Perfection, Grit, and Subway Tile

I’ve moved more times than I can count. Each new home has its own story - its quirks, its corners, its “almost perfects.” And each time, when I walk into a new kitchen, I notice the backsplash. 

There’s something satisfying about those clean, deliberate lines.  The soft sheen of tile, the light grout perfectly placed to brighten the space. Subway tile is a popular choice for a reason. It’s timeless, functional, and easy to clean. The design is straightforward - neat rows, repeating patterns, and no surprises. It gives the illusion of control.

But these days, I spend more time in an actual subway than admiring one in a kitchen. And let’s just say, it’s anything but clean.

Still, it’s functional,  arguably one of the most functional systems in the world. The New York City subway carries over 4 million riders every weekday, connecting more than 470 stations across five boroughs. It’s a living, breathing network of movement - chaotic and brilliant all at once.

As the train races through the tunnels, I stare out the window. Watching the flash of wires, the blur of concrete, the faint glow of emergency lights that flicker past. Around me, faces are buried in phones. No smiles. Just the rhythm of routine.

And then I see it - the once white tile.

The same familiar pattern that once lined my kitchen walls, only now it’s caked in decades of soot and grime. The grout lines aren’t light or bright, they’re dark. Maybe black grout, maybe just time doing what time does.

Still, the tile is there, trying to make something ugly, beautiful.

Holding together walls that hold together a city.

The subway tile, in a house or in a tunnel, isn’t about perfection. It’s about resilience. In a kitchen, it’s decorative. Underground, it’s armor. Both are functional, but one has been tested. One has weathered heat, pressure, and the literal weight of the world above it.

That’s what being a damaged leader feels like.

We start as clean subway tile - eager, fresh, and maybe a little naïve about what’s ahead. Then comes the grit - the pressure, the years, the mistakes, the rebuilds. The shine fades, but what remains is stronger. More grounded. Maybe covered in grim, but that’s the evidence of work and use. 

Like kintsugi, where broken pottery is repaired with gold, the subway tile reminds me that experience lives inside imperfection. The cracks, the stains, the wear - they aren’t flaws. They’re proof of endurance.

As the train speeds forward and the tile flashes past, I’m reminded: leadership isn’t about the spotless backsplash version of ourselves. It’s about the underground work.  The unglamorous, unfiltered, real stuff that keeps us moving, even if no one’s pays attention or notices.

Reflection

Leadership isn’t built in the spotless kitchens of our lives. It’s shaped in the tunnels - the places where we’re stretched, tested, and sometimes cracked under pressure.

The backsplash version of ourselves might look polished, but the subway version tells the real story. It’s where function meets endurance, where purpose outlasts perfection.

Every dark line, every chipped edge, every imperfect tile,  that’s where the strength lives.

Because the world doesn’t need more leaders who try to appear perfect on the surface, or more bosses who expect the grout to be pristine. That would be counterintuitive to the experience brought to the table. 

The world needs more human leaders. Those willing to get dirty, stay grounded, listen, and keep showing up through the grind. 

To honest leadership,

Natalie