I got set in the starting blocks, my heart pounding. To my left and right, 7 other runners did the same.
I was 11 years old, and this was my first track meet. There were people in the stands, coaches all around, and a slate of competitors who surely looked less green than I did.
All of this was intimidating. But at this moment, with the race impending, I was most terrified of one thing.
The starting gun.
I had issues with loud noises at this age. The flushing of industrial-strength toilets would terrify me. So would the honking of car horns and the firing of guns.
When I heard these sounds, my heart would skip a beat. I’d freeze, startled like a deer in the headlights.
Such a response would be devastating in this 100-meter race. I needed to get off the blocks quickly when called upon.
So, I tried to block out my fears. I reminded myself to be ready to run.
And when the gun went off, something unexpected happened. I reacted impeccably, rising into a sprinter’s position and taking off.
Now, I was flying down the track, outpacing the other kids by a few steps. Fear had evaporated into opportunity. I had a real chance to win this race.
Yet, as I thundered ahead, I worried that I was out of balance. My legs felt like they were leading the way, dragging my upper body along.
I knew that I needed to be in sync, so I leaned forward to compensate. But I leaned too far, and I took a tumble.
Now, the pack of competitors was far ahead of me, charging for the finish line. My legs were bloodied from the asphalt track. My hopes were dashed.
Even so, I wasn’t going to give up. I got back on my feet and charged forward with all that I had. And I crossed the finish line.
Just like that, my race was over. I was left to think about what might have been had my sprint not gone awry. That would be the narrative of this experience.
Or so I thought.
In school the next day, my teacher called me to the front of the class. She asked me to pull up my pant legs, so the class could see my scraped knees.
My teacher then explained that while I hadn’t won a medal in the 100-meter contest, I’d done something just as noteworthy. By getting back up and finishing the race, I’d shown courage, determination, and heart. And that was worthy of recognition.
Upon hearing this, my classmates applauded.
In hindsight, this seems like a special moment. A moment worth cherishing.
And indeed, I do hold this memory dear these days. But back then, I remember feeling supremely confused.
After all, I had fallen. I had failed.
There were no medals to show for my effort. No sterling race splits. There was just a row at the bottom of the results table with my name and unspectacular race time on it.
Why was I now being feted?
I didn’t know quite how to react.
There is no substitute for hard work.
So proclaimed one of America’s greatest innovators — Thomas Edison.
Edison’s inventions are widely known, but the winding journey toward such success are not. There were hundreds of challenges, setbacks, and outright failings along the way.
Many would-be innovators would have thrown in the towel in the face of such adversity. But Edison didn’t. He kept trying. And eventually, he turned those struggles into success.
Today, we laud those who have followed Edison’s lead. We single out those who try hard, and who stick with it through adversity.
Still, such positive attention ignores a key fact. Our effort doesn’t always correlate to our performance.
As I’ve explained before, effort and execution are two entirely different things.
In my 100-meter race, I had failed miserably at one of those tasks. And yet, everyone was acting as if I hadn’t done anything wrong at all.
It didn’t seem right.
There is a narrative out there claiming that America was built on hopes and dreams. But our society relies on results.
Results are how we evaluate performance in a free-market economy. It’s how businesses are valued. It’s how athletes are defined. It’s how musicians go Platinum and movies break the bank.
Even in a changing world, there is little appetite to change this model. We might squabble about providing a social safety net, but we still believe in singing for our supper.
Yes, if one was to brand an American mantra, it would likely be Deliver results.
And yet, that is not the recognition we espouse. We focus instead on principles.
Principles are how I ended up with that round of applause just for finishing a race. Principles are what drive us to recognize others for their work ethic, passion, or chivalry.
We celebrate these attributes because they’re culturally significant. We want to live in a world full of determined people who still have the presence of mind to care about their neighbors.
But if we focus too much on that side of the coin, we’re setting ourselves up for trouble.
In 1970, economist Milton Friedman wrote a New York Times Magazine article that changed the business world.
The Friedman Doctrine mandated that a public company’s only objective was to provide value to its shareholders. It tossed aside any grand sense of principle and zeroed in on the bottom line.
The Friedman Doctrine helped spur the rise of cutthroat capitalism. In the years that followed, businesses went to great lengths to drive results and increase their valuations.
Innovation soared and shareholder value exploded. But it wasn’t all rosy.
In the years following the Friedman Doctrine, corporate America abandoned its sense of humanity. Workers became more expendable than ever before, and the compensation gap soared. A focus on results for some did not provide benefits for all.
These days, there is a backlash to this pattern. Scholars and activists have demanded more from companies than an increase in stock prices. Employee empowerment and corporate social responsibility are among the items on their wish lists.
But progress in these areas has been staggered.
For while we feel strongly about principles, they don’t usurp results.
Companies must demonstrate success to stay in business. A runner must cross the finish line first to get the gold medal.
We put a lot of attention on how we can get there. But in the end, what matters is that we do get there.
So, let’s take a fresh perspective.
Let’s treat principles as table stakes, rather than exalted virtues. And let’s redirect our focus on the results they can bring.
The way we carry ourselves matters. But our achievements matter even more.