The image speaks volumes.
I’m standing on a racing podium, displaying my silver medal. Beside me are the gold and bronze medalists. We all look happy, but my smile is the most radiant.
I’d headed to the starting line of this race with a clear objective. I wanted to traverse the 10-kilometer — or 6.2 mile — distance in under 40 minutes.
It was an audacious goal, one that required equal parts speed and endurance. The fact that the race was occurring on hot summer morning — and that I’d been battling an injury in the week prior — only made this mark more difficult to attain.
But against all odds, I’d persevered. I started out the race briskly, settled into a steady pace, and survived the final couple miles.
As I crossed the finish line, the clock read 39:54. I’d set a personal best for this distance.
Mission accomplished. Well, sort of.
You see, my finishing time wasn’t atop the leaderboard on this day. In fact, I wasn’t even in the top 10 of all racers. And when it came to my division — the subset of male racers who were around my age — my performance was only second best.
That’s why I was holding a silver medal on the podium, rather than a gold one or a winner’s plaque. I’d earned those in other races — either for overall performance or standing in my division. And I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t hoping for similar accolades this time.
But I wasn’t going to let my standing impact my mood. I’d done my best on this day, and I’d proved my adequacy in the wake of some tough competition.
I had everything to smile about.
It’s good enough for government work.
I was dumbfounded when one of my high school teachers stated this to my class.
The solution he’d posited on the whiteboard was not quite complete. It was maybe 90% to the point of where it should be.
Why call it a day there? And why smear the government like this?
Clearly, there was much for me to learn about the ways of the world. And I needed to rid my mind of its utopian perceptions.
In the classroom, achievement was graded on an A to F scale. Expectations were clearly defined, and it was my responsibility to attain them.
If I paid attention, completed assignments, and studied diligently, I’d find the rewards of the winner’s circle. Sparkling grades, the praise of my teachers, a chance to continue my studies at a prestigious university — they were all possible if I just did the work.
Adequacy was everything in this environment.
But in the world outside the classroom windows, things were far murkier. There was no framework of expectations. There was only a bar to clear — one that could be set higher or lower at will.
The government, in my teacher’s telling, set that bar lower. There was too much bureaucracy in play to demand a culture of excellence.
But other corners of society were more akin to an Olympic high jumping competition. People could set the bar higher and higher, until they were leaping halfway to the moon.
The context was established by the pace setters, the winners, the high-fliers. Doing an adequate job in this environment would earn you precisely nothing.
It was a hard lesson to take in. In fact, I’m still wrestling with it today.
I tried so hard and got so far. But in the end, it doesn’t even matter.
That refrain is the centerpiece of Linkin Park’s hit song In The End – which was playing seemingly everywhere during my teenage years.
I found those lines needlessly dark and brooding back then. After all, this was the land of opportunity, and my future was bright. Why should I think my hard work would go for naught?
But now, I feel a kinship with them.
You see, I’ve attained quite a bit in my adult life. I’ve embarked on a career, left it, and built another one. I’ve increased my net worth, grown my social circle, and expanded my knowledge base.
I’ve shown adequacy at every turn. And I’ve taken every opportunity to demonstrate my competence.
But what has it gotten me?
Far less than I’d anticipated.
According to my teenage logic, I should have been well-established by now. I should have already reached a higher standing in my professional field, with my own piece of land to call home, and enough in the bank account to be perpetually comfortable.
But instead, I’m hearing Linkin Park in my head, over and over.
Some of this has to do with the era I’ve come of age in. Economic turmoil, a pandemic, and rapid technological innovation have scrambled the deck more than ever before.
But I believe a more specific shift is at play. One that rejects adequacy in favor of exceptionalism.
Now, to be clear, the allure of the exceptional has always been there. But with the world more interconnected than ever before, it’s now easier to find unicorns. And the risks of settling for anything less are dauntingly steep.
This presents quite the problem for the adequate.
Indeed, in every corner of my life, I feel like I’m in a silent auction with moon jumpers. I can put in my best effort and prove my adequacy. But there will inevitably be someone with more means, more accolades, and more abilities to seize that which I am striving for. Someone I cannot see or size up. Someone I will only hear of after the fact.
There is no silver medal for me to claim. There is nothing for me to do.
There is only me standing on the podium in the wind. And the smile on my face is gone.
I sat on an upholstered chair in a wood-paneled office next to the school gym. The baseball coach sat across the table from me.
He got straight to the point.
I’m sorry. You didn’t make the team.
Those seven words stung, no doubt. I’d yearned to be a pro baseball player for years. Now, I wasn’t even going to have the chance to suit up for my sophomore year of high school.
But I can’t say I was all that surprised.
I’d done a few good things the prior season, and I’d given my best during tryouts. But others had attained more. They deserved a spot on the team more than I did.
I walked out of the room, hearing the door close behind me. And I started to consider which doors ahead might open for me.
I had good grades in school, and I knew I could write. Plus, I liked watching movies. Maybe I could be a screenwriter.
I followed this thread all the way into my first year of college. But after taking a few film classes there, I discovered that television was more up my alley. So, I switched my major to Broadcast Journalism and parlayed that into a job as a TV news producer.
Adequacy hadn’t helped me live out my baseball dreams. But it opened other avenues for me to move forward into self-sufficiency.
Now, all these years later, I’m unsure where to turn. The path forward to the next era of my life seems to be reserved for the unicorns, the invisible exceptionalists. I have no guidance on what’s needed to reach their level. And I have no alternative avenues to get me to my destination.
Adequacy has led me to a dead end. And I’m stuck in the cul-de-sac.
There seems to be no simple path out of this morass. But I won’t give up.
I’ll keep trying my best, giving my all, and proving my adequacy at every turn.
Hopefully someday that will be enough to get me through.