Yeshna Dindoyal shared their story and experiences with us recently and you can find our conversation below.
Yeshna, really appreciate you sharing your stories and insights with us. The world would have so much more understanding and empathy if we all were a bit more open about our stories and how they have helped shaped our journey and worldview. Let’s jump in with a fun one: What do the first 90 minutes of your day look like?
The first 90 minutes of my day are a beautiful chaos. I wake up with the same mixture of urgency and purpose that has shaped my life these past few years. There’s the predictable rush — getting ready, beating the morning traffic, mentally rehearsing submissions while navigating roundabouts, and keeping an eye on the clock to make sure I’m not the lawyer sprinting into court at the last second. But underneath the rush, there’s a quiet engine that fuels me. Every morning feels like another chance to rewrite my life — to move one step closer to the lawyer, the advocate, and the woman I’m still becoming. I use those early minutes to remind myself why I’m doing all of this: to build a life that honours the sacrifices of my parents, the love I receive from the people around me, and even the simple joy of my dog greeting me like I’m the best part of their universe.
So between the emails, the traffic, the coffee, and the courtroom corridors, there’s also gratitude. A determination to do better. And a small, steady fire telling me that I’m on the right path — even if that path sometimes starts with me stuck behind a bus at 8 a.m.
Can you briefly introduce yourself and share what makes you or your brand unique?
My name is Yeshna, and I’m what most people would call an unconventional lawyer. On one hand, I’m in court — dealing with real people, real problems, and the messy, complicated beauty of everyday justice. On the other hand, I’m deeply rooted in environmental and climate law, a field that constantly pushes me to think beyond the courtroom and consider the future of my island, my region, and the people who will inherit both.
My journey has never followed the straight, polished legal path. I’ve had to create my own rhythm in a system that isn’t always kind to young women, and along the way I discovered that I didn’t have to choose between the lawyer who argues cases and the lawyer who stands up for the planet. I can be both — and that’s where I feel most like myself.I’ve represented my country on global climate platforms, contributed to environmental legal reforms, and pushed for small island voices to be taken seriously. At the same time, I’ve built my career through discipline, late nights, and the kind of resilience you only develop when doors don’t open easily. And a small heart-warming fact: no matter how stressful my days get, I always go homemy dog who are convinced I’m the hero of their world. They remind me that even when I’m juggling court files and climate reports, there’s always space for softness and joy.
Great, so let’s dive into your journey a bit more. What part of you has served its purpose and must now be released?
The part of me I’m learning to release is the version that strictly followed the traditional script — the girl who worked hard in school, did everything she was told, and believed that if she just ticked all the boxes, life would reward her in a straight line. For a long time, I thought that was the only way to succeed: stay quiet, be obedient, follow the rules, don’t question the system, and trust that the system would be fair in return.
She served her purpose. She gave me discipline, patience, and a strong foundation. But she also made me believe that opportunities only come in one shape, and that “good girls” don’t step outside the lines.
As I grew into my career, I realised the world doesn’t work like the neat path we were promised. Possibilities are endless, yes — but only if you allow yourself to imagine them. There isn’t just one way to be a lawyer, one way to build a life, or one way to create impact. And sometimes the most meaningful growth comes from doing things differently, taking risks, and trusting your intuition even when others don’t understand it.
So I’m releasing that old version of me — the one who needed permission to dream.
And I’m embracing the version who creates her own way forward, even if that path is unconventional, unpredictable, and entirely mine.
If you could say one kind thing to your younger self, what would it be?
“It’s okay… it’s okay… breathe. The world can wait for a moment. The mornings, the noise, the rush — it’s a lot, I know. But right now, just feel the air, feel your heartbeat, and know that you are here, you are safe, and you are loved. Everything else… it can wait. Just for a little while, let yourself be.”
So a lot of these questions go deep, but if you are open to it, we’ve got a few more questions that we’d love to get your take on. Is the public version of you the real you?
Mostly, yes — but not completely.
The public version of me is the one people see at court, in meetings, or on panels. She’s the lawyer juggling files while running between hearings, the advocate trying to make her point clear in rooms where everyone else seems louder or more experienced. She’s the one who smiles even when the morning traffic made her late, who speaks confidently while her mind is already thinking about the next case, the next email, the next problem to solve.
But the private me is quieter, softer, and messier. She’s the one who laughs at ridiculous things no one else notices, worries about details that don’t seem to matter, and feels deeply about people and places that need care. She’s the part of me that gets exhausted by long days, that reflects late at night on cases, climate work, or life in general, and that sometimes doubts if she’s doing enough — even when she is.The two sides are not separate; they exist together in the same day. One carries the work forward, navigating deadlines, courtrooms, and panels. The other reminds me why I do it at all — for people, for communities, for the environment, and for the life I’m building.
Both are me: messy, human, driven, and still learning. And together, they make the story I’m living — one step at a time, one moment at a time.
Thank you so much for all of your openness so far. Maybe we can close with a future oriented question. What is the story you hope people tell about you when you’re gone?
I hope people say that I tried. That I showed up even when it was hard, even when I felt small, even when I wasn’t sure I belonged. That I didn’t wait to feel “ready” to do meaningful things — I just did what I could with what I had.
I hope they say that I listened. That I made people feel seen, especially the ones who usually get talked over or ignored. That I made space for the stories that never make it into reports or headlines.
I hope they say that I cared — not in a performative way, but in the quiet, everyday ways that matter to the people around me. That I didn’t let the world harden me, even when it tried.
And maybe most of all, I hope people say that I left things a little better: a law improved, a student encouraged, a girl somewhere feeling like she could try because she saw someone who looked like her doing it. Not perfect, not heroic — just someone who kept trying to do the right thing.
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