About a year ago, I decided to embark on a wildly ambitious personal challenge: run a 5km in under 20 minutes, with only 20 weeks of training. I’ve taken some time to process everything before finally sitting down to write about it.

To understand the scale of what I was asking of myself, you need some context. Fifteen years ago, when I weighed 72kg, my personal best for a 5K was 17:26. But today, I’m sitting at 95kg. When I started this challenge, a comfortable 5K for me was hovering around the 23- to 24-minute mark.

Almost immediately after I announced the project, my friend Arjun messaged me to gently point out the reality: dropping that much time usually takes closer to a year of dedicated training. What on earth was I thinking?

Well, fast forward to the end of those 20 weeks... and I missed my target.

I actually managed to hold a decent pace for the first 3km (with splits of 3:57, 3:40, and 4:26). But by that third kilometer, my heart rate was hitting 177 bpm. My mind wanted it, but my body simply wasn’t ready for that kind of sustained punishment.

But instead of walking away defeated, missing the mark made me want to double down on the bet. I am turning 39, and I’ve decided to look ahead. Next up: a 10km under 40 minutes before I turn 40.

Before we look into that new challenge, here is how those 20 weeks of the 5K challenge actually went down.

“Success only happens when our reasons for pushing through are bigger than our excuses to stop.”

For a long time, I had a library of excuses. “It’s raining.” “I’m tired, I need a rest day.” “I don't want to deal with another pile of laundry.” “I’m traveling for work; I can pause my training.” Sounds familiar? Because I listened to those excuses, I lacked consistency.

But the moment I called them what they actually were—excuses, not reasons—everything changed.

I committed to a strict 25km weekly mileage no matter what. Over the next few weeks, that commitment was tested by back-to-back overseas trips for an outdoor education programme and a conference, a pulled hamstring, and minor surgery to remove two wisdom teeth. It was tough. But I hit the road every single week.

It was a powerful reminder: when your 'why' is clear, the obstacles don't stand a chance.

Have you ever watched a race where someone starts incredibly strong, but the moment they fall behind, they abruptly quit? They often make it seem like they didn’t actually lose, simply because they chose to stop. Honestly, that used to drive me nuts.

What I didn’t realize was that I was slowly becoming that exact person.

During training, I’d blast out to the front and lead the pack. But the second I realized I couldn't maintain the lead, I’d just stop the set entirely rather than finish further back. If I couldn't hit my target pace for a distance run, I’d pull the plug and quit—mostly because I knew it was going on Strava, and I didn't want people seeing a slower time.

It took some painful self-reflection to realize I was letting my ego run the show. I had to learn to swallow my pride and accept not being the best.

What actually matters is showing up and grinding it out. It reminds me so much of my late high school teacher and mentor, Octave Pascale. Among the many life lessons he taught us, his biggest was to never give up on a run—or in life—no matter how slow you're moving. He made it a tradition to join our yearly cross-country race. Even though he’d finish among the last few runners, he took immense pride in knowing he never stopped, and he never walked until he crossed that finish line.

Ego isn’t always the enemy.

While I was working on my own running goals, my friends Kyle and Adrian were out there smashing sub-20-minute 5Ks. I’d be lying if I said my ego was completely fine with that. I wanted to be as good as them. Honestly? I wanted to be better than them.

And I think that’s exactly when ego is healthy. If it pushes you to better yourself while still respecting others, where’s the harm?

We seem to be moving into a world where competition and rankings are looked down upon. I get the concern—if people define their entire self-worth by a single metric, it becomes toxic. But maybe the solution isn’t to erase competition altogether. Maybe our job is to help people make sense of it. We need to teach people that they can have multiple identities; you don’t have to be the absolute best at everything to have value. But if you are genuinely passionate about something, a competitive environment is exactly what helps you grow.

Look at history. For decades, everyone thought a sub-4-minute mile was physically impossible. Then Roger Bannister broke it. Just 46 days later, John Landy broke Bannister's new record.

Or look at mountaineering. The previous record to climb all 14 of the world’s 8,000-meter peaks, defined as the death zone, was seven years, ten months, and six days. Then Nimsdai Purja shattered that record, doing it in just six months and six days. Yet, just a few years later, Kristin Harila and Tenjen (Lama) Sherpa crushed that impossible benchmark again, finishing in 92 days.
Sure, technology improves and methods change. But what’s undeniable is that there is a ceiling to what you can achieve entirely alone, just comparing yourself to yourself.

Often, seeing what is possible through someone else is the exact spark that shatters our own limiting beliefs.

But while looking at global icons shows us what is possible, it’s the people right next to us who actually keep us moving.

When I first announced this challenge, the wave of support was immediate. I received countless words of encouragement, ranging from simple "all the best" messages to friends inspired to start their own challenges to Arjun’s realistic, "Are you sure that’s possible?" Friends checked in on my progress regularly, acting as my unofficial accountability partners. Isky even stepped in to suggest I join the SG Falcons running group to get some collective miles in.

There’s a popular running quote that goes:

“If you want to go for a run, go for a run—don’t look for company. Sooner or later, on your fifth run or your twentieth, like-minded people will find you.”

While there is definitely truth to that—nothing beats having a community.

Muhammad Ali famously said,
“I am the greatest, I said that even before I knew I was.”

Truly believing that I could—and would—break the 20-minute mark played a huge role in giving me the confidence to go out at a sub-4-minute pace. Ultimately, my physical fitness couldn't quite back it up yet, and I couldn't maintain that speed for the last two kilometers (a direct result of missing speed training after pulling my hamstring in week three). But seeing myself run at that pace and actively visualizing holding the pace comfortably was a crucial step.

We all know that positive visualization works. What we often forget, though, is that it works just as powerfully in reverse.

If you visualize yourself failing to hit the target time, or constantly focus on how tired you’re going to feel, chances are that’s exactly what will happen. I can't count how many times I've looked at an upcoming workout, visualized how exhausting it would be, and convinced myself I couldn't do it before I even laced up my shoes.

As the saying goes:
“Whether you think you can, or you think you can’t—you’re right.”

Looking back, the biggest takeaway from this entire challenge wasn't actually about physical fitness—it was about identity.

From the ages of 15 to 25, my life was anchored by intense discipline and regular training. For the fifteen years after that, I coasted, maintaining just enough mileage to stay active. But trying to claw my way back to my top performance forced me to confront a harsh truth: the world doesn't measure you by your past achievements; it only sees your current form.

It reminds me of Reflections, a beautiful photography portfolio by Tom Hussey that features elderly individuals looking into mirrors and seeing the reflections of their younger selves—a doctor, a pilot, a soldier. It’s a striking reminder that you can never truly know someone’s full story just by looking at their present self.

So much of who we think we are is molded by how others perceive us. We internalize the labels people give us: he’s the runner, he’s the high-achiever. But what happens when you can no longer sustain the thing that gave you that label? Can I realistically be a “high-level” runner for another forty years? Physically, maybe. But if the intrinsic motivation starts to fade, am I just setting myself up for failure by forcing it?

When you're fiercely passionate about something, it’s hard to know when it’s time to evolve. That is precisely why we cannot allow ourselves to be defined by a single metric.

Missing my 5K target taught me that a failed goal isn't a failed life. We have to give ourselves permission to hold multiple identities and to step out of the reflections of our past.

As I turn 39, I am going to use this moment of self-reflection to target that 10km under 40 minutes before I turn 40 years old—not to desperately cling to the athlete I used to be, but to test the person I am becoming.

It’s a way to close this current chapter, while finally starting to think about what the next 40 years of my life will look like.