A dimly lit hall.

Rows of flickering candles.

A grand piano, playing the songs of Adele—without Adele.

I was at a Candlelight Concert in Abu Dhabi, a tribute to her music. Her voice wasn’t there, but somehow… her presence was.

Between songs, the pianist shared stories from her career.

He spoke about the long pauses she takes between albums—for years.

Then he added something that stayed in my head long after the concert ended: “Unless you’re a great artist, you can’t afford to disappear.”

And yet, Adele disappears. And somehow, she’s never really gone.

That moment opened a quiet question in me: If presence isn’tabout being constantly seen, then what is it really about?

The Myth of Constant Visibility

We live in a world that rarely gives permission to pause.

Careers are built on momentum.

Algorithms reward consistency.

People forget quickly.

So we stay visible. We post. We produce. We remind the world we exist.

That’s what made the pianist’s words feel both honest and uncomfortable: “Unless you’re a great artist, you can’t afford to disappear.”

Most of us can’t. But Adele can. She vanishes between albums. No singles. No features. No forced appearances.

And yet, she returns like she never left, her presence somehow untouched by absence.

It made me wonder: Is visibility really the thing that keeps someone in our minds? Or is there something else—something quieter—that anchors someone in our memory?

What Makes Work Last

One of the stories shared that night was about Someone Like You.

The pianist said Adele wrote it in the middle of heartbreak. According to him, it wasn’t crafted to be a hit. It was written because she couldn’t not write it.

Adele once said that while writing the song, she released her pain. That it was one of the rare moments where art wasn’t just an expression—it was a kind of healing.

And maybe that’s why it still reaches people the way it does.

It wasn’t just a song, it was survival.

Over a decade has passed, and every time she sings it, it somehow still lands like a fresh wound.

The melody is beautiful. Her voice is unmistakable. But what makes the song last isn’t technical perfection—it’s emotional presence.

Maybe that’s what gives any piece of work its staying power. Not that it was created to be remembered. But that it was created because it had to be lived first.

When You’re Not Someone Like You

A few months before the Candlelight Concert, I found myself at another Adele tribute show, by Helen Ward-Jackson.

I sat there watching a performance that, in hindsight, felt like the perfect metaphor for the night,

it looked the part, but it lacked the soul.

Anyway…

The performer looked like her. Sounded like her. She even slipped into that signature cheeky banter Adele’s known for.

But something was missing.

It was good. Professional. Even impressive. But it didn’t move me.

And I remember thinking—not with judgment, but curiosity—What happens when we build our entire presence around someone identity? What happens when talent gets used to mirror rather than express?

And I’ve seen it elsewhere, too:

• The early days of Lady Gaga, when she was still called “the new Madonna.”
• Productivity writers trying to sound like Tim Ferriss.
• Speakers mimicking Brené Brown’s tone, but missing her depth.

And yet… it’s only when they stopped trying to be “the next” that we finally saw who they were.

Gaga gave us Joanne.

James Clear stopped writing like a guru and just studied habits.

They stopped shaping their work around someone success, and found their own rhythm.

Because no matter how polished the performance, if it isn’t yours, it doesn’t last.

Of course, imitation is an art in itself—it takes skill to capture someone else’s voice. But does it leave a mark in the long run?

And if we’re all tribute versions of each other, following what passes as proven, doesn’t that make us easily replaceable?

Presence Without Performance

It’s not just Adele’s music that stays. It’s her presence. Her unapologetic realness.

While many artists build their careers around a carefully polished image—practiced interviews, poised appearances, calculated personas—Adele does the opposite.

She swears on live television. Cracks awkward jokes. Fangirls in the middle of award shows. She doesn’t perform likability. She justis.

And she’s not only tolerated for it. She’s adored for it.

That kind of unfiltered realness she has is rare—not just in entertainment but in life.

And maybe that’s the key. It’s not charisma. Not strategy. It’s who she allows herself to be.

Think about it:

Her voice is powerful, but plenty of singers have great voices.

Her music is deeply emotional, but many artists write about heartbreak.

This pulls another thread: Presence doesn’t require performance. It requires honesty. And attention. And the courage to show up without the mask.

Maybe it’s not just about what we create, or the talent behind our work, but also the real person behind it all.

Tying It All Together

I still think about what the pianist said that night. About how only great artists can afford to disappear.

But maybe that’s the wrong way to say it.

Maybe disappearing isn’t the privilege.

Maybe being felt, even in absence—that’s the real gift.

And maybe it doesn’t require being the loudest. Or the most visible. Or the most followed.

Maybe it asks us to:

#1 Roll in the Deep (What’s Real)

How much of what we put into the world—into our work—is purely shaped by what will be liked, applauded, and accepted?

Surely, there’s nothing wrong with being appreciated. But what if we created—not to be seen, but to be felt? Not to impress, but to express?

Maybe what truly lasts isn’t how often we show up, but how deeply we do.

Maybe it’s not about keeping up, staying relevant, or reminding the world that we exist, but rather about creating something so real, so honest, that it carries us even in our absence.

Something that doesn’t chase attention, but earns it.

#2 Set Fire to the Image (Not Yourself)

How many of us dim our own voices, fearing they won’t fit? Or won’t look right?

Hide our real experiences, thinking they won’t be “relatable enough”?

Or worse, bury our own talents, simply because standing in the light feels too exposing?

How often do we let fear dilute our own presence—polishing, perfecting, adjusting—until the work that once carried truth now feels… hollow?

Maybe when we give ourselves permission to be fully present—not just in what we create, but in how we stand behind it—that’s when our work stops being just a duty and starts becoming something people truly feel.

#3 Be Someone Like You (Not Someone Else)

How many of us, without realizing it, spend our lives being a tribute version of someone else?

How often do we mold ourselves to fit expectations, play by the rules of trends, or chase what’s already been done, believing that’s the way to be seen?

And what if, in doing so, we’re only ever seen in comparison—not in our own right?

The artists who fade aren’t always the least talented. Sometimes, they’re the ones who never had something real to stand on in the first place.

#4 Be One and Only

I think the reason copying never really works is we’re not them.

We don’t have their story, their timing, their reasons.

Even if we try to follow the same path, it won’t land the same. And honestly, it shouldn’t.

We each bring something different to the table, even if it’s not loud or obvious.

And when we actually build from that—whatever “that” is—it may not be perfect or popular…but it’s real.

And real tends to last.

PS: If you’re curious to explore further what truly makes work unforgettable, you might enjoy this deeper reflection. (CLICK HERE)