We Didn’t Start From Zero (And That’s Ok)
The Real You Begins Where the Pretending Ends
“The principles of justice are chosen behind a veil of ignorance.” —John Rawls
I was on a walk the other day, listening to a podcast, when this guy—very polished, very rich, very sincere—started talking about how he “started from zero” in his family’s business.
Yes, his father owned the company, but he insisted on beginning at the bottom as a regular employee, a humble soldier, and just one of the guys.
I laughed.
Not because he said something funny. He wasn’t bragging. He seemed convinced he had leveled the field by clocking in like everyone else, that his last name had been neutralized by sheer work ethic.
Have you ever heard someone say something so earnestly wrong that you almost admire the commitment?
I recognized it—I’ve done it.
I’m a privileged guy. My father built something significant, and I’ve benefited from it in every possible way. Schools, connections, and safety nets, I didn’t even realize, were safety nets at the time. And still, I used to tell myself I was earning it. That my hustle somehow canceled out the Head Start.
It didn’t.
And yet, for a long time, I needed to believe that.
For years, I told myself a version of the same fairy tale. Mine went something like this: Yes, I had privileges, but I worked hard. I didn’t ask for favors. I took the long route. I carried my bags (sometimes literally).
And to be fair, I did work hard. I did prove myself. I did show up, stayed late, and put in the hours.
But here’s the part I conveniently left out: I always had a parachute.
Everyone else was free-climbing the cliff. I was on a well-padded hiking trail with a guide, snacks, and a satellite phone in my pocket.
I remember this one time—I was in my twenties—when I proudly turned down an offer from my dad to fast-track something for me. “No, I want to earn it,” I said, with the seriousness only a young man full of illusions can muster.
At the time, it felt noble. Brave, even. But looking back? It was mainly theater because it wasn’t a sacrifice, not when the door was always there. Not when everyone in the room knew whose son I was.
A funny kind of mental gymnastics happens when you want to feel like you’re just like everyone else, despite every piece of evidence. I downplayed what I had. I overinflated what I gave up. I tried to camouflage my last name under humility and hard work.
But no matter how much I tried to blend in, I always had a different costume on. And everyone else could see it, even if I pretended they couldn’t.
There’s something intoxicating about the idea that we all start from the same line—that success is just a matter of how badly you want it. You'll make it if you're disciplined, clever, and hungry enough.
It’s the bedtime story of modern capitalism.
And it’s bullshit most of the time.
But oh, how I wanted it to be true. Not just for me, but for everyone. It makes the world feel fairer. Simpler. Like there’s a formula to follow. And it lets people like me off the hook. If I started from zero, then my wins are mine. If I clawed my way up like anyone else, I deserve whatever I got.
That’s why the guy on the podcast sounded so familiar—not just in tone, but in motivation. He wasn’t being malicious. He was being human. He needed the same thing I once needed: a story that made him feel proud of himself without sitting in the discomfort of privilege.
Because admitting you had an advantage feels... unfair. Like you’re undermining your effort. And we’re allergic to that in our culture, especially when we’ve been marinated in stories of self-made billionaires, garage startups, and rags-to-riches legends with good lighting.
But here’s what no one likes to say: the field isn’t leveled. It never was.
And pretending it is doesn’t make it fair—it just makes it dishonest.
There’s a difference between earning something and acting like the context didn’t help.
When we try to flatten that context, we don’t just erase the truth—we erase everyone who never had the same chance to believe the same lie.
I'll say this loud and clear: having privilege doesn’t make you bad.
It just makes you… privileged.
Somewhere along the way, we started acting like privilege was a moral failing, like it meant you cheated or skipped a line or schemed your way into the VIP lounge of life. So, to dodge that shame, we perform humility. We overcorrect. We pretend we came in through the back door like everyone else.
But privilege isn’t a confession—it’s context. You don’t have to feel guilty about it. You have to stop pretending it didn’t exist.
Back to the podcast guy—maybe he was humble. Maybe he worked hard, treated everyone respectfully, and brought donuts to the morning meetings. Who knows? That’s not the issue. The issue is thinking that behavior somehow rewrites the facts. That, by playing it low-key, he erased the power imbalance.
He didn’t. None of it does.
Because you can’t unprivilege yourself, you can’t work it off like an extra dessert. You can’t out-humble the structural advantages that shaped your life. And trying to do so doesn’t make you relatable—it makes you dishonest.
I know this because I’ve done it. I wanted people to see me, not my parents' wealth. I wanted to be liked for my ideas, not my proximity to influence. I didn’t want to feel like I was along for someone else's ride.
People saw me. They saw my efforts, safety net, intentions, and unspoken leverage. And the only person who thought he was fooling anyone was me.
For a long time, I felt like I had to choose: either deny my privilege or drown in guilt about it. Those were the only two settings on the dial: delusion or shame spiral.
Neither worked.
Delusion kept me disconnected. Shame kept me small. Neither one helped me grow.
What finally worked was accepting reality, not just to others but to myself.
Yes, I had a head start. Yes, I was given things most people have to fight for. And yes, I’ve also worked hard, cared deeply, made sacrifices, and built things I’m proud of.
Both things can be true. Both are true.
Something happens when you stop trying to sanitize your story: you become more human. More trustworthy. You stop playing a part and start showing up as someone who’s not afraid to acknowledge the whole picture.
I’m not ashamed of being my father’s son. I’m proud of it. He built something incredible. That doesn’t make me bad or lesser—it gives me a responsibility. Not to undo what I was given, but to use it well. I stopped pretending the ladder wasn’t shorter for me.
The goal isn’t to “earn” every inch of what you have. That’s a losing game. The goal is to live in integrity with it.
We do ourselves—and each other—a disservice when we turn privilege into a dirty word or insist on rewriting our lives to make them more palatable, more “relatable,” more politically correct.
Because the truth is, we’re all privileged.
Just not always in the ways we’re used to measuring.
Some of us are born into money. Others into health. Or safety, or a passport that lets us move through the world without suspicion. Some inherit status. Others inherit skin that doesn’t raise alarms in traffic stops. Or a home with books. Or a life where clean water and working Wi-Fi are just... normal.
And let’s not forget the biggest privilege of all: time.
We were born now. Into a world of antibiotics, electricity, instant communication, and on-demand answers to almost any question. For most of history, even the richest kings didn’t have it this good. We live like wizards compared to anyone born a few hundred years ago. Running water, hot showers, and flying through the sky in metal tubes are absurd, miraculous, and easy to forget.
Privilege isn’t just a bank account—it’s context. And recognizing yours doesn’t make you weak or guilty. It just makes you honest.
So no, I didn’t start from zero. I started from a place many people can’t even imagine. And while I used to twist myself into knots trying to prove I was “just like everyone else,” I’ve realized something simpler:
I didn’t build the ground I stand on; I built on it.
And now, I can stop wasting time trying to outrun the truth.
So if you’re someone who’s also been given more than most—and chances are, if you're reading this, you are—then here’s my invitation:
Don’t pretend you started from nothing.
Don’t dilute your story to make it easier to tell.
Don’t confuse humility with erasure.
Start from the truth.
Start from gratitude.
Start by being aware that having more doesn’t make you better—it just makes you more responsible for what you do with it.
And maybe, just maybe, start from the question:
What will I do with everything I didn’t earn, but still get to hold?
Because that’s where the real you emerges—not in what you were given, but in how you choose to handle it and the responsibilities that follow.
📚 Book Recommendation
Privilege: The Making of an Adolescent Elite at St. Paul’s School by Shamus Rahman Khan
Want to go deeper? Shamus Khan’s Privilege is part memoir, field study, and all insight. It unpacks how privilege isn’t just what you have, but what you learn to ignore.