We love to be noticed—but preferably without being caught trying. We want to look humble. Loudly.
We’re not wired to reject applause. But we can choose what we applaud ourselves for.
Watch a traveller at a boarding gate. The guy who elbowed his way into “priority boarding” for a two-hour flight will later complain about legroom to the universe on Instagram. In the same lifetime, he’ll tiptoe into a church, looking for the safest pew at the very back—somewhere humility can be faked from a holy distance.
Then, once the lights dim and the spotlight swivels to “open mic night,” he clears his throat and steps right into the beam—hoping the applause wipes off his contradictions.
That’s us: human beings in perpetual tug-of-war between status and substance, being seen and being meaningful.
We crave visibility like plants crave sunlight—but we forget that too much sun burns.
We are all, in our own ways, scrambling for the front seat, the back seat, and the spotlight. It’s not a character flaw. It’s a human operating system that’s about 200,000 years old, screaming for tribal validation.
But what if we’re measuring the wrong damn things?
The other day I watched a man at Starbucks spend seven minutes explaining to the barista—and anyone within earshot—how he likes his coffee. Not just extra hot or light foam. A full treatise. Temperature specifications. Milk-to-espresso ratios. The philosophical underpinnings of his relationship with caffeine.
The barista’s name tag said “Trainee.” And I thought: We’ve all been this guy.
Maybe not about coffee. Maybe about our LinkedIn headline. Or how we angle ourselves in the Zoom grid. Or the exact moment we drop our college name into conversations (IIT/IIM/Harvard—deployed like a surgical strike, maximum impact, minimal context).
There’s that old line that nails us all: “Everyone wants the front seat of a plane, the back seat of a Church, and the centre of attention.”
Attention: Yes, we need it. Because, the human brain is literally wired for social recognition. When someone validates us, our ventral striatum lights up like Diwali in Delhi. Same neural pathway as cocaine, by the way. (No wonder Instagram feels the way it does).
Lets understand the flip side of it though- it’s both essential and toxic. Like salt. Like sunlight. Like your cousin’s unsolicited life advice.
The sweet spot isn’t in renouncing attention, nor in bingeing on it.
It’s in earning gravity. When gravity replaces vanity, your presence wins even when you’re not on stage.
Find that patch of ground where silence commands more respect than spectacle. Where your work speaks louder than your home theatre.
You can be visible—for the right verbs. Strive to be significant, not seen. Impact is the only spotlight that doesn’t flicker. Don’t chase applause; engineer aftermath.
Everyone wants the spotlight. Few realise it melts wax.
We’re a curious species, aren’t we?
We crave comfort, but also sanctity. We want spotlight, but with a dimmer switch — just enough glow to make our halo visible.
Everyone wants the front seat of the plane.
The one with legroom, priority boarding, and champagne on tap. But when turbulence hits, even the pilot wishes for the aisle near the exit.
Everyone wants the back seat of the Church.
Close enough to salvation, far enough from the sermon.
It’s the spiritual equivalent of “seen attending.”
God, yes. Guilt, no thanks.
And everyone — oh everyone — wants the centre of attention.
That magnetic midpoint between relevance and reverence.
Where eyes turn, heads nod, hearts double-tap.
But here’s the body blow — you can’t be in all three places at once. Not on any map that matters.
What if the real centre of attention is attention itself? Not the kind you get, but the kind you give.
When you walk into a meeting — and actually listen.
When you show up to serve, not just to be seen.
When you build something that outlasts your LinkedIn headline.
Because here’s the truth no algorithm tells you:
Applause fades. Attention shifts. Algorithms forget.
But impact compounds. Quietly.
Some inspiring examples to count on:-
The janitor at NASA who, when asked what he did, said, “I’m helping put a man on the moon.” He wasn’t in the front seat of the rocket, but history remembers his purpose.
The sound engineer who made Freddie Mercury’s voice echo through eternity. No camera, all craft.
The tea seller outside the Supreme Court, who knows every lawyer by name, but never interrupts a client call. His EQ > any MBA.
The teacher who didn’t have an Instagram, but whose students now run the world.
These aren’t front seats. They’re foundations.
So, what do we take away?
Redefine applause. Let it come from the mirror, not the crowd.
Curate your noise. Speak less, mean more.
Trade seats. Sit where contribution feels most uncomfortable—that’s where growth is boarding.
Don’t chase the centre of attention. Become the axis of impact.
Be so relevant, you don’t need to trend.