Today, on the banks of the Parc del Segre —venue of the first Canoe Slalom World Cup of 2025— I was speaking with a veteran paddler and coach about training and adolescence. From that exchange, a simple yet powerful question stayed with me:
When is it enough?
This question resonated even more deeply because, just a few reflections ago, we were recalling our existentialist philosophers and their musings on the void that opens between who we wish to become and what separates us from that ideal. That distance —so often insurmountable— is the origin of a silent yet constant form of anguish: the realization of how far we still have to go. We’re not just talking about measurable goals, but something deeper, almost ontological (philosophical, real): the pursuit of the ideal. That ideal which so easily becomes confused with perfection —with the infallible, the unblemished, the absolute.
In sport, this tension takes on a very concrete form. Athletes who aspire to reach the elite level naturally seek that infallibility. They strive for flawless execution, for maximal efficiency in every movement, for the elimination of every error or deviation. Their effort is not only technical or physical —it is symbolic: an attempt to reach a state of purity in action, of total control over their body, mind, and environment.
Yet this very drive can become a trap. In chasing the ideal, many athletes forget to look back. They don’t pause to appreciate what they’ve already achieved. They don’t celebrate their progress or acknowledge the ground already gained. This blindness to what has been accomplished is not only unfair to themselves, but can also lead to a deep and unpleasant sense of insufficiency. And we must be careful —because this is how the abyss opens: when the present is reduced to nothing more than a shadow of what we have yet to become.
That is why stopping is not a weakness, but a necessity. To pause, look around, and recognize what is already solid —what was once impossible and is now routine. That pause is an act of mental health and perspective. Only by doing this can we avoid falling into the existential chasm that separates us from our future longing.
This tension between the ideal and the real plays out every day in training sessions. Each repetition, each drill, lives in that ambiguous space between what we imagine we should do and what we are actually doing. And here’s where something curious happens: some athletes, even after technically solid performances, can’t accept them as enough. They won’t allow themselves to rest; they won’t grant themselves a “well done.” When coaches suggest they repeat a movement that is already polished and effective, they insist on pushing further. As if something is always missing. As if perfection is just one more effort away. As if stopping and choosing to repeat what’s already right is a form of surrender, a betrayal of the ideal. But more often than not, that next step leads not to progress —but to exhaustion, to mistakes, to a block. They crash into an invisible wall of their own making, built from self-imposed pressure.
It’s important to remember: improvement is not always about doing more, but about learning to do better. And sometimes, doing better simply means accepting that it’s already enough. That repeating what is good consolidates it. That refining without obsession strengthens it. That the ideal can be a beacon —but must never become an executioner.
The true path to excellence is not a blind race toward perfection, but a conscious journey —one that recognizes both what is missing and what is already in hand. In that acceptance lies the possibility of growing with balance, without fear, and without anguish.