They Met You First
The people who knew you earliest don't just remember who you were—they claim permanent authority over who you're allowed to become
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Jennifer didn’t apply to medical school because her mother told her she wasn’t good at science.
This wasn’t true. Jennifer had gotten A’s in biology and chemistry. Scored high on the MCAT practice test. Her advisor encouraged her to apply. But her mother had known her since childhood. Had watched her struggle with math in elementary school. Had seen her give up on science fair projects in middle school.
“That’s just not who you are, honey. You’ve never been good at that stuff.”
Jennifer believed her. Not because the evidence supported it. Because her mother knew the real her. The one from before. And that version had more authority than the current version.
Ten years later, Jennifer sells pharmaceuticals. Successful. Well-paid. Deeply unfulfilled. When she mentions thinking about med school, her mother laughs. “You’re not still on that, are you? We’ve been over this. That’s not you.”
Her mother met her first. And the person who meets you first claims permanent expertise on who you really are.
The Early Expert Problem
The people who knew you earliest don’t just remember who you were. They claim authority over who you can become.
Your parent who knew you as a kid. Your hometown friends who knew you in high school. Your first manager who knew you as an entry-level employee. They met you in your earliest form. And that form, to them, is your truest form. Everything after is performance or delusion.
This is why your growth threatens them. Not because they don’t want you to succeed. Because your success invalidates their expertise. They knew you when you were struggling. When you were uncertain. When you were bad at things. That knowledge gave them authority. They understood you in ways you didn’t understand yourself.
But if you change, their expertise becomes outdated. The person they knew isn’t the person you are. Which means they don’t know you. Which means their authority was temporary. Which is intolerable.
So they defend their expertise. By insisting the old version is the real version. And the new version is you “trying to be someone you’re not.”
Why the Old Version Has More Authority
Here’s the uncomfortable mechanism: You’ve accepted that the people who met you first know you better than you know yourself.
Your mother’s assessment of your science ability from when you were twelve carries more weight than your assessment of yourself at twenty-two. Your friend’s memory of you being bad with money at eighteen overrides your current financial stability at thirty. Your old manager’s evaluation of you as “not leadership material” lingers longer than your current role leading a team.
Why? Because they knew you before you had reason to lie to yourself. Before you developed an ego. Before you had something to prove. So their assessment feels more objective. More true.
But here’s what you’re missing: They didn’t know you better. They just knew you earlier. And you’ve confused chronology with authority.
The Permission You’re Really Seeking
You’re not asking permission to grow. You’re asking permission for the new version to be considered real.
Because as long as the people who knew you first insist the old version was the real you, the new version feels like performance. Like you’re pretending. Like you’re trying to be someone you’re not.
This is why Jennifer can’t apply to med school. Not because her mother will stop her. Because her mother’s insistence that “you’re not good at science” carries the weight of deeper knowledge. Of knowing the real Jennifer. The one from before she had something to prove.
And as long as Jennifer believes her mother’s expertise is valid, she’ll never know if the new Jennifer is real or just trying to be someone the old Jennifer wasn’t.
The Cost
Every time you defer to their assessment, you’re choosing their outdated expertise over your current evidence.
Every time you accept their version of who you “really” are, you’re granting permanent authority to temporary knowledge. Every time you let their memory of the old you override your experience of the current you, you’re staying the version they recognize instead of becoming the version you’re capable of.
Jennifer is forty now. Still selling pharmaceuticals. Still thinking about med school. Still believing her mother knows something about her that she doesn’t know about herself.
Her mother doesn’t. Her mother just knew her first. And Jennifer gave chronology the authority of truth.
The Question
Who are you believing about yourself? And why do they know better than you do?
Not because they’ve seen your recent work. Not because they’ve witnessed your growth. But because they knew you before. When you were younger. Less capable. Different.
Ask yourself: What would you attempt if the people who knew you first didn’t get to vote on what you’re capable of?
That thing you’re not attempting because “that’s not who you are”—who decided that? And when did they decide it?
And why are you still letting them be right?
Thank you for reading,
Scott
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This is a good barometer for old friends. Those that slip into slotting you within their version of the old you, and don’t acknowledge your change or growth, are people you should be very wary of. It’s different to reminisce of old times vs. keeping you in their bubble. It’s not worth the energy and only hurts who you want to be.