I recently watched Raj Shamani’s podcast with Sam Altman. Not a plug, but a recommended watch.

Not just for what Altman has to say about AI, but for the person behind the extraordinary responsibilities he carries.

I was intrigued by one particular question: What version of you has died?

Altman talks about how his life has changed. Time for hobbies has given way to an “incredibly precise schedule”. Spontaneity has become a rarity. When asked what he misses about his old life, his answer is wonderfully ordinary: going to sit in a coffee shop on a Saturday afternoon.

He candidly admits he misses his anonymity.

For someone in his position, anonymity is a superpower. Familiarity comes with its own risks. Being recognised can take away the freedom to do the most ordinary things without being noticed.

But his answer got me thinking about a different kind of invisibility. One that comes from not being unknown, but from the weight of expectations.

In almost every family, relationship or team, there is someone who becomes the dependable one. The person who solves the crisis, carries the weight, fixes the problem and finds a way.

People applaud them. They tell them how incredible they are, how strong, how indispensable.

And yet, how often do we stop to think about what it takes to be that person?

The effort. The compromises. The exhaustion. The personal cost of always being the one who holds things together.

There is a peculiar kind of invisibility in being known only for what you do. You are seen for your actions, but not necessarily for what those actions demand of you.

And applause, after all, is from a distance. It celebrates the achievement without always acknowledging the person behind it.

This thought kept lingering as I read the Hanuman Chalisa and came to verse 13:

sahasa badana tumharo jasa gaawai(n)

asa kahi shreepati kanTha lagaawai(n)

(A thousand mouths sing your glory; saying this, Shri Ram draws you into an embrace.)

Hanuman’s greatness is celebrated. His extraordinary deeds are acknowledged. But Ram doesn’t leave it at that. He draws him close and embraces him.

The verse moves from praise to intimacy. From admiration to acknowledgement.

Even Hanuman, whose glory is sung by a thousand mouths, is celebrated from a distance. It takes Ram to close that distance.

Perhaps that’s what the people we depend on need sometimes. Not another reminder of how strong they are, or how much they can accomplish. But the reassurance that they are seen beyond their accomplishments. That they don’t always have to be capable, dependable or strong.

So, the next time you applaud someone,  pause for a moment. Think about the person behind the achievement. The effort and the personal cost that may have gone unnoticed.

And perhaps, beyond the applause, offer an embrace.

It might say far more than applause ever could.