Being First

Thump-thump-thump-thump.

Those are my feet hitting the ground. The school track in Berdiansk, gym class, a thousand-meter run. Ahead of me, about a hundred meters out, Sasha's running. He's taller than me, stronger, more muscular. He trains with the city track club, his lungs are strong. Mine are weak, still recovering from pneumonia.

By all rights, he should be the one crossing the line first.

There's hardly any distance left to the finish. And that's when something switches on inside me.

Every year of school, whenever the boys ran cross-country in gym class, the same boy always crossed the line first. Andrey Polukhin.

I wasn't the strongest. Wasn't the tallest. And definitely wasn't the one with the most endurance. But the drive to be first came from somewhere inside me. Nobody taught me that.

One day there was a city-wide meet. Kids from different schools gathered at the city stadium, and standing past the finish line was the coach of the city track club. He'd catch whoever finished first. He caught me too. And invited me to join the club.

I went. I liked the long jump and the short sprints. I didn't like the hurdles. And the long cross-country runs were what I hated most, ten kilometers out to the Berdiansk Spit and back. I had no wind, and those runs just wore me down completely. I started skipping practice. Then I stopped going altogether.

But before that, I'd managed to bring my friend Sasha into the club. He's the one who stuck with it. It was easy for him: height, strength, lungs. He kept training. I didn't.

And still, in gym class, I'd beat him. Every single time.

I'd run behind him, practically on his heels. Well, about a hundred meters behind him. And when there was almost nothing left to the finish, I'd switch on everything I had. Every ounce of strength, every ounce of will.

What was going through my head back then, I honestly don't remember. I remember my body. My legs pumped like pistons, with such power and force, like they weren't my legs anymore but a machine. Like some engine was starting up inside me. Thump-thump-thump-thump, my legs beating out a rhythm, and I could hear it.

I'd collapse at the finish line, completely spent. I couldn't catch my breath, my throat burned, my legs felt like lead. There was probably pride in there somewhere, but I barely remember it. I just knew: I had to be first. No matter what.

And Sasha couldn't understand how I kept doing it. He was the better runner, after all. In the end he took it personally and stopped being my friend.

We never made up. Our lives went separate ways. And I can't say it made me sad. No pride, no guilt. He didn't want to be friends? Fine. I was calm about it, almost indifferent.

Now I understand: back then, beating Sasha mattered more to me than Sasha did.

Where did this "no matter what" come from?

Remember the storm from Chapter 1? My father walks out into those huge waves, and I wait on the shore for two hours. He told me later that he loved fighting the elements and coming out of it calm, alive, unhurt.

When I remember those words now, I get goosebumps. For me, that's a sign: yes, my father shaped me. By his own example.

But in that same first chapter, I wrote: genes don't work on their own. My father showed me it was possible. But in those last hundred meters, every single time, I was the one making the decision.

There was a second layer underneath this drive, too. I only saw it very recently.

As a kid, I was shy, different from everyone else, and my classmates laughed at me. Sometimes they flat-out bullied me. It was the same at naval college. A kid who'd been labeled a black box, overlooked, laughed at.

And maybe that kid, with every finishing sprint, was saying: "I'm not small. I matter. I can be out in front."

I'm not diagnosing myself here. It's a guess, nothing more. But one story backs it up pretty well.

By then I was grown up and already a leader, and I was putting together my own recruiting system. I told Natasha about it. And she said three other leaders were already using something similar. She didn't say who.

And I started shaking. Literally. Nervous tremors, all through my body.

I didn't understand what was happening to me at the time. Now I see it: it was the same track. Someone had passed me. And inside, that same kid was screaming: "So I'm not good enough."

A simple thought helped me. Fine, say a hundred people start using this system tomorrow. Say it works and helps people. What part of me shrinks because of that?

Nothing.

When I reread this story today, I don't shake anymore. I get goosebumps — goosebumps of understanding.

Here's a different story. Remember the forty-seven leaders who came to me in a single day? For a while, I was number one.

Not for long.

The strongest leader among them eventually passed me in earnings.

And you know what I felt? It felt good. No hostility, no rivalry. He was my partner, my leader, and he'd become number one.

And when I myself was number one, I didn't feel especially thrilled about it. I didn't even really celebrate.

Same person, same Andrey. But first place no longer had the same grip on me it had back in school.

So what does "being first" actually mean? I had to dig deep into myself to answer that. And I came up with three levels.

Level one — being first among others. I'm out ahead. This is where the competition lives, the comparison, the need to be recognized. This is where that kid on the track still lives.

Level two — being first into the new. Being the first to see it, the first to start, the first to go where others haven't worked up the nerve to go yet. With no guarantee anyone will understand you.

Level three — being first for yourself. Being the first to hear yourself. The first to tell yourself the truth. The first to choose your own life.

At level one, first place is there to prove something. That you're better. That you deserve love. That people need to notice you. And that's when first place turns into an addiction. Someone passes you, and you start shaking.

At level three, the question flips. Not "why do I need to be first?" but "why do I keep putting myself last in my own life?"

Look at my stories through that lens.

At the Academy, I moved to the front row and jumped on stage before the trainer even finished a sentence. In Greece, I "jumped first" — just out onto the street. I went to Moscow to see Marik because a leader has to be out in front, even when they're scared. With the Millionaires' Club, I got on the phone and was the first to ask, "Could I do the filming?" At Morinda, I decided I was too late and would never be first. And then I told myself: "I am number one in Russia."

The same sprint in the final stretch, every single time. Only the meaning of it kept shifting, little by little.

It used to sound like this inside: "I have to be out in front."

Now it sounds different: "I have to stay true to what I myself see and feel."

Here's what I understood: being first isn't about beating everyone else. It's about being the first to take the step toward where your own inner knowing is leading you. First place isn't the goal. The goal is doing what you believe needs doing. And being first comes after that, on its own.

What does this mean for your business?

Don't wait for your sponsor to call. Call first. Don't wait for your team to come around to going to a training. Go first, and invite them along. The trainer on stage asks, "Who?" Stand up first, even if your knees are shaking.

If you're a leader, remember my forty-seven. Your partner can pass you, and that's your biggest win. A leader who's afraid of being passed doesn't grow leaders — they just collect hangers-on.

And if someone else's success suddenly sets you shaking, don't beat yourself up. Just ask the same question: what part of me shrinks because of this? The honest answer is almost always the same: nothing.

Nobody's going to show up and tell you: "Now — kick." The coach stands past the finish line and catches whoever's already crossed it. You're the only one who can switch on the engine for those last hundred meters.

I haven't finished exploring this. I still notice how I react to other people's success, to comparison, to whoever ends up ahead. And every time, I ask myself: what does "being first" mean to me right now?

It seems like the meaning of those words keeps changing right along with me.

And that third level, being first for yourself, is about something else entirely. It's when you stop living someone else's life. When you don't need a place next to everyone else anymore.

I call that freedom.