Who Do We Really Meet the First Time?

If I see the cumulative analysis of everyone I have met, there is always one very distinct takeaway—the person I meet for the first time often loses the essence of who they seemed to be. There’s this uncanny moment, isn’t there, when you realize that the individual standing before you is more of a possibility than a reality? More of a promise than a person. In those early encounters, we tend to show not who we are, but who we could be.

This observation has made me believe that when we meet someone for the first time, they often showcase their potential self rather than their actual self. Science, too, whispers a similar story. Research into self-presentation suggests that we instinctively tweak our behaviour, our words, our very selves, to appear more likeable and appealing in the eyes of others.

A study from Harvard Business School underscores this—people will consciously adjust their behaviour—maybe by dressing impeccably or toning down opinions they think could spark conflict—just to leave a good impression. This instinct to appear likable, even at the expense of truth, speaks to something primal within us: our deep desire to be seen in the best light possible. It’s as if the very idea of being "unlikeable" in a first meeting is a threat, so we go to great lengths to ensure that we’re perceived in the most flattering way.

We’re wired for this. The human brain processes first impressions within milliseconds. We form snap judgments based on nonverbal cues like facial expressions, body language, and tone of voice. But here’s the thing: it's not just about who we meet—it’s about the version of ourselves we project. We craft this image, this version of who we want to be seen as, as if to fit perfectly into some unspoken societal mold that demands praise, acceptance, and approval.

But, as you may have guessed, that carefully curated self doesn’t last. Once the urgency of the first impression fades, so too does the effort to maintain that picture-perfect version. Perhaps it's because we grow tired. We grow exhausted from the constant performance—the calculated pauses, the smiles, the nods. Columbia University psychologists explain that this kind of self-monitoring, where we actively regulate our behavior for others, can be mentally draining. So, eventually, the façade cracks, and our true selves begin to seep through the cracks.

This unraveling is subtle, like a slow reveal over time. It’s often so gradual that we don’t even notice it happening. With each new interaction, the layers peel back. Things we might have once overlooked—like a cluttered apartment or a poorly timed comment—suddenly seem like glaring imperfections. Columbia’s studies on relationships suggest that what started as empathy and open-mindedness can eventually transform into judgment, but it’s not that we lose respect; it's that we stop filtering what we see. And once that filter is gone, we’re left with something more real, and sometimes, more raw.

One pivotal concept here is the "liking gap," a term coined by psychologists at MIT. It describes how, during initial encounters, people consistently underestimate how much others like them. This often leads to an unconscious overcompensation—a meticulous crafting of how we’re perceived. But as familiarity grows, that crafting dissolves, revealing a truer, sometimes less polished version of ourselves.

Let me take you to the story of someone I met a few days ago—let’s call him "X." Meeting him resurfaced this long-buried thought. In the beginning, our conversations were full of openness, vulnerability, and dreams. But looking back, I realize that much of what I shared wasn’t my reality—it was a carefully constructed version of who I wanted to be. We do this as a way of "rewriting" ourselves when meeting someone new. We narrate our lives not as they are, but as they could be. And we hope that the person on the other end buys into that version of us. But, inevitably, the gloss begins to wear off. We start to feel less compelled to keep up the act, and, perhaps, we realize that the other person is just as human as we are.

Over time, "X" stopped being the attentive, empathetic listener he once was. He became more dismissive, with moments of insensitivity that made me feel unheard. I began to wonder if he, too, was playing a part, crafting a version of himself to meet expectations, but found it too exhausting to maintain. And then the cycle begins again: we curate, we crumble, we curate again—always for someone new. But why do we keep doing this? What drives us to present this curated self over and over again?

 Perhaps it’s a survival instinct. Meeting someone new is like planting a seed—we present the most fertile soil we have, hoping to foster connection. But as the plant grows, it reveals the imperfections of the soil. Maybe it’s also about safety; we start with what we hope to be and reveal who we are only when we feel secure enough to do so.

Sonya Renee Taylor once wrote that "we will not go back to normal; normal never was." Similarly, in our human interactions, the "normal" self we showcase at first is rarely the truth. It’s a placeholder, a promise, an offering to the world of who we might become. Perhaps the greatest kindness we can offer each other is patience—to see not just who someone is the first time we meet them but who they become when the performance is over.

Maybe we should stop pretending to be someone likable and give the freedom of choice and interpretation to the other person to choose us, like us, love us—not because we are perfect or unlikeable, but like us despite our shortcomings. Just imagine the kind of trust we could foster in a world where people aren’t so afraid of others "changing" or lying. We can strive to be the version of ourselves that we know to be true, without altering, adapting, or advancing it. Do we truly love ourselves if we are too scared to let others see us as we see ourselves?