Kerri Sigler, an attorney with Legal Aid of North Carolina’s Winston-Salem office, doesn’t practice law from behind a desk or inside a single courthouse. Her work stretches across county lines, along back roads and into small rural courtrooms where access to legal help is often limited or sometimes doesn’t exist at all.
As a traveling attorney in the domestic violence unit, she serves Yadkin, Surry, and Stokes counties, places where many survivors would otherwise have no attorney. In a state where people are not guaranteed a lawyer in civil cases, her presence is critical.
Each morning starts the same way: in mom mode, doing the school drop-off, before quickly shifting into attorney mode. From there, she is on the road, sometimes driving an hour or more to whichever courthouse needs her that day.
“As a lawyer handling three counties, being a traveling attorney means I am never in the city where my office is located,” she says. “And I am always in at least one, if not several, other counties on a daily basis.”
Her days move quickly. She goes from case to case, standing beside clients during some of the most difficult and dangerous moments of their lives. By midday, she is shifting gears, documenting cases, reaching out to new clients, working with interns, and preparing for what comes next before getting back on the road to do it all again.
This is what it looks like to serve rural communities at Legal Aid of North Carolina. It means meeting people where they are, not where it is convenient. It means making sure geography does not decide who gets help and who does not.
Survivors in these communities are often deeply isolated and cut off from financial resources. These factors make it notably difficult for them to seek help on their own. Many cannot afford an attorney, and without Legal Aid, they would be left to navigate the legal system alone or remain in dangerous situations.
“These victims are often isolated from friends and family and forbidden from working,” Kerri explains. “So they’re trapped. I love being able to step in and fight for them just because it’s the right thing to do, no money required.”
The impact of that work shows up in quiet, unexpected ways. One day in Surry County, a man approached her in a courthouse parking lot just to say thank you. He had seen her in court before and recognized what she was doing for survivors.
“It touched my heart that it meant something to this man for me to be up there representing DV victims,” she says.
But the weight of her work is most felt in the stories that unfold inside the courtroom.
She remembers representing a woman who had endured decades of abuse, including repeated sexual violence within her marriage. When the woman arrived in court, she was overwhelmed and terrified at the thought of testifying. The opposing party initially demanded a trial, which would have forced her to relive years of trauma.
“I really wanted to rip this guy’s head off,” Kerri says. “But that was not going to help my client.”
So instead, she stepped outside with the defendant and approached the conversation calmly. Within minutes, the case was resolved.
No trial. No testimony. No additional trauma. Her client was able to walk away that day and begin again.
“That was a good win and a good day,” she says.
After 17 years as an attorney, Kerri describes this as the most challenging work she has ever done.
“This work is exhausting,” she says. “The three years of exclusive DV work have been by far the most mentally and emotionally challenging.”
And still, it is the most meaningful.
“This is by far the most fulfilling work I have done as a lawyer.”
Her work reflects something bigger about Legal Aid of North Carolina. As a nonprofit serving all 100 counties, Legal Aid exists to make sure people are not left without help simply because they cannot afford it or because of where they live. Nearly half of North Carolina’s counties are considered legal deserts, places where there simply are not enough attorneys to meet the need.
“I am going to fight for you no matter what,” she says.
For Kerri, it really comes down to showing up and using her strength for someone who needs it. Mile after mile, case after case, she carries that commitment with her, making sure access to justice is not determined by location, income, or circumstance.
In the end, her work is not defined by the distance she drives, but by what that distance makes possible.