By Nahrizul Adib Kadri

Last Sunday, I ran 6.66 kilometres.

Not a big deal, really. Not compared to my younger days, when I would do a 21km run on a Saturday night and another 10km the next morning. Back-to-back races like a personal encore. There were ultramarathons too, for reasons I no longer remember. These days, if I can squeeze in a 5km over the weekend, that already feels like a small victory.

But that Sunday run was different.

Because I had company. My youngest son, Yusuff. He is twelve, curious to the core, and not particularly sporty. He joins co-curricular activities only because the school requires it. But his mind moves fast. Always buzzing. Always connecting dots. Usually after bingeing YouTube Shorts.

Not long ago he told me, “Did you know some chemical elements are named after scientists?” Before I could even pretend to be amazed, he said, “I think I want to be a chemistry scientist.” The month before, he wanted to be a chef. Before that, an inventor. Kids are all spark, no filter. And I love that.

We ran the familiar UM 5km Bukit Cinta loop. The route I have pounded countless times alone. This time slower, but somehow fuller.

We kept seeing the same runners approaching us from the opposite direction. A few faces appeared like clockwork. So I asked him a question to keep things interesting.

“If two people start at the same time, run in opposite directions at the same pace, and each does two loops, how many times will they pass each other?”

He paused for a moment and said, “Four. If we count the finish line, but not the start.”

“How did you get that?”

He shrugged. “I just knew.”

And without planning it, I heard myself say something that surprised me.

“Yusuff, life is never about knowing the right answers. The right answers will come, if you follow the right way.”

That was it. The one line that stayed with me long after the run.

Because life keeps teaching us the same thing. How we arrive matters more than what we arrive at. The process reveals more about us than the result ever could.

It reminded me of something Mitch Albom once wrote about our tendency to rush to the end of the story, forgetting to live the middle. But the middle, the method, the mess, the mundane rhythms, these are the places where the soul actually grows.

In maths, students are told that the answers are printed at the back of the textbook. Not because the answers matter most. Because they matter the least. What gets marked is the working. The jalan kerja. The way you got there. Because that is where the understanding lives.

Life works the same way.

Most of the answers in life are obvious. Be kind. Be fair. Do your work well. Don’t cheat. Don’t hurt people. Almost everyone knows the answers. The real challenge lies in the method. Choosing the slower and more principled way when shortcuts are easy. Choosing patience over speed. Choosing honesty over convenience. Choosing consistency over applause.

Malcolm Gladwell once said that success is not about talent alone. It is about the slow, deliberate practice that shapes character. Ten thousand hours. Not ten thousand shortcuts.

Haruki Murakami, in his running memoir, wrote about how running teaches him discipline, pain, and that inner monologue that shapes who he becomes. He does not run to win. He runs to become. And that, I think, is a better metaphor for life than any finishing podium.

We often measure ourselves by outcomes. Promotions. Awards. Medals. Likes. Shares. But these things are temporary. They rise, they fall, they disappear. What stays is the way you walked the path. Whether you remained kind. Whether you stayed honest. Whether you kept your word.

And the beautiful irony is this: the right way is already in us.

Children know fairness instinctively. They know how to be gentle. They know how to forgive. What life tests is whether we can hold onto those natural instincts as we grow older. Whether we can keep them alive through disappointment and ambition and adulthood.

We do not become better people by collecting new answers. We become better by returning to the right way again and again. Especially when it is difficult.

So yes, maybe I no longer run marathons. Maybe my pace is slower now and my distances shorter. But in these small runs, I see more. I feel more. I say things I never said when I was younger. And when I pass those thoughts on to my son, I am not only guiding him.

I am reminding myself.

_{Ir Dr Nahrizul Adib Kadri is a professor of biomedical engineering at the Faculty of Engineering, and the Principal of Ibnu Sina and Tuanku Bahiyah Residential College, Universiti Malaya. He may be reached at nahrizuladib@um.edu.my This piece first appeared on TwentyTwo13}