Raised to a New Power

My grandmother has a theory about power growing exponentially. She and her sister invented it when they were kids — something they started noticing about life and kept noticing long enough that it hardened into a pattern.  

The idea is simple. You start with the power you're born with; mathematically, she’d call it your zeroth power: 2⁰ = 1.  Then you unlock new ones.  At two, 2¹ = 2, you get your first. Your second at four, 2² = 4. Your third at eight, 2³ = 8. Between these ages, you’re “raised to a new power.” Who you are at two becomes you at four, then you at eight, not because time simply passes, but because the experiences of those years “raise” you there. Each stage moves you “to the power of” something new: a wider sense of the world, a deeper understanding of other people, a greater ability to choose your own path. 

What I love about this system is that it involves waiting.  The powers don’t just multiply; the distance between them multiplies too. Two years between your first and second power, but 32 between your fifth and sixth. At 17, I have the foundational powers that come fast:

At one, 2⁰ = 1,  you already have power. You mostly reach and demand things. You may not walk confidently, speak clearly, or strategize, but you can influence. A single cry is enough to reorganize a room. Someone wakes up because of you. Someone rearranges their plans. Even dependence carries impact.

At two, 2¹ = 2, you go from wobbling to running, from being carried to climbing onto the couch by yourself. You learn the word “no.” Your vocabulary jumps from 50 words to almost 300. You start stringing them together: “My toy”, “No shoes”, “More juice”.  You don’t just exist in a room; you test it — press it, taste it, throw it, see what happens. It looks chaotic, but it’s the first time you move through the world under your own momentum; you get the power of autonomy.

At four, 2² = 4, you start to understand that other people have thoughts that aren't yours, know something you don’t, and can misunderstand you. You can notice when someone else looks upset and guess why. You develop the skill of empathy. Suddenly, you can persuade someone. Include or exclude someone. Make them laugh on purpose. 

At eight, 2³ = 8, you learn to see yourself within society. Rules aren’t just things adults say anymore; they're structures you can follow and question. You don't just play soccer; you want to be good at soccer, and you notice who scores the most. You begin forming more stable ideas about yourself, not just what you like, but what you’re good at. Once you can measure yourself, you can improve yourself. You can practice on purpose. Decide you want to get better at something and actually understand what that means.

At sixteen, 2⁴ = 16, you gain independence. You can stay out later without sending a full itinerary. You choose your subjects, and suddenly they matter. College isn’t some distant idea adults throw around; it’s a conversation happening about you, in rooms you’re invited into. There’s more space between you and your parents’ decisions. More expectation that you’ll think ahead. More trust that you’ll handle it. 

Standing at seventeen, just beyond that fourth power, I can see why those early upgrades had to arrive quickly. The difference between who I was at eight and who I am at sixteen feels enormous. Each of those stages gave me something I needed: the ability to understand people, to make decisions, to start shaping my own direction beyond the small ecosystem of my school and community. Those first four powers come fast because they’re foundational. They prepared me to exist in the world, so that now I can go off to college feeling ready.

But at the same time, looking forward at seventeen, the future feels strangely quiet. For the first time, there isn’t an obvious next upgrade waiting around the corner. All through childhood, progress came quickly and visibly. There was always a parent, gold star, or scholar's list, giving me continuous validation that I was doing the right thing. But now the expectations are bigger and somehow less defined. I’m about to leave for college, and people keep asking what I want to become, what I’m going to build, what my impact will be. It feels like I’m supposed to already have something impressive underway, some clear achievement that proves I’m using my “powers” correctly. This pressure sits strangely next to the reality that I’m only just beginning to figure out how the world works. My grandmother’s theory changes the way that moment looks. 

Because the next power is not at eighteen. It's at thirty-two. 

Sixteen years. Double the entire stretch between eight and sixteen. 

The time in my life I am entering isn’t supposed to look like a finished product. It’s supposed to look like an accumulation.

At 2⁵ = 32, the power is no longer rapid acquisition. People in their thirties, teachers, parents, they are not the youngest at something. They are not prodigies. What distinguishes them is steadiness. They have chosen something and stayed long enough for it to shape them. A career that has survived doubt. A relationship that has endured inconvenience. A set of principles tested repeatedly. There is no annual list celebrating “Most Consistent 31Year-Old.” Yet consistency builds companies. Families. Communities.

And then comes sixty-four, 2⁶ = 64. Thirty-two years between thresholds. It’s longer than an entire childhood. What stands out about them isn't intensity but scale. The way their influence has had time to compound. The way traditions are built on the decisions they made and the efforts they started. The way my mother carries the same curiosity in conversations as my grandmother. The choices made to get to 64 shape the environment in which children and even grandchildren grow up. That’s not a sudden power. It’s compounded one.

Thinking about power with this theory makes my approach to growing up feel different. The powers that matter most — legacy, wisdom, influence — don’t arrive quickly. They take decades to build. They take the long stretches, the years when progress doesn’t always look obvious from the outside. They require repetition. They require endurance. They require the willingness to choose and re-choose long after the gold stars disappear. 

As I move into the next stage of my life, my goal is to remember this patience. Once I leave the structured world of school, there won’t always be applause confirming that I’m doing the right thing. There will probably be long periods when I feel stagnant and powerless. But the exponent does not just double the ability. It doubles the waiting. And perhaps the discomfort I’ll feel in that waiting isn't evidence that I am behind, only that I am confusing speed with power. 

My grandmother’s theory reminds me that those stretches aren’t wasted time. They’re the years when power is quietly accumulating. If I can hold on to that idea, if I can keep working, choosing, and recommitting even when nothing dramatic seems to change, then the waiting won’t feel like failure. 

It will simply be the time between powers.