A panic attack and a backwards hat gave me the courage to quit biglaw. For the first 26 years of my life, I was Raleigh the people-pleaser. As the youngest child with four older siblings and strict parents, I desperately wanted to fit in, and I was willing to meet whatever standard was placed on me to be accepted. 

I was told to go on a Mormon mission—so I did.

I was told to get married as soon as possible after returning from my mission—boom, done, married at 22.

I was told to go to law school—check box! How about a top-five law school for good measure? Just to show how extra pleasing I can be!

But my people-pleasing ways all came crashing down in 2015 when I started the job I was supposed to have for the rest of my life at a biglaw firm in Dallas. Suddenly, there were no more hoops for me to jump through. I reached the top of the people-pleasing peak, and all I found up there was a hamster wheel I was supposed to stay on for the rest of my life.

Luckily for me, a 6:00 am panic attack on the gym floor of a 24-hour fitness in downtown Dallas jolted me awake. 

I knew I needed to quit my job and figure out my life. But Raleigh was terrified to face the disapproval of my colleagues, my friends, and most of all, my dad.

Gage is my middle name, and because I had a speech impediment until I was in sixth grade and always felt embarrassed introducing myself as “Wally,” I would often talk to myself as “Gage” when I was playing sports or conjuring up the courage to talk to a girl.

So when it became time to put in my two weeks’ notice and tell my parents that I was abandoning the career I dedicated hundreds of thousands of dollars to, Raleigh couldn’t do it—but Gage could and did.

When my dad told me I was making a huge mistake by quitting law and was throwing away my financial future, Raleigh would’ve been devastated. Gage saw it as one man’s opinion that no longer had a vote for how he’d live his life.

Gage wasn't a people pleaser. Gage was a risk-taker. Gage did what he thought was best for his own life and didn't first take a vote from those around him. Gage wanted approval, but he didn’t NEED it like Raleigh did.

I unwittingly created an Alter Ego (Ego being latin for “I”) to allow me to be the observer of my circumstances instead of being the victim to them.

After quitting law, I put away the suit and tie for good (Raleigh’s prison uniform) and began donning a backwards hat (Gage’s freedom uniform). 

Every time it was time to do the thing Raleigh couldn't (fire my first employee, negotiate with a landlord, tell a customer “NO”), the hat went on, and Gage went to work.

Turns out there's solid science behind the switch and a simple way to create an Alter Ego for your kids to help them develop their own autonomy much earlier than I did.

Researchers sat four- and six-year-olds down with a boring, repetitive task and asked them to stick with it for ten minutes. The kids were told to work on the task for as long as they could, and they were given an iPad with a fun game that they could play whenever they needed a break.

The kids were split into three groups.

The first group checked in with themselves — "Am I working hard?"

The second talked to themselves in third person — "Is Raleigh working hard?"

The third group put on a costume and became someone they admired — Batman, Dora, Bob the Builder — and asked, "Is Batman working hard?"

The third group stuck with the task the longest. The third-person kids came second. The kids who talked to themselves in first person quit first.

The smaller the psychological distance the child had from his boredom, the faster he folded. Every step of distance he put between himself and that moment bought him more grit, and he engaged with the problem with more confidence.

The same team found the same pattern for focus and self-control. And it helped the most for exactly the kids who needed it most: the youngest, and the ones with the weakest grip on themselves.

After I shared a part of this story on Instagram and the exercise I do with my kids, I was flooded with questions on how to use the Alter Ego effect most effectively.

Here’s how, broken down for an age-appropriate exercise to run with each of your kids.

The alter ego cannot be you. The study proved that every inch of distance from your own bored, scared, present self buys you more grit and confidence. It has to be someone standing outside your own skin.

Little homies (ages 4 to 10): Ask "Who's the bravest person you can think of?" — and steer toward someone who is clearly not them. 

Middle homie (ages 11-20): Have them pick a real person who already does the hard thing easily — an athlete, an older cousin, a grandparent, a celebrity they really admire. 

Grown homies: Ask the question I had to ask: "Who would I be if approval weren't on the table?" Pick an empowering name and start building that persona from scratch. 

It has to be a definite figure you can actually picture, not just a vibe or a quality. "Brave" is too amorphous. "What would Batman do here?" brings them back to envisioning an alter ego that can be embodied for a moment. 

That's why the costumed kids beat the kids doing abstract self-talk.

Little homies (ages 4 to 10): Give it a name and a look. "Show me Batman's face when he's working hard." Make the alter ego real enough for the child to envision it.

Middle homie (ages 11-20): Have them write down three concrete traits about the person they picked and how they’d act in this exact situation. 

Grown homies: Name yours. I had "Gage" — a real name with a real spine. Pick one you'd actually answer to (there’s no wrong answer here. If it feels empowering you are on the right track. This is what Kobe did with Black Mamba, and what Beyoncé did with Sasha Fierce. 

The research is clear here: kids who played a wise character got stronger; a villain or a generic hero didn't have the same effect. The trait has to match the job. Kobe picked a snake that kills in one strike, not a comedian.

Little homies (ages 4 to 10): For each challenge they face highlight the characterstic that their Alter Ego portrays that they can call into action. "Batman never quits" for a difficult task that requires perseverance. Not "Batman is good at everything."

Middle homie (ages 11-20): Match the hero to the arena. A calm one for the test. A bold one for the tryout. Different jobs, different heroes.

Grown homies: Engineer the alter ego around your exact failure points. Raleigh couldn't face disapproval, so Gage was built not to need approval at all. Tailor it to the specific obstacle you are facing.

From borrowed to built

Every homie needs an alter ego to step into. What changes with age is who authors it. They borrow one whole, then choose a real model, then build their own.

The deeper psychology here is that situational fears cannot be overcome at the level of the circumstance. It must be resolved at the deeper level of IDENTITY.

But to do something you’ve never done, you must become someone you’ve never been. This is meant to close that gap to get momentum going. 

Every version of it — the four-year-old's cape, the twelve-year-old's walkout song, my backwards hat — is built to eventually become unnecessary (though I still rock my backwards had bc I like it).

For a while, I needed Gage to do what Raleigh couldn't. And then one day, somewhere between the first terrifying leap and the day I sold the company, the distinction disappeared. 

Some comments on my post mentioned that this may summon demons or be unchristian.

I find it interesting that in Christian theology, a big change in action is often met with a new name. An old identity is replaced with a new one.

Abram becomes Abraham, Jacob becomes Israel, Saul becomes Paul, and Simon becomes Peter.

Colossians 3:9–10 — “put off the old man with his deeds; and have put on the new man, which is renewed in knowledge after the image of him that created him.”

Until next time,
Raleigh Williams