Embracing the Imperfect

When I got in, I was in utter disbelief. My parents sent email announcements to my extended family, and soon everyone who lived in my building in Harlem knew it: Oscar was going to Stuyvesant! 

I had originally wanted to go to a high school with a special focus on history, my favorite subject. But Stuyvesant was the top New York City public high school. My Korean grandmother, who spoke no English, reverently spoke the word “Stuyvesant.” I absorbed the idea that I MUST go there, and I made it my first choice the fateful day when I took the admissions test. 

But on my first day, I felt like an impostor. I struggled to take notes, which the other kids seemed to do easily. When my geometry teacher called on me, I sputtered out something unintelligible, and he moved on. I felt like a fish flopping around on land as the other students swam smoothly through classes.

As the week went on, I grew more dejected. I had been the best student in my small K-8 school, and my parents thought that my academic achievement came naturally. It was just a fact of life. Oscar gets good grades, and the sky is blue. 

That first, unhappy week, my mother was already jumping ahead to my attending Harvard in four years. I saw how happy this dream made her, but I felt overwhelmed. Stuyvesant inundated me with STEM, and my history classes were disappointing. 

Then I came across an email about the cross-country running team. I was the furthest thing from athletic—a skinny asthmatic who gave out after 10 push-ups. But videos on Instagram said that extracurriculars were essential for college, and cross-country was the first one I came across that was already recruiting. 

The first practices were grueling. It was still summer, humid and sweltering. My lungs were ablaze, and my legs ached, yet I liked giving it my all there. I wasn’t dominating practices, but I wasn’t the worst either. 

Not First 

In the first race of the season, I came in 25th out of 100.  I received a bronze medal that (to me) screamed “participation trophy” and stuffed it quickly into my backpack. 

“How did you do, Oscar?” My mom asked when I got home.

“I got a medal.” 

“What place?” 

“25th,” I gulped.

“And Daniel?” (Another kid on the team.)

“Fifth.” 

“Only a couple points away. Daniel must be good!” she laughed and launched into a eulogy for my former self, who once got 99s on every test. 

“Yeah, I don’t know why that was such a big deal—” 

“Oscar, speaking of which, you need to get your geometry grade up. I was at a meeting about advanced math courses and…” 

As she droned on, the words “a couple of points away” stuck in my head. She often dismissed any results short of a perfect 100 or 1st place— or that’s how it seemed anyway. 

Pointless 

In the next couple of weeks, I established a routine of getting home late from practice and studying for endless exams. I felt perpetually exhausted. My grades and my run times were mediocre. I began to debate whether running was worth it. Should I switch to Model UN or debate? 

But I kept showing up because cross-country running was fun. My closest friends were on the team. It was exhilarating and gave my life gusto. Though I did not excel at it, it was my lifeline—my discipline, my routine, my social life.  There was no Oscar without running. 

But accepting mediocrity was hard.

“What’s the most important race of the season?” I asked my teammate William as we chatted during stretches. 

“Probably, for you, Frosh-Soph. It is a chance for you to set a personal best. All the best runners on our team proved themselves there.” 

“What about you? How did you do at the race last year?” 

The perfectionist in me groaned at his lack of ambition: It reeked of healthy boundaries and realistic expectations.

He laughed, “Nah, I got injured sophomore year, so I messed up there. It’s fine, though, I know I’m not going Division 1.”

I blinked. Not going D1? Or Varsity at least?  “So why do you keep doing this?” 

He shrugged and gave a little smile. “Because I love the community. I love to run. I love coming after school and doing this. I love getting better, even if I’m not at the level of our captain.”

I fumbled with the packaging of the at-home test, then my mom and I watched the two red bars materialize.

Later, on the #2 train home, I replayed our conversation. The perfectionist in me groaned at his lack of ambition: It reeked of healthy boundaries and realistic expectations. But he had described what I liked about running, too—not chasing the Ivy League or medals, just running for inexplicable joy. 

I still wanted to crush the Frosh-Soph race. 

Circling Vultures

Four months of arduous training later, the Frosh-Soph race was two days away. 

It was a bitterly cold night, and thoughts of the race circled like vultures as I walked home from another long practice. As I climbed the steps to my apartment, I felt the weight of my backpack crushing me. There was an ache in my chest, and I coughed as I struggled up the stairs, my legs wobbling with fatigue. 

Once inside, I heard my mom shriek, “Oscar! You need to test.”

“What test?” 

“For Covid, your father has it and—”  

Illness has a way of amplifying your despair. Knowing I would miss the race, I thought, God, it had all been so pointless, I was wasting my time… 

Tears leaked out. I didn’t want to cry in front of my mom. But I did, and then alone in my room, I cried more, like I hadn’t cried since 7th grade.

Bitter feelings and stress gnawed at me for most of my quarantine. What was the point of all this? The late nights, the endless studying, and all that running, for what? 

I thought about how much class I would be missing. I was already struggling, and now I’d be a week behind. I wanted to stand up and scream to the world, “turn the clock back,” or “I need some help.” I turned on my computer and opened Gmail.

Dear Coach,

I’ve realized that this team is not for me. I have been having a hard time with Covid, and my performance has been subpar, so I will be departing from this team. 

So sorry, Oscar.

My finger trembled over the send button. It was the right decision, college-wise. It was obvious that there were better options for my resume. I sank my soul into this, but I wasn’t any good. I was doing this for nothing. 

I hesitated, as I remembered my first race. The cold morning wind, not doing well, but hanging out, laughing, and joking. I wasn’t perfect then, but I was happy. I had forgotten the joy I’d felt amidst the tumult of stress and expectation.

I deleted the email and closed my laptop.  

I recovered from Covid and went back to the grind. Three months later was the last race of the season, and I was on the start line– my lungs screaming from a cold.

“Runners set,” the voice boomed.

The gun blasted, and I took off. My breaths heaved, and my legs dragged. I watched as people I had beaten before flicked by me as my legs and lungs surrendered to exhaustion. 

When you run a race, there are no thoughts. It’s just you, gasping and throwing yourself forward. As I crossed the finish line in very last place, I felt free. Free of expectation’s grasp. The moment was sublime in its imperfection. 

The specter of disappointment had loosened its grip. 

Whose Expectations?

Over the year of running, I got better at noticing the moments I’ve enjoyed. And that self-awareness led me to be more honest with my parents about my struggles at Stuy. 

After freshman year ended,  I walked into my parents’ bedroom, my heart thumping. 

“Mom,” I said, my voice a whisper. 

“Yes, Oscar?” She kept her eyes on her laptop. 

“I think… I think I need a tutor.” 

Her eyebrows furrowed, and she looked up.

“A tutor… for what?” 

“Math, I guess, I just… It’s been hard for me at Stuy.” 

She looked at me for a moment. I waited for her to laugh or to remind me how much a tutor cost. 

Instead, she nodded, “Let’s talk to your father.” 

“Thank you.” I had been dreading this conversation, yet it had been so easy. Maybe my parents didn’t need me to be perfect after all. 

I sat down with them later that day. I told them I felt dejected and stressed and that I was struggling academically and athletically. I felt like I was dismantling my facade, and I saw their eyes flicker with understanding and sadness. 

My mother recounted the story of why she left Korea. I had heard it before, but this time I understood it. She told me she left her home country because she hated the culture of perfectionism, competition, and stress. She hadn’t left for me to feel that. I didn’t need to be doctor-president of Harvard: I could just be Oscar. My parents assured me I could have any help I needed. 

Unbelievable. 

So much of my stress had come from trying to live up to their expectations, which had gotten all mixed in with my standards. Their expectations were never as demanding as my own. I felt a great relief. 

Sophomore year, I went back to cross-country. I still do too much in a day, but easing up on myself has made me a stronger student—better grades, better learning, even better sleep. Learning to love running for its own sake helped me chase joy and not just achievement.