Courtesy of Jun Luke Foster

It was the wig that threw me off.

At the Yale Law Revue show — an annual satirical performance by the Law School’s graduating class — a pianist in a platinum-blond wig was banging out a Paramore anthem with the conviction of a punk-rock prophet. His fingers danced across the keys like someone who had done this a thousand times before. The band was tight, the audience of soon-to-be-lawyers went crazy and the energy was joyous and theatrical and a little bit lawless.

I didn’t recognize him. Not until later.

The man at the piano was Jun Luke Foster ’14 LAW ’25, who graduated from Yale College in 2014. This month, in a different gown and a very different world, he graduates again — this time from Yale Law School.

Between those two diplomas lies a life lived on two very different stages: eight years of professional musical study and performance and now, a legal education grounded in service and principle. For Foster, the blond wig and the Paramore cover weren’t just a gimmick. They were a collision of two selves: the artist and the advocate.

And in this year’s moment of commencement and uncertainty, his story feels like a quiet offering to the Yale College class of 2025: you don’t have to have it all figured out. You just have to hold onto your soul.

Back in 2014, Foster majored in ethics, politics and economics, focusing on wealth and income inequality, but he was also a pianist and had been since childhood. That year, he walked away from campus and into conservatories and concert halls, studying at Juilliard and the Peabody Institute, performing, composing and earning a doctorate in music.

“I wanted to do a chapter in music full-time,” he said. “But I was pretty certain that at some point I would return to something closer to issues of inequality and justice.”

Even as the music deepened, the pull of public service never faded. By 2022, the pivot had come.

“There were just problems that music alone couldn’t address. And I think the first Trump presidency solidified the sense that there was so much work to be done outside of music — that I couldn’t spend the rest of my life only playing piano.”

In some ways, the return to Yale was inevitable. But it wasn’t nostalgic. The world had changed, and so had he.

“When I graduated, Barack Obama was president. And Donald Trump’s main political activity was spreading false rumors about Obama’s birth,” he reflected. “Now we’re in such a different time… we’re graduating at a time when the rule of law and democracy are under attack. And that’s very sobering.”

While Foster had spent years in academia and at Yale College, law school was a different beast. The magic of being back in New Haven lasted about a week. Then the readings began. “Pretty quickly,” he said, “you feel like you’re in a different world.”

Still, Foster found purpose in the clinics — applying legal training to real cases and clients through Yale Law’s Medical Legal Partnership Project and the Rule of Law Clinic. He worked in support of litigation challenging the Trump administration’s invocation of the Alien Enemies Act to deport individuals without due process. He helped teach undergraduate students in constitutional law, and he never lost the rhythm of his other life.

Just two days before Law Revue, he performed a recital alongside violinist Fumika Mizuno LAW ’26, playing pieces by Bach, Brahms and Schubert. It was an emotional moment and a return to the concert stage that had once been his home.

“Within one week,” he said, “to share some of the classical music that I had spent eight years developing, and then two days later to be in a punk rock band in front of my entire law school class … that was striking.”

It wasn’t just about keeping his hands on the keys. It was about holding on to something deeper — the part of him that found spiritual sustenance in art, even while working to fix a broken system.

When asked what advice he would give undergraduates about staying true to themselves, Foster didn’t hesitate.

“In the words of Tracy Chapman,” he said, “all that you have is your soul. And if you lose your principles and values, you lose who you are.”

Foster noted how the years after graduation are a good time to try different things — to explore the world and figure out the heart of oneself.

“Keep a growth mindset. Give yourself grace. Let yourself fail and move on. And don’t chase other people’s visions of success — you’ll end up empty. Even if you keep your career, why would you want one without your soul?”

He speaks from experience. He’s living proof that detours aren’t failures: they’re movements, modulations, bridges between what you thought you’d be and what you’re becoming. Having lived inside two radically different worlds — music and law — he understands how shallow accolades can also feel when divorced from purpose.

“So many of the gold stars that we stress about in one world mean very little to people outside it,” he said. “Musicians don’t care about the little symbols of prestige that carry so much currency at a place like

Yale Law. And vice versa.”

Foster doesn’t know exactly where he’s headed next — other than two clerkships with federal judges. After that, maybe work in litigation. Maybe some form of public service. Maybe both.

But he knows what matters. “We’re equipped by a place like this to be of service,” he said. “But that only works if we make good on the promise and follow through.”

That message, equal parts invitation and warning, feels especially urgent for the class of 2025. Many will go into government, journalism, tech, nonprofits, finance and law. The choices they make will shape institutions — or remake them.

I left the Law Revue that night, not knowing I’d just seen Jun Luke Foster at the piano. But somehow, in hindsight, it fits perfectly. The rock band. The recital. The law clinics. The classrooms. The courts.

The performance never really stopped. It just changed stages. And if there’s one thing he hopes the graduating class takes with them, it’s this: you don’t have to rush to pick one thing forever. You just have to hold on to your values, to your passions, to your soul.

Because everything else — law school, music, even Yale — is only meaningful if it’s in service of that.