The Quiet Danger of Low Standards—and Why Recognition Matters More Than You Think

The Vomit Before the Vision

It was nearly midnight on 30 May 2025, and I felt nauseated. Not the kind of nausea that comes from bad food or physical illness, but the kind that settles deep in your chest when you know something’s misaligned—when your body is reacting to a truth your mind hasn’t yet admitted. All day, I had been preparing something I never thought I would: an award submission for the Ten Outstanding Young Malaysians (TOYM).

From the outside, it sounds like something to be proud of. National recognition. A moment in the spotlight. Another feather in the cap. But internally, I was resisting it with every fiber of my being. I’ve received awards before. Some of them significant, many of them given with good intentions. And yet, most ended up gathering dust in storerooms or shoved into corners after office renovations. Not because I didn’t care, but because I never sought them. They felt like acknowledgments of things I had already done—not reflections of who I was becoming.

I’ve always believed that if something stokes your pride, you should step away. But if it builds your people—your team, your purpose, your practice—then it’s worth considering. That was the tension. Why did I say yes to this one? Because three people I deeply respect told me I should. They didn’t flatter me or try to hype it up. They looked me in the eye and said, “It’s time.” And something in me knew—they weren’t talking about the award. They were talking about reflection. About legacy. About turning the mirror back on myself.

The Irony of Creating the Award

The irony, however, revealed itself almost immediately. That very same day, while scrolling through our internal leadership group, I saw photos from various Stellar preschool centers. The holiday celebrations were nothing short of creative brilliance—children in costumes, themed classrooms, parents participating joyfully. My first instinct wasn’t to analyze or critique. It was admiration. And before I could stop myself, I typed in our CEO group chat, “We should reward the most creative center. Maybe turn this into a friendly competition.”

As soon as I hit send, I paused.

Wait—me? The person who just spent the entire day questioning the value of awards… had just created one?

The contradiction was uncomfortable. Had I been subconsciously brainwashed by the process? Was I losing my stance against superficial validation?

I sat with the discomfort for a moment longer. Then it became clear: this wasn’t about glorifying anyone. It was about amplifying excellence. It was about catching people doing something right before they feel unseen. I wasn’t designing applause—I was designing attention. I was trying to build a culture that sees, honors, and encourages those who go the extra mile. Not because they need a trophy, but because recognition tells people: we noticed. And that changes everything.

The 3/10 Problem: How My Wife’s Cooking Taught Me a Leadership Lesson

That night, another layer of the truth unfolded—unexpectedly, through food.

My wife is a passionate cook. She experiments often, tries new recipes, and finds joy in the process. I, on the other hand, have always been easy to please. To her, I’m “the husband who will eat anything.” And it’s true. Whether it’s a 3 out of 10 or a 9, I usually say the same thing: “It’s nice. Tasty. Thanks, dear.” She once told her friend, half-jokingly, “My husband would be happy with anything. He’s not fussy.”

That comment stayed with me longer than expected. Because suddenly, I imagined what would happen if I—Mr. “3/10 is good enough”—were leading our Stellar central kitchen. What would our food quality be like? What would our customers experience? What would our chefs feel?

If I’m honest, it scared me. Because I realized that low expectations, when normalized by leadership, are dangerous. Not just harmlessly average—dangerous.

People like Joshua or Samuel—two team members I deeply respect for their culinary passion—would be frustrated under my standards. Not because they’re too demanding, but because my baseline would slowly erode their excellence. They’d feel unseen. Unchallenged. Unmet. And eventually, they’d leave—not with drama, but with quiet resignation.

That’s when it hit me: this wasn’t about food. This was a mirror of my leadership.

The Cultural Decay of Silence

I’ve been silent in places where excellence needed voice. I’ve allowed “good enough” to slip through in areas where greatness needed safeguarding. I’ve mistaken kindness for compromise.

This isn’t just my problem. It’s systemic. According to Gallup’s 2023 global workplace report, 69% of employees say they would work harder if they were recognized more. Meanwhile, in high-performing organizations, frequent appreciation and clear expectations are cultural norms—not leadership exceptions. Google’s famous Project Oxygen also found that recognition, alongside coaching and care, was one of the top three traits of managers who retained high-impact teams.

And yet, like many leaders, I’ve been louder in correction than in celebration. I speak when things go wrong. But when they go right? Silence.

The absence of affirmation, I’ve learned, breeds assumption. And assumption, over time, becomes disengagement.

At Stellar, we talk often about our seven core values. Servant Leadership. Transformational Innovation. Empowerment. Resilience. Love for truth, life, and people. These are loud, visible, inspiring values. But two of them—“Live Gratefully, Not Blaming” and “Appreciativeness, Not Criticism”—are often overlooked. Not because they’re unimportant, but because they’re quiet. Subtle. Easy to forget.

But cultures aren’t only shaped by what’s loud. They’re also defined by what’s missing.

Global Examples: When Culture Becomes the Ceiling

I’ve seen what happens when we fail to express gratitude. People begin to question their worth. Teams plateau. Creativity stalls. And eventually, excellence becomes exhaustion.

This is not theoretical. It’s happening everywhere.

In Japan, Toyota’s Kaizen system allows any employee to stop the entire production line if something is even slightly off. That’s not just good systems design—it’s a cultural statement: quality matters here. Everyone is responsible. No one is too small to protect the standard.

In contrast, many modern organizations are so focused on fixing what’s broken that they forget to spotlight what’s beautiful. They reward compliance, but not contribution. And in doing so, they create cultures where the best quietly walk away—not because the work is too hard, but because their work is invisible.

The more I reflect, the more I realize: we don’t lose our best people because they failed. We lose them because we failed to see them.

The Award Became My Mirror

That’s why this TOYM process, as uncomfortable as it’s been, has become something unexpected—a mirror.

As I worked through each section of the nomination—community impact, innovation, leadership values—I didn’t just list my achievements. I revisited the why behind them. I revisited moments I forgot. Failures I never processed. Impact I never celebrated.

In a strange way, this isn’t about the award at all. It’s about accountability. Like signing up for a 21km marathon—not because you’re the best runner, but because the registration forces you to start running. You train. You stretch. You reflect. The medal isn’t the point. The preparation is.

And that’s when I understood something else.

Sometimes we resist awards not because they inflate our ego—but because they expose our inconsistencies.

This process didn’t make me proud. It made me honest. And that honesty is already reshaping the way I lead, recognize, and reflect.

The Reverse That Redefines It All

The real danger in leadership isn’t aiming too high and missing.

It’s aiming too low… and passing.

For years, I thought passing a 3/10 dish was kindness. Grace. Acceptance.

Now I realize—it was a form of resignation. A slow erosion of standards disguised as generosity.

And if we, as leaders, consistently let things slide… if we assume our teams know they’re appreciated without saying it… if we keep expecting Level 10 people to stay in Level 5 cultures… we are sowing the seeds of disengagement.

Eventually, excellence will exit the room—and we’ll wonder what happened.

So here’s my new commitment: I will no longer pass at 3/10. Not because I’m suddenly fussy. But because I care too much about those who are already giving us 10/10. They deserve to be seen, protected, and multiplied.

And maybe… this award I never wanted was the very thing I needed to remind me of that.