Why My Socks Matter

(and Other Unexpected Things I Do as a Will-writer)

When people hear the words Will-writer, they often picture something clinical. A mahogany desk. Stacks of paper. A formal conversation tiptoeing around uncomfortable topics. The reality is much more textured. I meet people in living rooms and kitchens, on a Google Meet at dinner time with children running around in the background… I see people in the soft middle ground between life admin and life story. And because Will-writing is so deeply human, the smallest details matter. Even my socks.

Here are five things I do that I would hazard a guess you wouldn’t expect from a Will-writer...

I wear slip-on shoes and intentionally good socks for in person appointments

The moment I step into someone’s home sets the tone for everything that follows. We’re about to talk about guardianship, end-of-life preferences, digital legacy, blended families, estranged relatives, and who you trust with the things and people you value most. That first few seconds need to feel natural and unforced. Slip-on shoes mean I can enter without derailing the introduction or fumbling at the doorstep like a tourist outside a temple.

And the socks genuinely matter. They’re a small gesture of respect for the home I’ve been invited into and the conversation we’re about to have. Bare feet feel too familiar, too abrupt, too intimate for a professional setting. In summer, if I’m wearing Birkenstocks, I bring socks with me. These tiny choices help build a sense of ease before we begin the harder work.

I do a vocal warm-up before every appointment

Most people don’t realise how much talking a Will-writing appointment involves. It’s two hours of continuous communication: explaining, clarifying, guiding, slowing things down when someone feels overwhelmed, and translating legal structure into everyday understanding. My background in performance training means I physically can’t skip a warm-up; my body won’t let me.

A few minutes of breath work and articulation makes an enormous difference. It keeps my voice steady when the conversation shifts into emotional territory. It allows me to speak clearly through sensitive explanations. It helps me maintain a calm tone even when a client feels anything but calm. It’s not theatrical; it’s preparation. It means I can show up fully for the families in front of me. Peter piper has officially picked his peck of pickled peppers.

I’m building my own CRM because efficiency supports empathy (and I’m actually a bit lazy)

Behind every Will is a structure of documents, notes, timelines, follow-ups, checks, cross-referencing, secure storage, and client updates. This can be relied on YEARS later in order to support a contentious probate claim, and if called upon it could be long after the drafting appointment, and it’s definitely going to be after my client has dies. The existing industry tools either felt outdated, overly rigid, or not nearly intuitive enough for the way I work. So I started building my own CRM from scratch on Replit.

This isn’t about loving tech for the sake of it (though I do, and I’m very addicted). It’s about ensuring that every part of the process is smooth, accurate, and minimises wasted time. A good system frees headspace. It prevents details from slipping through the cracks. It keeps people informed without overwhelming them. Building my own tools means I can deliver a more thoughtful, human experience without drowning in admin myself. Every time I action something, I think about whether it can be automated and included into my program so I don’t have to do it again manually. It’s not perfect yet, but it’s getting there and I reckon I’ve cut down about 4 admin hours per case.

I learn in the bath

Running a business with a one-year-old and a four-year-old means traditional study hours don’t exist. The bath has become my unofficial study space. It’s the only door in the house that stays closed for more than two minutes, and it’s quiet enough to actually think.

I prop up my iPad and listen to webinars, lectures, and training on Wills, trusts, tax implications, estate planning reforms, and digital legacy issues. Ongoing CPD is required for my Society of Will Writers membership, but more importantly, the legal landscape changes constantly. Bath-learning keeps me up to date, sharp, and curious. It’s practical, it’s oddly peaceful, and it means my clients benefit from knowledge gathered at the only time of day no one is demanding snacks.

I am part Will-writer, part relationship counsellor

People often come to a Will appointment expecting a legal task. They quickly realise it is also an emotional one. Couples must discuss who raises their children, who they trust with medical decisions, how to divide their estate, and how to express their wishes without creating conflict. Families navigate dynamics that are sometimes warm, sometimes complex, sometimes unsaid. Individuals find themselves considering mortality in a way they’ve never done before.

My role is to hold space for all of it. I help people articulate their values, understand their options, and make decisions that feel grounded rather than rushed. I’ve seen tears, relief, frustration, laughter, and long contemplative silences. I’ve witnessed people finally say things they’ve been avoiding for years. And in more than one appointment, I’ve held space better than Cynthia Erivo.

This is the part of Will-writing most people never think about. It’s not just drafting documents. It is guiding people through some of the most profound decisions of their lives with steadiness, clarity, and compassion.