There’s a strange quiet that follows applause.
Not the silence of disrespect, but the silence of absence. Of no longer being seen in the way you once were. And if you’re not careful, that silence starts to feel like erasure.
We spend our lives performing for approval. From parents, teachers, partners, bosses, peers, even strangers. We don’t just want to be loved; we want to be recognized. Noticed. Labeled. Affirmed. There’s something intoxicating about the nod, the compliment, the affirmation that says: “Yes, you matter. Yes, you’re doing it right.”
And somewhere along the way, we confuse that recognition with identity.
We think: “If they see me as strong, I must be.” “If they admire my consistency, my success, my drive, then that’s who I am.”
But what happens when that recognition fades? When the stage empties, the metrics stop ticking, and the people you worked so hard to impress are no longer watching?
I know this confusion well.
For over 30 years, I saw myself as a runner. Not as someone who ran, but as a runner. It wasn’t a hobby. It was part of my internal architecture. My identity. A source of discipline, structure, pride, and community. I felt kinship with other runners. We shared something. A drive. A rhythm. A self-image. Even when injuries came, I pushed through. Running hurt sometimes. My body ached. But I couldn’t let it go. I needed that part of myself to remain intact.
Until I couldn’t.
An injury forced me to stop. Not pause but stop.
And in that stillness, a hard question appeared: “If I don’t run, who am I?”
At first, it felt like loss. Like a part of me had been stripped away. I wasn’t just mourning the routine, I was mourning a self-image that had anchored me for decades.
But over time, it started to feel like something else: truth.
I realized I had tied my worth not to running itself, but to the image of myself as someone who never stopped. Who endured. Who could be admired for that. I missed being the person others knew as “the runner.” It wasn’t the miles I longed for. It was the mirror.
So I started again. Slowly. But this time without the metrics. No watch. No personal bests. No identity to protect. Some weeks I run like I used to. Some I don’t run at all. And it’s okay. Because now, running is something I do, not who I am.
This shift has echoed across other parts of my life.
Parenthood. Business. Career. All the identities I once held tightly, now I see more clearly. They were seasons. Roles. Chapters. None of them were me. But I wore them so well, I forgot.
We often confuse role mastery with self-knowledge. Just because you’re good at something, doesn’t mean it’s you. Just because people admire a part of your output, doesn’t mean your identity is located there.
I think of retired athletes who struggle after their last game. Entrepreneurs who can’t exit without grief. Parents who feel invisible after their kids grow up. Not because they lost something, but because they anchored their existence to the recognition those roles gave them.
Recognition isn’t wrong. It’s human to want to be seen. But it can’t be the root of your self-worth. Because at some point, the clapping stops. The role shifts. The mirror disappears.
And that’s when you find out who you actually are.
There are so many of us silently navigating this terrain. High-functioning, intelligent people who are quietly afraid that without their profession, their title, their mastery, they might disappear.
I speak with men and women in midlife who say, “I don’t know who I am without my work.” Or, “I built a life around being a provider, a producer, a high-performer, and now I’m just… here.”
The world doesn’t prepare us for that silence. It teaches us to stay in motion. To accumulate titles, achievements, identities. It doesn’t teach us to sit still with ourselves when those layers start peeling away.
But this is where real clarity begins. In the quiet after the applause.
Because when the recognition fades, when the crowd moves on, when the performance is over, you’re left with you. And that can be terrifying. Or it can be liberating. Depending on whether you were ever willing to meet yourself without the costume.
You are not the performance.
You are not what they paid for, posted about, or praised.
You are not those Instagram likes.
You are who remains when there is no stage, no spotlight, no scorecard.
And if you can find stillness in that place, even for a moment, you’ll see that who you are was never truly at risk.
So yes, return to your work. Run if you love it. Lead if it’s in you. Build what matters. But do it from presence, not compensation. From alignment, not applause.
Because the cost of recognition isn’t just exhaustion. It’s forgetting who you were before they noticed.
What you do is not who you are. It never was.