From Boots to Briefs: Navigating Law, Land and Family

– 2025 Fall Grad Spotlight | Hunter Wiggins –
Cecil C. Humphreys School of Law –

I didn’t leave the Marine Corps in 2015 with a grand plan. I separated off active duty, slid back into the reserves and did what a lot of guys do. I found a job, tried to settle into civilian life and told myself I’d figure it out as I went.

At the time, my wife and I were living around Nashville, Tenn. I was working in sales, which I never really loved. I could talk to anyone, but it always felt forced, like I was pretending to know someone I’d just met. It didn’t sit right with me.

While I was in the reserves, my unit was based out of Mobile, Ala. Most of the officers there were FBI agents. Being around them opened my eyes. They talked about the work in a way that felt familiar. Structure. Purpose. Service.

Someone told me once that the FBI was basically the Marine Corps in a different uniform, and that stuck with me. When I asked what it took to get there, the answer was simple: you need a college degree.

That’s when the GI Bill stopped being an abstract benefit and became a ticking clock. At the time, if you didn’t use it within a certain window, you lost it. I couldn’t transfer it to my wife. We didn’t have kids. I realized pretty quickly that if the Marine Corps had gotten their time out of me, I was going to get mine out of the system.

So, I walked into a community college with no real idea what I was doing. I didn’t come from a college-educated family. My background was blue collar and military. I just happened to stumble into the office of a VA liaison who took one look at my service transcripts and pointed me toward criminal justice.

Soon, I began a journey that led me to Memphis, the law and a 60-acre farm.

Walking Into the Classroom

I was in my early 30s when I started college, and I was terrified. That still surprises people when I say it. I’d been to war. I’d done hard things.

But walking into a classroom full of kids fresh out of high school had me sweating. I didn’t know the language or the systems. I didn’t know where I fit.

The fear didn’t last long. After a few weeks, I realized people are just people. I didn’t have much in common with my classmates, and I mostly kept to myself at first, but nobody treated me badly.

If anything, once people learned about my background, they were curious. The military had already taught me how to exist in a cultural melting pot, so this was just another version of that.

I earned my associate’s degree and then transferred to Middle Tennessee State University to finish my bachelor’s degree. The GI Bill paid the bills, and that alone changed my life.

College wasn’t easy, but it wasn’t overwhelming either. Being older helped. You have more common sense. You know how to manage your time. You’re there for a reason.

At that point, I still thought my future was in law enforcement. Maybe the FBI. Maybe something local or state-level. I wasn’t thinking about law school. Not even close.

A Small-Town Detour

Everything changed during my last semester at MTSU.

My wife and I were ready to leave Nashville. The cost of living was climbing, the city was exploding and it felt suffocating. We’re both from Hardeman County and our families were still there. When my wife found a job back home, we jumped.

I told the school I was moving and asked if there was any way to finish my degree without renting another apartment. One of my professors stepped in and helped me restructure my classes. All I needed was an internship.

That’s how I ended up at a law firm in Bolivar, Tenn. It wasn’t some carefully plotted career move. It was convenience and timing. I just needed to graduate.

Once I was there, something clicked. I grew up in that town, I knew those people and I realized there was a real shortage of attorneys in rural communities like ours.

People started telling me the same thing over and over: you should think about law school. At first, I brushed it off. I was tired. We were moving. We were buying land. I went to work briefly for the Tennessee Highway Patrol and figured that would be enough.

But the idea stuck.

Becoming a father rearranged everything. Suddenly, grades and résumés mattered less than being present. It didn’t make me quit working hard; it just clarified why I was doing any of it in the first place. I shifted to part-time school to support my family and finished in three and a half years.

I graduated this month.

Why I Stayed, and Why It Matters

One of the most meaningful parts of law school was my externship with a local circuit court judge in Fayette County.

Instead of chasing some high-rise experience downtown, I wanted to see what the law looked like at home. My professors supported it completely.

That externship showed me the reality of practicing law. Law school teaches you breadth, but the real world teaches you need — and rural communities need lawyers. People need someone who understands them and who knows their names. Someone who isn’t passing through.

And I’m not going anywhere. If it’s up to me, I’ll be buried on this farm. I plan to serve however I can. Public defense. The DA’s office. A small local firm. Wherever the need is.

I take the bar exam in February. After that, we’ll see.

To veterans and adult learners wondering if it’s too late, I’ll say this: Do it. The discomfort is temporary. The regret of never trying lasts forever. You’ll figure it out. You’ll learn more about yourself than any class could ever teach you.

I didn’t take the straight path. But I found my way home.