Perfectly flawed — Nahrizul Adib Kadri

JUNE 5 — Make no mistake: I am no sportsman.

I can’t play football. I never learned how to swim. And when it comes to running? Let’s just say I was always the kid who got picked last during PE (physical education), if picked at all.

But in 2011, something unexpected happened. I discovered long-distance running.

It started innocently enough — purely practical. I wanted to lose some weight and figured running would help. So I bought a cheap pair of running shoes and hit the pavement. The first few runs were humbling. My knees protested, my lungs burned, and my ego took a beating. But somehow, I kept going.

And something began to shift.

The numbers on the scale slowly moved, yes. But more importantly, so did something in me.

I found rhythm. Solitude. Clarity. In a world full of noise, running became a quiet act of self-connection. Eventually, I ran marathons. Then ultramarathons. And during the pandemic in 2021, I challenged myself to run 2,021 kilometres — and completed it. That, for someone who can’t sprint 100 metres without gasping for air, felt surreal.

Here’s the thing: I’m still not fast. I’m still not graceful. And I still wouldn’t call myself an athlete.

But I found my pace. And more than that, I found comfort in the truth that I didn’t need to be perfect — I just needed to keep going.

You see, we live in a world obsessed with the polished version of things. Curated feeds, filtered photos, #goals and #grindculture. The pressure to be flawless is everywhere. We’re told to optimise our productivity, perfect our bodies, master every role we play. And when we fall short — as we inevitably do — we begin to feel like we are somehow “less.”

But the truth is: perfection is a mirage. A moving target that keeps us exhausted and disconnected from who we really are.

Rumi wrote, “Be like a tree and let the dead leaves drop.” What a gentle yet powerful reminder. The dead leaves — our need to impress, our self-doubt, our harsh self-judgment — are not meant to be held onto forever. Letting them fall doesn’t diminish us. It reveals us. The tree doesn’t mourn the leaves it sheds. It makes space for new ones.

Likewise, when we drop the mask of perfection, what’s left is authenticity. Not flawless, but real. And real is enough.

You see, the danger of chasing perfection is that it pulls us away from ourselves. We become performers, not participants. We hide our flaws instead of learning from them. We compare our bloopers to other people’s highlight reels. And in doing so, we rob ourselves of the messy, beautiful growth that only imperfection can offer.

Think about it: the people we’re drawn to — truly drawn to — aren’t perfect. From parents to teachers; from school prefects to work superiors. They’re honest. They’re sincere. They laugh at their own awkwardness, speak with their whole hearts, and let their scars show.

Their comfort in their own skin somehow makes us more comfortable in ours.

And running taught me that. It showed me that I didn’t have to win races to love the road. That slow progress is still progress. That showing up matters more than showing off. And most importantly, that the finish line doesn’t care if you got there with perfect form — it only cares that you didn’t give up.

In my runs, I’ve had the best conversations — with others and with myself. In my aching legs, I’ve found strength I didn’t know I had. In my imperfections, I’ve found freedom.

So here’s what I’d say to anyone caught in the trap of perfectionism: breathe. Step back. Let go of the impossible standard. Your value isn’t tied to your speed, your status, or your so-called success. It lies in your persistence, your presence, your progress — no matter how uneven the road.

Perfection may look good in theory, but it’s in the imperfect moments that life becomes memorable. It’s the awkward jokes, the honest mistakes, the honest ‘I don’t know’ that make us human. And being human — flawed, fumbling, evolving — is more than enough.

Go ahead and run your race. At your pace. In your shoes.