For months, I’ve been using a health app’s body scan tool to estimate body fat percentage.
It never worked for me.
Every single time, I got an error message saying the scan failed to process. I tried different lighting, different outfits, different rooms. I deleted and reinstalled the app. Tried on only wifi, tried on only LTE. Nothing worked.
Eventually, I mentioned it to my husband while attempting yet another failed scan. He watched me for a few seconds and then said:
“You’re doing it wrong.”
Which was annoying because obviously I was not doing it wrong. I was listening to the very clear instructions!
Except I was wrong.
The app tells you to “turn around” during the scan. There’s a countdown timer while you do it. In my head, I interpreted that as: turn around once so you’re facing the opposite direction.
Apparently, it meant to do a full 360-degree spin.
For months, I had been turning only 180 degrees and wondering why the feature didn’t work for me.
The embarrassing part is that once he pointed it out, the instructions suddenly seemed obvious.
Of course, that’s what they meant. Now, looking more closely, I even notice an arrow indicating a full revolution.
I share this embarrassing story because it’s a good example of the curse of expertise.
When you already know something, it becomes incredibly difficult to imagine what it feels like not to know it.
The people who built that app probably thought the instructions were clear. And, now that I understand them, they are. But they were designing from the perspective of someone who already knew how the scan worked (and probably 95% of their other customers understood it).
That happens constantly in products, leadership, and communication.
You explain something in what feels like a straightforward way, and the other person interprets it completely differently because they’re bringing a different set of assumptions into the conversation.
Even “turn around” can mean two different things depending on how your brain processes it.
This disconnect came up repeatedly when we launched new features at MeetMe. Internally, we would spend months talking about a product. We knew every detail. The language became second nature to us.
Then we’d launch it and run surveys asking users whether they had heard of the feature.
A shocking number had no idea it existed.
Not because they were unintelligent. Not because the messaging never appeared. But because we were communicating from within our own understanding rather than theirs.
The deeper your expertise, the easier it is to forget what it’s like to be new.
This concept applies far beyond product design.
I think about this a lot with keynote speaking. One of the things I care about most when telling stories from my startup journey is making sure they work even for people with no tech background.
I never want someone listening to feel like they need to understand mobile apps, venture capital, or social networking metrics to connect emotionally with the story.
The feelings matter more than the industry.
Most people will never build a social app. Just like most people will never become professional athletes or jump out of an airplane, they still understand pressure, uncertainty, ambition, fear, rejection, and resilience, and their stories still resonate.
That’s the part people connect to.
The challenge with communication is that we often focus on what we’re trying to say rather than how others will hear it.
So how do you overcome the curse of expertise?
You involve other people earlier.
You ask questions.
You stop assuming silence means clarity.
One of the most valuable things you can do in a meeting is ask the question you think you “should” already know the answer to. Chances are, you’re not the only person confused.
I recently saw a note from Katie Barnes sharing that 40% of startup problems would disappear if someone simply asked, “What are we actually doing?”
“What” and “why” questions matter because people often move forward based on assumptions no one ever verbalized.
The only way to discover communication gaps is to interact with real people.
You have to watch how they use the product.
Hear how they interpret the presentation.
See where they get confused.
Listen to the questions they ask.
That’s how you find the disconnect between what you meant and what others actually understood.
Clarity is not proven by how clear something feels to you. It’s proven by whether other people understand it the way you intended.
And apparently, sometimes that means realizing you were supposed to spin all the way around.
