Perfectly imperfect.

💌 Letter #23 – ⏳ 4 min 20 sec

Imperfection (/ɛ̃.pɛʁ.fɛk.sjɔ̃/):

State of what is imperfect; what contains flaws, errors, or gaps.

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Dear you,

Thank you.

Thank you for the conversation we had yesterday. It was our first. We had never met before. The goal was simple: to see whether we could, or could not, work together. As I always do in these first exchanges, I asked you to tell me about your life — both personal and professional.

Your story moved me deeply. For what it is. And for what it reflected back to me.

You told me about your academic path, brilliant. Your first professional experiences, just as successful, in well-established companies. Then your first intrapreneurial ventures, before deciding to launch your own company at the intersection of AI and healthcare.

Everything seemed perfect. And you seemed perfectly aligned with that trajectory.

Except for one detail. A detail that changes everything.

You did all of this while already being, barely past thirty, a father. And the father of a child who, just before turning two, was diagnosed with autism.

You then shared the uphill journey you and your wife have been through to support him: the difficulty of finding external support, the daily load this represents for both of you, the fact that your wife had to stop working, and the questions this raises for your family balance and your life plans.

You also spoke about the immense weight it puts on your shoulders: those of a father, but also those of an entrepreneur and CEO, for whom the pressure to succeed suddenly becomes even stronger. “There is no world where I cannot succeed for them,” you told me.

As we explored a little further, I also understood that the apparent success of the moment remained fragile. That the financial situation of your company, and therefore your own material security, is uncertain today.

Wow.

How could I possibly convey the emotion I felt while listening to you?

Perhaps simply by repeating what I told you, looking you straight in the eyes.

First: bravo. Bravo for the courage and resilience that are yours, both as the father of a child with a disability and as an entrepreneur. Very few people can truly grasp what that represents.

Then, as I explained to you, and as my ethics as a coach require, I had to share part of my own story.

In this profession, a coach must remain clear enough inside to accompany the other person without projecting their own story onto theirs. While listening to you, I felt that my own personal history resonated too strongly with yours. And that there was therefore a real risk of emotional transference. In such moments, a coach can no longer guarantee the inner neutrality required to accompany someone with accuracy. Their own experience may, despite themselves, influence their perspective, their listening, their questions, or their feedback. For all these reasons, out of respect for you and for my profession, I suggested connecting you with another coach.

That said, if you wish, I feel a visceral desire to help you in another way. Let’s say in a more fraternal way. As a father who also has a child with a disability. And as an entrepreneur who has lived exactly what you are going through.

Around the same age you are today, I had the immense joy of welcoming my first child, Paul. And he too surprised us at birth: he was born with Down syndrome. We discovered it that very day. A brutal emotional elevator: in a fraction of a second, the greatest happiness turns into an abyss of complex emotions.

And just like you, at that same moment in life, I had also created my first company. It too operated at the intersection of technology and the paramedical world. And just like you today, that first entrepreneurial journey was also facing a delicate strategic and financial moment.

I know, in my bones, what you are living through.

So yes, I will help you. But not as a coach. As someone who has walked through this battle of life and who wants to pass along what he can so that you can go through it as well as possible.

And the first thing I want to pass on to you is hope. Not a polite or convenient kind of hope. A hope deeply rooted in lived experience.

Because from that trial eventually came far more beautiful things than I could ever have imagined. My son’s disability led my wife and me to make strong, courageous, even bold choices. Choices we would probably never have made without him. And those choices paid off.

They allowed me to live extraordinary entrepreneurial adventures. To build an exceptional family and circle of friends. To be happy. To be free. To love and to be loved in a way I wish for everyone.

A genetic imperfection that turned out to be perfectly fitting. A personal and professional life path that is perfectly imperfect, and that I would not change today, and of which I am deeply proud and grateful.

I love this sentence from Thich Nhat Hanh. It has often accompanied me in difficult moments like the ones you are going through today:

“Without mud, there is no lotus. The lotus is one of the most beautiful flowers, and it grows in the mud. Many people are afraid of suffering, but suffering is the kind of mud that helps your happiness grow. Out of mud grows the lotus flower. Out of your suffering may grow happiness and fulfillment.”

I have often shared it with some of your peers who, like you — though for different reasons — have gone through tragedies or traumatic situations: illness, the loss of a loved one, physical or psychological violence. Trials no one would wish on anyone. And yet many have turned them into extraordinary strength for life and action. That is exactly what I wish for you.

So, my dear you, hold on. Keep moving forward. Believe in yourself. Don’t give up. Don’t lose yourself along the way, and don’t forget those you love. What matters is not what happens to you. What matters is what you choose to do with it.

One day you will see that what you are going through today, as difficult and anxiety-provoking as it may be, will bring you far more than you can imagine. And you will see that in the mud, the manure, or even the mess, the most surprising and beautiful flowers can grow.

Take care,

Adri