In every profession there are unspoken rules about survival. In court reporting, those rules are rarely written down, but they are learned early, absorbed quietly, and enforced socially. Do not rock the boat. Do not ask too many questions. Do not challenge the association line. Do not contradict the agency. Do not criticize the judge. Smile. Be agreeable. Be grateful to be there.
And above all, do not think too loudly.
For a profession that prides itself on accuracy, independence, and fidelity to the record, court reporting has developed a culture that often discourages independent thought. The irony is difficult to ignore. The very people entrusted with capturing the truth verbatim are frequently pressured—subtly and sometimes overtly—to suppress their own.
Sociologist Erving Goffman once described everyday life as a performance, divided between the “front stage” self we present to others and the “backstage” self we keep private. Over time, he warned, the performance can harden into identity. The mask calcifies. The actor forgets where the role ends and the person begins.
In court reporting, that process begins early. Students are told—sometimes lovingly, sometimes ominously—that there is a “right way” to be a reporter. The good reporter is easygoing. The good reporter does not complain about rates. The good reporter does not ask whether a new technology is ethical, legal, or even accurate. The good reporter does not challenge leadership, policy, or long-standing institutional decisions. The good reporter keeps their head down and their mouth shut.
What starts as professional caution becomes professional conformity.
This is not unique to court reporting, but the profession’s small size amplifies the effect. When your entire career depends on reputation, referrals, and being perceived as “easy to work with,” dissent feels dangerous. Questioning prevailing narratives—about digital recording, artificial intelligence, agency consolidation, or regulatory changes—can feel like professional suicide. So many reporters perform agreement instead.
Economist Timur Kuran coined the term “preference falsification” to describe this phenomenon: the act of misrepresenting one’s true beliefs in public due to social pressure. It is not lying in the dramatic sense. It is quieter than that. It is nodding along when something feels wrong. It is staying silent when a line is crossed. It is convincing yourself that discomfort is just the price of professionalism.
Over time, the silence compounds.
Court reporters privately express concerns about being replaced by technology they do not control. They worry about the erosion of licensure standards, the outsourcing of transcription, and the increasing power of venture-backed intermediaries. They question whether associations truly represent working reporters or primarily serve institutional partners. They notice contradictions. They see the gaps between rhetoric and reality.
But publicly, many say nothing.
The reasons are understandable. Reporters fear being labeled “difficult.” They fear losing work. They fear being frozen out of professional circles. They fear retaliation—real or perceived. In a profession built on neutrality, there is a persistent belief that having an opinion is itself a violation.
Yet neutrality is not the same as silence.
There is a difference between faithfully recording proceedings and surrendering one’s agency as a professional. The record requires accuracy. The profession requires judgment. Confusing the two has consequences.
When reporters suppress their own analysis, the profession becomes vulnerable to narratives written by others—by agencies, vendors, consultants, and investors whose incentives may not align with long-term professional integrity. Decisions get framed as inevitable. Disruption gets marketed as progress. Concerns get dismissed as fear or resistance to change.
And reporters, having practiced silence long enough, begin to doubt their own instincts.
This is how a profession forgets how to think.
The most insidious effect of prolonged performance is not external control but internal erosion. When reporters repeatedly override their own judgment in favor of social approval, they lose confidence in their ability to evaluate risk, ethics, and consequence. The mask stops feeling like a choice and starts feeling like reality.
At that point, conformity no longer feels imposed. It feels natural.
You see it when reporters defend systems that marginalize them. When they repeat talking points that undermine their own leverage. When they police one another more aggressively than they challenge external threats. When dissenters are treated as embarrassments rather than early warning signals.
The profession does not lack intelligence. It lacks permission.
Permission to ask uncomfortable questions. Permission to say, “This doesn’t make sense.” Permission to acknowledge that being agreeable has not protected the profession from economic pressure or technological displacement. Permission to admit that loyalty, when unreciprocated, becomes self-betrayal.
There is a deep sadness beneath the surface of this dynamic. Many reporters entered the profession because they valued truth, precision, and accountability. They believed in the importance of the record. Yet they find themselves participating in a culture where truth is selectively spoken and accountability is unevenly enforced.
This dissonance takes a toll.
Burnout in court reporting is often framed as physical—repetitive stress injuries, long hours, intense concentration. But there is also moral fatigue. The exhaustion that comes from repeatedly performing compliance while privately feeling misaligned. The fatigue of watching decisions being made “for the good of the profession” without meaningful input from those doing the work.
At some point, the question becomes unavoidable: Who is this performance for?
When reporters start asking that question, something shifts. The mask becomes visible again. And once seen, it becomes harder to wear.
Thinking independently does not mean being reckless or adversarial. It means engaging honestly with reality. It means distinguishing between professionalism and passivity. It means recognizing that silence is not neutral when it consistently benefits one side of a power imbalance.
The future of court reporting will not be decided solely by technology. It will be decided by whether reporters are willing to think, speak, and act as autonomous professionals rather than compliant performers.
That does not require unanimity. It requires honesty.
A profession that cannot tolerate internal disagreement is not stable; it is brittle. A profession that punishes critical thought in the name of harmony eventually finds itself unprepared for disruption. Consensus achieved through fear is not strength. It is fragility.
Court reporters do not need to be louder. They need to be truer—to themselves and to one another.
The irony is that the very skill that defines the profession—the ability to listen carefully and capture what is actually said—may be the key to its renewal. But that skill must be turned inward as well as outward. Reporters must listen to the quiet unease they have learned to ignore.
The mask has served its purpose. It helped people survive in a constrained environment. But survival is not the same as integrity, and it is certainly not the same as leadership.
At some point, every profession faces a reckoning between performance and authenticity. Court reporting is there now. The question is not whether reporters are capable of thinking for themselves. It is whether they are willing to stop pretending they cannot.
Because the longer a profession mistakes silence for unity, the harder it becomes to recognize its own voice when it finally speaks.
StenoImperium
Court Reporting. Unfiltered. Unafraid.
Disclaimer
This article reflects my perspective and analysis as a court reporter and eyewitness. It is not legal advice, nor is it intended to substitute for the advice of an attorney.
This article includes analysis and commentary based on observed events, public records, and legal statutes.
The content of this post is intended for informational and discussion purposes only. All opinions expressed herein are those of the author and are based on publicly available information, industry standards, and good-faith concerns about nonprofit governance and professional ethics. No part of this article is intended to defame, accuse, or misrepresent any individual or organization. Readers are encouraged to verify facts independently and to engage constructively in dialogue about leadership, transparency, and accountability in the court reporting profession.
- The content on this blog represents the personal opinions, observations, and commentary of the author. It is intended for editorial and journalistic purposes and is protected under the First Amendment of the United States Constitution.
- Nothing here constitutes legal advice. Readers are encouraged to review the facts and form independent conclusions.
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