I am rarely in Midtown Manhattan and more often than not, I am there to meet my wife from work.
As I stood waiting outside her towering office building at 51st and Park Avenue, I marvelled at the throngs of people walking with such purpose, often with heads bowed into their phones and all wearing variations on the midtown uniform.
I was surprised to see a vaguely familiar face walking towards me - a face from a distant past but also a face that hadn't seemed to have aged. Must be the nordic genes.
Magnus had spotted me before I saw him, which was why he was making a beeline for me. We hadn't seen each other for over 10 years. The last time was back in London in 2012.
We did the awkward 'how long has it been?' dance, exchanged pleasantries about kids and careers, and parted with the obligatory 'let's grab coffee.'
I didn't expect to hear from him.
Then the LinkedIn message arrived.
Full disclosure - my first reaction was to laugh out loud. It was the classic directness I remembered him having and more broadly which I associated with Nordic people. An attempt to be both warm and also brutally honest.
But I also thought, "What a dick."
I mean, honesty is one thing, but how does it serve you to have that level of edge in a message to somebody you haven't seen for almost 15 years?
And then the reflective part of me started to wonder, "What was it about me from that time that made him think I had a chip on my shoulder?"
Moreover, how did it leave such a long lasting impression on him such that he felt compelled to mention almost 15 years later?
Marshall Wace in 2006 was an intense place to work. The fund was growing rapidly and the intellect in the room was astounding. I felt like I had to prove myself and constantly felt like a fraud.
Picture this - a futuristic office space designed by one of the founders of the fund, who had a sharp eye for design and style, on the 13th floor of London’s strand, overlooking the Thames and London Eye, filled with some of the smartest financial minds in the world. And me.
As part of a team of 3 traders, we had to manage thousands of trades a day, which meant we were constantly on the phone - noise, energy and action.
This created a stark contrast with the cerebral work of the fund manager and quantitative analysts.
We always felt like 2nd class citizens - and probably gave off this energy.
The combination of imposter syndrome and my ego trying to protect me were obviously in abundance as a 26-year-old.
Magnus and I joined the fund around the same time. Me as a trader, forming a team of 3 and him as a quantitative research analyst - a rapidly growing group within the firm.
My deep insecurities didn't stop me trying to build relationships with as many people as possible and although my memory is a little hazy, Magnus and I bonded over beers and a shared love of working out. We didn't ever work out together but we enjoyed discussing training styles, techniques and progress.
I can also say with absolute certainty that I cannot remember any other members of the quantitative research team at that time, so Magnus and I must have spent a decent enough amount of time socialising,
After I left Wace for Och Ziff, Magnus and I must have stayed in touch - though I don't remember the details - because a few years later, when he heard I was leaving Och Ziff, he sent me a text. He wanted to discuss an idea with me.
Over a beer he told me he felt he was under-appreciated and underpaid at Wace. At the same time, he had an idea for a new trading strategy and was curious if I wanted to explore a partnership.
He knew I had a large network within finance and that I was personable - he admitted he would need help raising money and marketing the fund.
Starting a hedge fund was not on my radar for the next chapter of my life - I had bigger ambitions around being an entrepreneur and investor. At the same time, this was an interesting opportunity and played into a number of my strengths.
It made sense to explore it and definitely seemed to reduce the risk I was taking in leaving the security of my job with a huge and established fund.
After my long goodbye from Och Ziff - I left but had to go back to cover my boss’ holiday - this potential fund was my first major project.
The work that I put into this venture was substantial - more substantial than my memory served me - but god bless gmail for keeping all my emails.
I held initial conversations with both Deutsche Bank and UBS about acting as administrators for the fund, engaged with lawyers in London and the Cayman Islands to outline the requirements for the setting up and structuring the fund and brought in a friend with strong ties to the middle east to draw up a list of potential investors.
We shared a project timeline and memorandum with Magnus over email and discussed detailed next steps over a number of dinners and meetings in my friend's Mayfair office.
At the same time Magnus was continuing to develop the trading strategy, actively running it on a small scale using his personal capital. It was working as expected and the proposed venture seemed to be gaining momentum.
We even had a working title for the fund - SQM - which stood for “Swedish Quant Mafia” a nod to Magnus’ origins and my obsession with the Swedish House Mafia (who also went by the abbreviation “SHM”).
A week went by without me hearing back from Magnus. Then a one-line email apologising for being out of contact because he was in Brazil and the wifi was spotty - this was 2012 after all.
I didn’t think much of it at the time - he was wired slightly differently so disappearing to the other side of the world without telling his new partners didn't seem that strange.
When he got back he suggested we grab a beer near his apartment in Islington.
When I got to the pub, he was already waiting in a booth. We shared an awkward hug and I sensed his demeanour was off. Something about the data feed not working and the strategy stalling. It wasn't a major problem but it meant we needed to pause a moment.
Something didn't feel right.
The next day I got an email from him saying he had taken a job at an established fund. He wanted the security of a job and was hoping to start a family soon.
His about turn shocked and disappointed me. I felt stupid for having invested so much time and energy and for not having read the situation better.
I didn't leave my job for this, but in the euphoria of my “freedom” I had become very excited about the potential for this opportunity.
I had called in favours, engaged with people from my network, brought another partner to cement the brain trust.
Then all of a sudden it was over.
I don't have any other emails between Magnus and I after that beer. But I am certain we would have spoken on the phone at least once.
Although I have no memory of it, I am sure that 32 year old me - all hedge-fund cock-suredness and emotion - didn't attempt to hide my disappointment and frustration at his sudden change of heart.
Of course his decision made sense - even more so with the benefit of many years of hindsight.
But at the time I was annoyed and felt let down. I had thrown all my energy into this. He hadn’t been totally honest or transparent with me.
Despite being angry and disappointed with his decision, I didn't lose any sleep over it. Shit happens. I put it down to the twists and turns of entrepreneurship.
And that's where the story should have ended. Magnus made his choice. I moved on. We both built different lives.
Except it didn't end there. Because 12 years later, standing outside my wife's office building, he walked back into my life for 90 seconds and left me with a single sentence I can't shake.
"Sometimes with a bit of a chip on your shoulder."
Here's the thing: I've been criticised before. Plenty of times. Most of it rolls off. Some lands for a moment, then fades. But this one has stayed with me for months. Not because it's the harshest thing anyone's ever said. Not because Magnus is particularly important to my life.
But because it named something I've always feared might be true but never wanted to admit.
The chip wasn't confidence. It was armour. At 26, surrounded by quantitative geniuses, I was terrified someone would figure out I didn't belong. At 32, watching SQM dissolve, I was furious - not just because Magnus backed out, but because I'd thrown everything into it and it fell apart anyway.
Magnus didn't invent the chip. He just noticed it. And apparently remembered it for over a decade.
To Magnus, I'll always be that 26-year-old trader with something to prove and a chip on his shoulder. Even if I've spent the last 12 years working on becoming someone different.
In his mind, I'm frozen in amber at Marshall Wace, desperate to belong.
And there's nothing I can do about it.
We all leave versions of ourselves scattered through other people's memories. The anxious friend from university. The arrogant colleague from your first job. The bitter ex from that messy breakup. These versions keep existing long after we think we've evolved past them.
The uncomfortable truth is this: I probably did have a chip on my shoulder. The imposter syndrome was real. The defensive energy was real. The need to prove myself was exhausting and probably exhausting to be around.
But I also like to think I'm not that person anymore. That I've grown. That I've softened. That I've learned to be comfortable with uncertainty.
Maybe the work isn't convincing old acquaintances you've changed. Maybe it's just making sure you actually have.
Part of me wants to take him up on his offer of a coffee. Ask him what he saw that left such a lasting impression. Get specific examples. Understand the version of me that lived in his memory all these years.
But honestly? I'm not sure I actually want to know. Because what if he's still right?
Or maybe I'm just avoiding the coffee because... what a dick.
Which version of yourself is still out there in someone else's memory that you'd rather they forgot?
What would the people from your past say about you if they hadn't seen you in a decade - and would they be right, or would they be describing someone you've outgrown?
And perhaps most uncomfortably: if you ran into yourself from 10 years ago, would you recognise who you've become? Or would you have a chip on your shoulder about who that person used to be?
