I have been wondering about a rather peculiar human tendency.
We all know of a businessman or two who scaled businesses from a few million dollars into empires worth hundreds of billions. Yet, when we talk about such success, the explanations often sound like this: “He knew the right people. He had government support. He was in the right place at the right time. He was lucky. It won’t last. Remember, one of his companies went belly up!” Somehow, these explanations come before we wonder about his ambition, courage, intelligence, appetite for risk or sheer ability to execute.
Then there is the enormously successful actor who enters politics and builds an extraordinary following. Again, there are ready explanations. “Being Celebrity helped him. People are emotional. Cinema created his image. Politics is different from real achievement. He will fail. People will realise eventually.”
Consider someone born in a small village, without money, family background, education or connections, who rises to an extraordinary position in life. Even there, the mind can be wonderfully inventive. “Times were different. He met the right person. Somebody gave him an opportunity. There must be more to the story than we understand. I hear it is all a show and hollow inside. We will know soon. These things don’t last.”
And then there is someone who has made enormous money. We look at him and say, “If I ran behind money, I could have made it too. But money is not important to me.”
Fair enough. But nobody was asking whether money was important to you. We were talking about what he had achieved. Somewhere, without realising it, the conversation moved from “who he is” to “who you are” or perhaps, “who you are not.”
Why does the mind so quickly look for reasons that explain another person’s success without giving much credit to the person himself? The examples may be different, but the responses seem to have something in common.
And I started wondering, Why do we do this?
Is it jealousy? Maybe, sometimes. But jealousy seems too simple an explanation.
Is it insecurity? Ego? Some form of psychological self defence? Is it our mind’s way of protecting our sense of self worth when confronted with somebody who has achieved something we haven’t? Or is it simply a very human tendency to explain the world in a way that leaves us reasonably pleased with ourselves?
I don’t know.
Psychologists probably have much more impressive words for all this. But I began wondering whether the answer might actually be much simpler.
When I look at another person, I may think I am seeing him for “who he is.” But in reality, I may sometimes be expressing “who I am not.”
Suppose I meet someone who has created enormous wealth. My first instinct could be curiosity. “What does this man know that I don’t? What did he see that others didn’t? How did he think about risk? How did he build relationships? How did he raise capital? How did he keep going when the outcome was uncertain?”
But that is not always where the mind goes. Sometimes it goes somewhere much more comfortable.
“He had connections.”
Maybe he did.
“He was lucky.”
Quite possibly.
“He was close to the government.”
Perhaps.
“I wouldn’t want that kind of life anyway.”
Also possible.
But then comes the question I find much more interesting.
Why did I choose to see that first?
Perhaps the answer has less to do with him than I imagined.
The same thing happens everywhere. I see someone extraordinarily fit. Do I admire the discipline, or immediately calculate how many hours he must be wasting in the gym?
I meet somebody who has read hundreds of books. Do I become curious about what he has learnt, or suddenly announce that I believe more in “practical knowledge”?
I meet someone who has built an enormous company. Do I study his ambition and execution, or suddenly become deeply concerned about his work life balance?
Someone is exceptionally disciplined. Do I admire the discipline, or remind myself that “life is meant to be enjoyed”?
Someone has an extraordinary network. Do I ask how he built those relationships, or dismiss them as “connections”?
It is remarkable how quickly I can discover a new philosophy when somebody else becomes inconveniently good at something.
None of this necessarily means that my observations are wrong. That is important. The businessman may genuinely have benefited from political access. The actor may genuinely have benefited from fame. The person from the village may have encountered a life changing opportunity. The wealthy man may have been lucky. Privilege, access, timing, circumstance and luck are real forces in life.
But does identifying them explain the whole person?
Almost certainly not.
Perhaps the better question is not “Was he lucky?” but “What did he do with his luck?”
Not merely “Did he have connections?” but “How did he build and use those relationships?”
Not “Did cinema give him political visibility?” but “Why could he convert that visibility into trust and loyalty when hundreds of other famous people could not?”
Not “Did somebody give the village boy his first opportunity?” but “What did he possess that allowed one opportunity to become an extraordinary life?”
Luck may open a door. It doesn’t explain what somebody does after walking through it.
And perhaps that is where curiosity should replace judgement.
When somebody possesses something that I don’t, I seem to have three choices.
I can become curious: “What can I learn from him?”
I can explain: “There is a reason he has it and I don’t.”
Or I can devalue it: “What he has isn’t particularly important anyway.”
The last two are wonderfully comfortable. The first can be irritating. And perhaps that irritation is precisely where the learning begins.
If someone succeeded because of “connections,” I can stop there. Or I can ask, “How did he build those connections?” Why do important people trust him? Why does his telephone call get returned? Why do people repeatedly want to work with him?
If somebody became enormously wealthy by taking risks, I can call him reckless. Or I can ask, “What did he understand about risk that I didn’t?” Perhaps he was reckless. Perhaps he was courageous. Usually, the distinction becomes wonderfully obvious to the rest of us after we know the result.
If someone built a huge organisation through relentless work, I can focus entirely on what he sacrificed. Or I can ask, “What kind of intensity does it actually take to build something at that scale?”
And then there is the wonderfully convenient escape route:
“I never wanted what he has anyway.”
Sometimes that is absolutely true.
There are many things other people possess that I genuinely do not want. Life is ultimately a series of choices. One person chooses wealth, another scholarship, another public service, another family, another art, another adventure. Somebody else may simply want enough money, a comfortable chair and nobody calling him after six in the evening. There is wisdom in knowing what matters to you.
But there is a subtle difference between choosing not to climb a mountain and declaring the mountain is unimportant because somebody else reached the summit.
That distinction requires a little intellectual honesty.
I also don’t need to admire the whole person in order to admire something about him.
Can I disagree with someone’s values and still admire his courage? Of course.
Can I question someone’s methods and still study his ability to execute? Certainly.
Can I dislike someone’s politics and still acknowledge his ability to connect with millions of people? Why not?
Can I believe someone benefited enormously from circumstance and still recognise extraordinary ability? Absolutely.
Someone may have had access and extraordinary execution ability. Someone may have been lucky and possessed the intelligence to recognise the opportunity. Someone may have inherited wealth and multiplied it spectacularly. Someone may have begun with celebrity and possessed extraordinary political instinct.
One truth does not cancel another.
The real danger in explaining away another person’s strengths is not that I am being unfair to him. He will probably survive my judgement quite comfortably.
The person who loses is me.
If I reduce someone’s success to “connections,” I may never learn how relationships are built. If I reduce wealth to greed, I may never understand wealth creation. If I call discipline obsession, I may never examine my own inconsistency. If I dismiss ambition as ego, I may never ask whether I have settled too easily.
Judgement can become a remarkably efficient shield against learning. It also requires considerably less effort.
So perhaps the next time I encounter somebody who possesses something exceptional, whether it is wealth, intelligence, courage, discipline, influence, creativity, leadership, physical fitness, popularity or simply an extraordinary capacity for happiness, I should pay attention to my own first reaction.
“Why did I notice that particular thing?”
“Why did I immediately search for an explanation?”
“Why did I feel the need to identify what made his achievement easier?”
“Why did I suddenly decide that what he possesses isn’t particularly important to me?”
There may be perfectly legitimate answers.
But occasionally, those answers may tell me something I hadn’t intended to reveal.
Because when I speak about another person’s success, I may think I am explaining “who he is.” Without realising it, I may be revealing “who I am not.”
Perhaps genuine self-confidence begins when I can look at something exceptional in another human being, acknowledge it completely, learn whatever I can from it and feel absolutely no need to explain myself.