The Finish Line and the Half-Empty Glass

Honoring Both Versions of Myself

It was just a year before he died, and we were in the Philippines. I watched a cricket match in which my father was playing. It was a friendly match, and a youngster with a longish run-up came in to bowl. My father was batting. The first few balls were off the mark, and my father let them go, the wicketkeeper lunging to his right to collect them. Then suddenly, the next ball reared up from a short length. My father hooked the ball for four in one smooth, instinctive reflex—almost as if swiveling a chair. The sound of the crowd as it cheered & the look on the bowler's face stayed with me.

The guy beside me chuckled, ""Age hasn't reduced his speed. He saw the ball so clearly—the hook felt almost arrogant.""

That was the moment—after years of downplaying his achievements—that my heart accepted the reality. I had a star batsman as a father.

Dad was always a huge inspiration—a Ranji Trophy cricketer, a gold medalist in mathematics, and an IAS officer. A man who seemed to have mastered both the magic of numbers and a still head to gauge the ball correctly. As a child, I felt like this was an unfair battle. How on earth could I even compete with such a complete man? He believed in excellence, not just as a goal but as a way of life. I admired him but also felt the weight of his reputation holding me back.

A Summer of Military Dreams

The summer after my 10th standard exams, I had one thought at the top of my mind: I must join the armed forces. The glamour of the uniform, the sharpness of discipline, the sheer sense of adventure—it all called to me. My closest friend had chosen the Air Force a year earlier, making the decision even more apparent in my young mind.

I signed up for a camp at Bhosale Military School in Nashik.

Maybe the seeds of running were sown there. For the first time, I encountered cross-country running. As I realized over the years, distance running is a funny sport—there are no losers. Everyone who attempts it has won by simply pushing their faith to the start line. Though I didn't explore running seriously until much later, the kernel of that insight remained: we are all runners, we are all winners.

But my father didn't want me to join the armed forces.

He had a reason—I had specs. His oft-repeated comment was, "Why join a profession where you have no chance of being No.1?" My glasses meant I wouldn't qualify for the elite wings of the Armed Forces—the real action. And my father, who was supercharged with ambition, simply couldn't imagine me choosing a profession where I'd start with a built-in handicap.

He allowed me to go, but his words lingered. They reminded him of his belief in excellence, in striving for the top, even if it meant choosing a different path. At the time, I resented it. But looking back, I see how his perspective shaped my own approach: if I couldn't be the best in one field, I would find another where I could excel.

The Five Marks That Changed Everything

When I returned from the camp in July, exhilarated but still uncertain about my future, my father had already set the next course in motion. He had arranged for me to get a math tutor. After all, I had missed five marks.

I can still visualize him clearly. He was a small-built man, always attired in a suit—a suit, in the middle of a Delhi summer. It looked utterly incongruous in our home, a formal presence in my otherwise carefree, post-exam life. He must have been hot, but he never removed his jacket. He carried himself with an old-school strictness, almost creating a rebel out of me.

It wasn't a punishment—it was just the way my father saw things. If there was room for improvement, why not take it? Why stop at 95 when 100 was possible?

And just like that, the seed of the half-empty glass was planted early. If there was a gap, I would find it. If something wasn't perfect, I would fix it. If I reached one milestone, my mind was already racing toward the next.

The Danger of Finish Lines

Finish lines have been deeply embedded in us since childhood. Our education system celebrates them—the end of the syllabus, the end of the academic year, the end of school, the end of college. We have grown up on a menu of "finish lines," Yet, as people, we are never truly finished—always works in progress.

As a runner, I now realize imperfection is perfection. There is always a longer race, better timing, and a more challenging route. But one quickly learns the limits of one's body. Then comes the fundamental decision—whether to chase targets relentlessly or to cross the finish line imperfectly but content.

Breaking Through Walls

There are walls at different stages—running, leadership, or life. They often came early when the finish was still so far away that stopping was easier. But I found that walls were mostly illusions—mental resistance, not absolute limits. I would picture myself 30 meters from the finish, the timer flashing an impossible time, and suddenly, my legs would move again.

It's the same in leadership. Some walls dissolve simply by shifting perspective. The finish line is never final—it's just a checkpoint before the next challenge.

The Either/Or Trap: A False Choice

For much of my life, I saw things as either/or. Either I pushed relentlessly, or I slowed down. Either I saw what was missing or appreciated what was already there. Either I led or I followed.

This mindset worked when I was building businesses and driving teams. I took pride in spotting what others missed and pushing harder when most people paused.

But then, as I evolved as a coach, I saw my old self differently. Was that driven, relentless version of me wrong? Should I now only be the coach who listens deeply, holds space, and lets things emerge organically?

For a while, I judged that older part of myself. I saw that part of myself as too rigid, too controlling, and too impatient. I started glorifying the softer, more patient version of me.

But I've come to realize something crucial.

I don't have to choose.

I haven't lost respect for the old me. That part of me wasn't wrong but was just playing the role needed at that stage. Now, I am learning how to choose to deploy both parts of me. It's a marathon, and there are many walls in the way, but I know there is no finish line & I am happy I am moving forward.

Honoring Both Versions of Me

Tomorrow, I'm running a 10 km race in Panaji. I still want to run well, feel the rhythm of my breath, and push when I need to. But there's no PB target. And that, in itself, makes me happy.

Because, in the end, the finish line isn't a place—it's a perspective. It's about seeing both what has been achieved and what remains to be done, honoring both the driven and the reflective versions of myself.

And as I stand at the starting line, I ask myself:

Where have I been chasing a finish line when I should have been honoring the run?