I recently visited parts of the northeast coast of the United States for the first time. The skies were clear blue, the sun shone warmly, and the leaves were on the cusp of their autumnal explosion of color as we cruised across the state with the roof of our convertible down. Intellectually, I understood that the clouds would eventually turn grey, rains would fall, snow would render travel challenging, and the winter winds would blow their bitter, biting chill. But for me, those skies will always be blue and the sun warm as bejeweled trees sway sweetly. This is how I experienced it all for the first time, and now this image is an imprinted “fact” in my mind. It will take multiple revisits to convince my brain otherwise, to convince it of a new truth. Regardless, I will typically be dissatisfied as the updated information will not compare favorably with those first impressions—not least as my memory of this initial truth becomes magnified and glorified with each recollection.
There’s something magical about a first impression; how it imprints itself not only on the mind but on the body. In this case, the warmth of the sun on my skin, the scent of dry leaves curling at the edges, the sound of tires humming along unfamiliar roads, a summer soundtrack blasting from the stereo . . . all of it forming a sensory constellation that now feels definitive—not accurate, perhaps, but true in the way that a memory becomes mythologized.
This is the paradox of perception: the first version of reality we encounter often becomes the one we trust most, even when we know better. It’s not just nostalgia; it’s a neurological trait. The brain, ever efficient, prefers to reinforce existing pathways rather than forge new ones. And so the first experience becomes the benchmark, the lens, the story to which we return.
Even if the skies are grey next time, I’ll be comparing them to that first blue. Even if the trees are bare, I’ll be searching for that golden flare of October. We don’t just remember, we re-believe. And in doing so, we begin to understand how easily the mind can mistake familiarity for truth. And this is where the deeper danger lies: not in the deception itself, but in how willingly we participate in it.
There is an idiomatic expression: “the first lie wins” . . . whether it is our experience of a place, or perhaps more importantly, an event, media content, political circumstance, or personal relationship, it’s the first version of a story, whether true or false, that often becomes the dominant narrative shaping our emotional landscape. It’s the filter through which all new information is viewed. It’s the establishment of an initial account that may not be true—the story may have many facets and versions beyond the one that is becoming fixed in our mind’s eye.
This phenomenon, often exploited by manipulators and in propaganda, can be defined as when “the most significant and strategic initial deception becomes the established truth that subsequent lies are built upon.” The dissemination of information is the most common use of this tactic, creating a narrative that later corrections or revelations must fight against—not only against misinformation but against the psychological investment we have in the original account. This leads to cognitive dissonance, the discomfort experienced when we hold conflicting beliefs.
Why does the first lie win? Because it arrives unopposed. It is unburdened by skepticism, unchallenged by nuance, and it appeals to our biases, our fears, our longing for coherence. Once internalized, the lie becomes sticky because it’s now familiar to us. It’s similar to the phenomenon in which we instinctively return to the same seat we chose at the start of a group gathering, even when it was a week earlier, and even if our chair is the least comfortable one. Familiarity trumps comfort and habit overrides reflection.
This can be expressed as drsti, the Sanskrit term for views or opinions (something that the Buddha taught should not be clung to): we settle into mental positions not because they are true or kind, but because they feel like ours. Thus, we live in a world where the first lie often wins, and where tropes and biases dominate discourse—where the discomfort of cognitive dissonance is avoided rather than worked through.
So how do we know that our opinions are our own?
We rely on the information available to us—that’s the obvious route. We tell ourselves that this information is sufficient. Yet we also know that it’s highly curated. News always has been. And today, complex algorithms reinforce our existing views, providing convenient confirmation of what we already believe. This is known as confirmation bias.
In today’s curated and bifurcated world—a world of instant communication that we’re told has more people living now than have ever existed—drsti carries the weight to influence others on an unprecedented scale. Algorithms create echo chambers that harden our convictions, that justify our clinging to views, which become not merely obstacles to insight but a collective source of polarization and suffering.
“Divide et impera!” declared the Roman Empire: divide and (rule) conquer. But let’s not allow a 2,000-year-old imperial strategy to get the better of us as a unified humanity.
This clinging to drsti is recognized as a root of suffering, clouding our perceptions and fueling conflict. The Buddha warned against clinging—even to his own teachings, which he likened to a raft that should be left behind after crossing the river. Letting go of rigid beliefs is an essential aspect of liberation, for this clears the path to clarity, compassion, and freedom.
To seek truth against what we believe to be right is to loosen the grip of ego, to dissolve the illusion of separateness, and to enter the stream of wisdom that flows through all things.
Unless we negotiate that fine line between intuition and fixed thoughts as truths, dogma becomes the only path, closing the doors to all the other facets of reality.
We all want to be on the “right side of history,” whatever that means to each of us. However, despite all of our best intentions, we may still become the victims of first lies, refuting all other information despite the underlying disquiet of cognitive dissonance.
Instead, let us exercise openness and curiosity to notice the edges of drsti where we feel discomfort, and lean into it. Letting go of our attachments does not mean that we become apathetic to a situation, it means mustering the courage to loosen our tight grip on what we believe is the only “right” view.
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Returning to the Basics: Buddhist Practice and the Joy of Clarity
