Relatively Speaking: Ayesha Vardag

The famous divorce lawyer on her upbringing and how it affected her career choices

People often ask where my drive comes from. I don’t usually talk about it, but the truth is: my family made me. Not in the way people usually mean that – legacy, inheritance, connections—but through the hunger that comes from absence, and the strength you develop when you have to build everything yourself.

My mother is an English country girl from Northumberland. She was the one who held everything together. When we were completely broke, she was the one who made sure I got the education I needed. She helped me win a bursary to a good school and instilled in me a fierce focus on achievement. She worked relentlessly to support me, with little more than grit and unconditional love.

My father was a very different story. He was a senator in Pakistan. He met my mother at Oxford. Their relationship was always unconventional, their cultures and expectations worlds apart. But while he had a fascinating life on the international stage, he didn’t play much of a role in mine. He contributed nothing to my upbringing – nothing practical, nothing emotional – but still seems interested in basking in the glow of my success. It’s one of those paradoxes you just learn to live with.

Growing up mixed-race in the UK in the 70s and 80s, I never quite fit anywhere. I was ethnically unplaceable – too foreign in one context, too British in another. The racism I experienced was subtle at times, blunt at others, and always isolating. There’s a particular psychological toll that comes with never feeling like you belong, and with absorbing the unstated message that you are somehow “other.”

That feeling of dislocation was compounded by secrecy – something I’ve come to believe does real damage in families. When things aren’t talked about – when there are unanswered questions, vanished presences, stories you’re not allowed to ask about – it leaves you filling in the blanks with anxiety. You learn to adapt, to read the room, to second-guess. But it also leaves you emotionally ravenous. That’s where the hunger comes in.

In many ways, I think that hunger forged my career. It made me determined to prove myself, to carve out a place on my own terms. But more importantly, it made me deeply attuned to the emotional landscapes of other people’s lives. That’s why family law spoke to me. It’s not just legal work – it’s emotional archaeology. Every case involves navigating grief, betrayal, identity, and sometimes redemption.

These days, I see echoes of my own story in the clients who walk through our doors. Women navigating the fallout of abandonment. Children caught between cultures. People seeking closure they may never get. And sometimes – sometimes – it’s about finding strength in the wreckage. That’s something I know intimately.

I’m grateful for the life I’ve built, but I’ll never pretend it came easy. It didn’t. It came through late nights, long odds, and a refusal to be defined by what was missing. My mother deserves all the credit for giving me the foundation to build on. My father? He gave me something too, though perhaps not in the way he intended. Absence can shape you as much as presence.

Families are complicated. Always have been. Always will be. But the one I’ve built at Vardags – with my team, with my clients, with the community we’ve created – is one I’m proud of. And this one, at least, I got to choose.

When we moved into our current office space, I wanted something that would feel deeply personal, even a little theatrical. Initially, we thought: let’s go for sleek and modern, minimalist – something City firms might expect. But as the rooms came together, it all felt cold. Sterile. So I changed tack. I wanted it to feel like a beautiful period home. Somewhere clients would feel safe and welcome. Somewhere we would enjoy being.

I found antique panelling from old houses up north. But English cabinet-makers no longer seemed to have the skills to install it with the intricacy I needed. Then, almost serendipitously, I remembered our neighbour in rural Italy – a production designer who had worked on La Vita è Bella. I asked if he could help, and he sent over his team of Italian craftsmen. They stayed in our house, and within two weeks, they’d built out the office like a film set. I was after warmth and elegance. Something timeless. It had to reflect who we are: rigorous, creative, a little bit romantic.

That’s the feel I try to bring to the whole firm – not just the decor, but the energy, the culture. I’ve never been one for clubs or cliques. I didn’t join the IAFL – not because I don’t respect it, but simply because I’m not a joiner. I’m allergic to gossip and bitchiness. It bores me. What drives me is the work. The clients. The cases. And creating a place where brilliant people can thrive.

Hiring has been one of our greatest challenges – and our greatest opportunities. Early on, we made some mistakes. We were expanding so fast, and we brought in lawyers who were stars elsewhere but didn’t align with how we think or work. Being good on paper isn’t enough. What matters to me is quality, creativity, and drive. It’s not a matter of compromise. If someone isn’t applying rigorous, original thinking to a case, I’m not interested. It’s not fair to the client – or to our team.

That’s why I’ve always stayed close to the substance of our work. When we’re overwhelmed, I take on the cases others can’t manage, shape them myself, and slowly distribute the work in a way that maintains our standards. It’s exhausting, yes, but it means the team works alongside me, absorbing how I do things. It keeps our ethos alive.

We’ve invested heavily in our graduate trainee programme, bringing in exceptional young people straight out of top universities. We pay their fees, give them real work from the start, and immerse them in how we do things. That’s where our future lies. The challenge is holding onto them when they become targets for headhunters – offered inflated salaries with fewer demands. But what they can’t offer is this culture, this level of exposure and responsibility, this mission.

Some people resist coming back to the office, but I’ve made it clear: we’re a five-day-a-week, in-person firm. I’ve seen too many people struggle in isolation. Community is what gets you through tough cases, difficult clients, long hours. You need someone to laugh with, someone to share the pressure. You can’t replicate that over Zoom.

That same belief – community, expression, presence – is why I changed our dress code too. The much-publicised “cardigan memo” – where I reportedly discouraged woolly layers and suggested more elegant alternatives – has evolved. Now, elegance trumps orthodoxy. One of our partners turned up in leather trousers and apologised. I thought she looked fabulous. So now the dress code is simple: think Annabel’s or a smart London club. Elegant, expressive, respectful. You can wear a suit, or gold lamé. Just own it.

Ultimately, what I’m building is a place where excellence and individuality are not at odds. I want people who are resilient, intellectually electric, charming, and curious. I want them to care about the work and about each other. That’s the alchemy. That’s what makes Vardags different. We’re not soft or fluffy – we’re hard-driving, passionate, and deeply human. And that, I think, is our greatest strength.