Better > Best

Not the stats. Not the numbers. Not where you placed. The real stuff. The part that matters when the race is over and you’re alone with your thoughts. That moment where you ask yourself: Was that a good day? Did I actually show up the way I wanted to?

There are two ways people usually look at performance.

The first says it’s all about results. Win the race. Be the fastest. Anything less? Not good enough.
The second says: it’s about being your best. Not someone else’s version — yours. And if you do that, you’ve performed, regardless of the result sheet.

Personally, I lean hard into the second one. I believe performance is about pride — pride in how you prepared, how you executed, and how deep you were willing to go when it counted. And I don’t think that’s a weak stance. I think that’s the strongest one of all.

I know people who can’t stand hearing someone say, “I just want to do the best I can.” They hear it as a lack of hunger. I hear it as someone with nothing to prove and everything to give.

Because here’s the truth: chasing someone else’s result is exhausting. You never really win that game. There’s always someone fitter, faster, fresher, or luckier. And if your self-worth depends on beating them? You’ll spend your whole life chasing validation that never quite lands.

But when your focus shifts inward — when performance becomes a personal standard — everything changes. You stop looking sideways. You start building something that actually lasts. You know when you’ve nailed it.

It’s easy to confuse applause with performance. Easy to think that because people cheered, the job is done. But deep down, you know. You know if you coasted. You know if you cracked. You know if you played it safe, or if you actually emptied the tank.

That’s why I think performance is something quiet. It’s not always the loudest athlete, or the one with the most aggressive goal. It’s the one who trains with intention. The one who shows up with clarity. The one who walks away from a race proud — even when the outcome didn’t turn heads.

There’s something powerful about that. You don’t see the the cheetah lining up to race every barking dog.

I think it’s brilliant when people post their sessions, their races, their progress. It’s a way of saying “I’m proud of this — come celebrate with me.” That kind of energy builds community. It creates space for growth. It encourages others to show up too.

But your real performance isn’t in the post. It’s in the preparation. The choices you made when no one was looking. The way you carried yourself when things got hard. That’s the part only you will ever fully understand. And that’s the part that matters most. In fact, its the only measure that really matters.

“I just want to do my best” isn’t soft. It’s not a get-out clause.

It’s honest. It’s strong. It’s someone who knows exactly what they’re aiming for — and isn’t distracted by someone else’s path.

Because at the end of the day, performance isn’t about being number one. It’s about being proud. Of the way you trained. The way you raced. And the way you showed up when it counted. That’s the stuff that sticks. That’s the performance that matters.