There’s a quiet, almost invisible transaction that now occurs before many first meetings, first dates, or even casual introductions. It happens not in a conference room or a coffee shop, but in the search bar. It’s the quick digital reconnaissance we’ve all grown accustomed to, and whether we admit it or not, a new social expectation has solidified: people expect you to Google them.
This isn’t about paranoia or obsessive stalking. It’s about context. Walking into a blind interaction used to mean embracing genuine mystery. Today, walking in blind is often interpreted as a lack of interest or poor preparation. The assumption is that you have the world’s knowledge at your fingertips; to not use it is a curious choice. It’s the modern equivalent of being given someone’s biography before a meeting and choosing not to open it.
Think about it from the other side. Before a job interview, a candidate will meticulously research the company, its leaders, its recent news. They expect the interviewer has read their LinkedIn profile. The balance feels fair. Before a first date, a quick scan of social media can surface shared interests—a favorite band, a recent trip—seeding conversation and smoothing initial awkwardness. In business, knowing a client’s recent promotion or published article is a sign of respect, a demonstration that you value their time enough to understand their world. The inverse—asking a question easily answered by their public bio—can subtly signal that you couldn’t be bothered.
This expectation exists in a hazy ethical space. It feels different from a deep dive into private records; it’s about curating the public self we’ve all willingly constructed. We post, we publish, we accept connections, we build professional profiles precisely because we want to be found. That LinkedIn profile isn’t just a digital resume; it’s a deliberate broadcast. That public Twitter account or Instagram feed is a performance. To ignore that performance is, in a strange way, to ignore the front door someone has built and pointed you toward.
Of course, this creates a subtle tension. We expect to be Googled, yet we might feel a flicker of violation upon learning it happened. It’s the uncanny valley of social research—we know it’s standard, but having it acknowledged can make the interaction feel pre-meditated, less organic. The trick, as with so much of modern etiquette, lies in the artful illusion of spontaneity. You’re not supposed to reveal your search. The knowledge you gain is for background orchestration, not for front-stage citation. Mentioning that detail from their obscure blog post from 2014 crosses from prepared into unsettling.
What’s fascinating is how this practice has redefined what it means to be genuinely engaged. Active listening is no longer just about hearing the words in the moment; it’s about having done a sliver of homework to understand the context of those words. It allows the conversation to start on a deeper level, to bypass the superficial and move more quickly to meaningful exchange. In a world saturated with information, choosing to learn about someone is becoming a new currency of respect.
So the next time you’re about to meet someone new, understand that the unspoken contract is already in place. That blank search bar is an implicit question: how much do you care to know? The expectation isn’t born of vanity, but of a culture that has collapsed the distance between curiosity and answer. To not Google, then, is a deliberate act—either one of purist intention, seeking true unmediated connection, or one of surprising indifference. And in a connected world, indifference is the rarest, and often the loudest, message of all.
