knife. She turned from me to face him, told him she loved him and forgave him moments before I committed him to long-term treatment.

On another day, in juvenile court, I openly sobbed for a young woman I knew through years of court appearances, when she declared she was giving up on herself and returning to a life of homelessness, drugs and sex. She pronounced her own death sentence.

I couldn't hold back the tears the day I signed an order terminating the parental rights of a mother who had relapsed into alcohol addiction.

Whether sentencing a felon, deciding whether terminating parental rights is in the best interests of kids or witnessing the pain caused by domestic or sexual assault, judges, like other professionals in public safety, endure a ringside seat to the daily spectacle of secondary trauma. Unlike others, judges shoulder the responsibility of striking a balance of many competing needs. There are no hard and fast rules that govern how to do it.

Over the span of my judicial career I estimate I sent a thousand or so people to prison. I never took it lightly. I willingly complied with the requirement that at least once every six years I tour one of Minnesota's prisons so I could feel the gravity of a prison sentence.

I viewed my role as a sentencing judge as being much more complicated than applying the sentencing guidelines. Any computer could do that. I felt my job was to learn as much as I could about the defendant and the victims through authorized sources (judges are not allowed to do their own investigation).

By the time of a sentencing hearing, I had presided over a trial or a plea hearing, read 20 or more pages of presentence investigation reports detailing the crime and the defendant's background, the recommendations of the probation department, sentencing briefs from prosecutors and defense attorneys, and any written victim impact statements and letters of support submitted in advance.

At the hearing I listened carefully to heated arguments of counsel, oral victim-impact statements, and the defendant's allocution. In high-profile cases, I most likely had only two or three hours of sleep the night before. By the time the critical moment of pronouncing sentence arrived, I could be overwhelmed by some combination of human tragedy, the irreversibility of harm to the victim, the regret and remorse of the defendant, and my own physical and emotional exhaustion.

At first, I thought stoicism was the answer. I cringe now when I reflect on how my internalized emotions sometimes blew up in my face, often while on the bench. Even when I maintained outward composure, on the inside my emotions drove me to make comments of condescension and even belligerence. These are symptoms of what lawyers call "Black Robe Disease." I had to find another way.

I took up meditation and learned about self-compassion, and how to allow myself the freedom to own my emotions on the bench. In reasonable measure, I learned to no longer feel I have to run away from my own tears or expressions of encouragement, compassion, frustration or even anger, when appropriate.