Six weeks earlier, Imran Khan had lifted the Cricket World Cup in Melbourne and every street in every city had erupted simultaneously - fireworks, dhol drums, grown men weeping and dancing and embracing strangers as if the whole nation had won a single bet it had placed on itself. And then, the way euphoria always does, it settled. The fireworks became ash. The dancers went back to their offices. The streets of Lahore returned to their ordinary dusty hum, and the nation's adrenaline wore off like a fever breaking in the night.

It was into this quiet that Sohail Khan woke up on a Tuesday morning with a column due the next day and absolutely nothing to write about.

Sohail was a veteran journalist of the old school - the kind who believed a story was alive somewhere on the street and your job was simply to find it. No algorithm told him where to look. No trending topic. Just instinct honed over two decades of finding the human detail that made ordinary readers stop, read, and recognize something of themselves in the words.

So he walked.

He found what he was looking for approximately three kilometres from his house, on a construction site off the main road that he had driven past a hundred times without stopping. A group of labourers were breaking boulders in the 45-degree afternoon heat - no shade, no relief, the kind of sun that makes the air itself seem thick and hostile. From the road, it looked like nothing. Men working. Rocks breaking. Unremarkable.

But something made him stop the car.

He walked toward the site and he would spend the rest of his career trying to explain what exactly pulled him forward. Not the sound. Not the sight. Something quieter. Something that felt, he said later, like the difference between a room where nothing is happening and a room where something is about to.

Three Men and One Boulder

The first man Sohail approached was the version of this scene you would expect. Faded shalwar kameez (the traditional two-piece outfit of the Indian subcontinent - tunic over loose trousers) grey with cement dust. Flip-flops on his feet, somehow surviving a workday that was actively trying to destroy them. A rusted pickaxe swinging in the mechanical rhythm of a man who had given his body to a task and sent his mind somewhere else entirely.

Sohail called across the noise: "Bhai, kia bana rahe ho?" (Brother, what are you building?)

The man did not stop. Did not slow. Just rotated his head slightly, like a mechanical thing checking a sensor, and grunted back:

"Nazar nahi aa raha? Pathar tod raha hoon." (Can you not see? I am breaking stones.)

Fair enough. Sohail noted it and moved on.

The second man was a half-step forward in the visible world. Boots instead of flip-flops. A hard hat - loose, the brim crooked like it had been knocked sideways once and never reset. His tone had warmth in it, the kind that comes from someone who has decided, somewhere in the middle of their life, to be friendly rather than closed. "We are breaking down the boulders," he said, "so they can be used in construction. Probably for a building or something." He gestured vaguely in the direction of progress.

Better. But still not the story.

And then Sohail saw the glint.

Not a glint of light the way light reflects off anything. A specific glint - the kind of focused, deliberate brightness that only comes from a surface that has been attended to. The kind of shine that says someone put time into this.

He turned toward it and found the third man.

His pickaxe was polished. Not sharpened - that would be practical. Polished. The metal head caught the afternoon light and threw it back like a mirror. The man himself was wearing overalls pressed into something resembling neatness, a hard hat properly fastened at the chin strap, steel-toed boots, protective goggles pushed up onto his forehead. In a site full of men who had made peace with discomfort, this man had made different decisions. Every decision deliberate. Every piece of equipment in its place.

When Sohail approached, the man did something the others had not done. He stopped working. He set the pickaxe down with care on a tarp he had laid beside him - a tarp, Sohail noticed, that existed purely to keep the axe off the dirt. He removed his goggles. He reached into his back pocket and produced a clean hand towel - folded, white, impossible in this environment - and wiped his face and hands before extending a hand.

"Allaudin," he said.

Sohail took the hand. "What are you building here?"

Allaudin turned and pointed. Not vaguely in the direction of something, but with precise certainty at a specific structure taking shape approximately 250 metres away.

"That is Shaukat Khanum Memorial Cancer Hospital," he said. His voice was steady and unhurried, the way a person speaks when they have said something true so many times it has become a kind of prayer. "Imran Khan is building it in memory of his mother, who died from cancer. It will be the largest cancer hospital in all of Asia. And everything is for charity. The people who cannot afford treatment - they will not pay a single rupee (Pakistan's currency). Not one."

He paused. Then looked back at his boulder.

"That is why I am here," he said simply. "This is my part."

Sohail Khan stood in the hammering heat of a Lahore afternoon and did not move for a long moment.

That was the story. He had found it.

Same sun. Same rock. Same wage. Same dust coating the same lungs at the end of the same long day. But three completely different lives being lived inside the same hour.

The first man was enduring. The second was working. But Allaudin?

Allaudin was building a hospital.

Reflection: The Lens That Changes Everything

Viktor Frankl survived Auschwitz. Not through physical strength - he was a psychiatrist, not a soldier - but through something that the Nazi regime, for all its meticulous machinery of dehumanization, could not reach. He survived because he found meaning inside an experience that had no rational claim to meaning.

In the years after the war, he wrote a book called Man's Search for Meaning that went on to become one of the most widely read books of the 20th century. Its central argument is simple enough to fit on a postcard and complex enough to take a lifetime to absorb:

Those who have a why to live can bear almost any how.

Allaudin had his why. It was 250 metres away and still taking shape against a cloudless Punjab sky. The first man had no why - just the how of the next swing and the next, and the day ending eventually. The second man had a slightly larger frame - the building, the project, the vague utility of the work - but still no larger purpose connecting him to something beyond his own participation.

The work was identical. The lens was everything.

Dr. Amy Wrzesniewski, a researcher at Yale, spent years studying how people relate to their work. She eventually categorized three orientations. There are people who see their work as a job - a transactional exchange of time and labor for money, a means to an end, something you do in order to fund the life you actually want. There are people who see their work as a career - a progression, a ladder, a series of steps leading toward status and advancement. And there are people who see their work as a calling - something aligned with their identity, their values, their deepest sense of purpose, something they would do even if the paycheck were different.

Wrzesniewski found that calling workers were not necessarily in prestigious or comfortable professions. She found them in hospitals. In schools. On construction sites. She found janitors who described their work with the vocabulary of healers because they understood that a clean hospital was a safer hospital, and a safer hospital kept people alive. She found orderlies who saw themselves as the first face a frightened patient met - the entry point of the entire care experience.

They were not deluding themselves. They were seeing more clearly than the people who had reduced their work to its narrowest description.

In Japan, there is a word for this quality: shokunin. It refers to the craftsperson or artisan who has dedicated their life to the perfection of a single skill - not for personal glory, but as an act of devotion to the people who will use what they make. The sushi chef who trained for ten years before being permitted to touch a fish. The umbrella maker in Kyoto whose family has been making the same style of umbrella for four generations and considers the work sacred. The knife sharpener who can explain exactly why a blade sharp enough feels different to cut with than a blade merely adequate.

Allaudin was a shokunin with a pickaxe. He was also something more specific than any Japanese or Western framework could fully contain. He was a man working in the tradition of what Islam calls ihsan.

Ihsan is one of the most beautiful concepts in the Islamic tradition and one of the least translated. It means excellence - but not the competitive, comparative excellence of a leaderboard. It means doing something as if God is watching, even when nobody else is. It means bringing your full self to even the smallest act, not because someone will grade you on it, but because the act itself deserves no less. There is a hadith (a recorded saying of the Prophet Muhammad, peace be upon him) preserved in the collection of Al-Bayhaqi: "Verily Allah loves that when any of you does a job, he should perfect it."

Not succeed at it. Not complete it. Perfect it.

The polished axe was ihsan made visible. The clean towel was ihsan in a back pocket. The tarp beneath the tool that existed purely to keep it off the ground was ihsan applied to a piece of equipment that cost less than dinner.

And here is what Sohail understood, standing in that heat, that the rest of us can spend a lifetime missing:

Ihsan is not a quality of the work. It is a quality of the worker. You carry it with you or you don't. It shows up in everything or in nothing. You cannot perform it situationally. You cannot reserve it for the moments when someone important is watching and abandon it when the audience disappears.

Allaudin's axe was polished on a Tuesday when no journalist was coming. It would have been polished on Wednesday too. The tarp existed before Sohail arrived and it would be there tomorrow. The towel in the back pocket was not a prop. It was a habit. A discipline. A small, private act of dignity that told you everything you needed to know about what this man believed about himself and about his work.

Now let me tell you what this has to do with you.

Most of us do not lack ability. We lack the lens. We walk into our work carrying the wrong frame, the narrowest possible interpretation of what we are doing and why, and then we wonder why it feels hollow. We wonder why the days blur. We wonder why Sunday evenings carry a specific weight that Friday evenings do not.

The weight is meaning - or the absence of it.

And here is the part that nobody likes to hear: meaning is not delivered by your employer, your title, your industry, or your compensation package. It is constructed. Actively. Deliberately. By you. It is a choice you make about the lens through which you see the work - and you can make that choice in any role, at any level, in any company, in any city, under any sky.

The first man with the pickaxe was not a victim of his circumstances. He was a victim of his interpretation of his circumstances. The circumstances were identical for all three men.

Only the lens was different.

And then there is the matter of dignity.

Dignity is not a reward for achievement. It is not something you earn when you reach a certain income bracket or accumulate enough credentials or buy the right kind of car. Dignity is a decision. An internal posture. A relationship with your own worth that does not depend on external validation to survive.

Allaudin had no ownership stake in Shaukat Khanum. His name was not going on the building. He would not be invited to the opening ceremony. He would not shake Imran Khan's hand or have his photograph taken for the newspaper. He would likely never again think of himself as one of the people who built that hospital.

But he would know.

And that knowing - that quiet, private, unverifiable knowledge that you showed up fully to something that mattered, that you gave your real best to a real cause, that you polished your axe on Tuesday and Wednesday and every day after - that is the thing that no one can take from you and that no amount of performance without purpose can replace.

So here is the question I want to leave you with from the first chapter of this book. Not as a rhetorical device. As an actual question that deserves an actual answer.

What hospital are you building?

Not literally. I mean: what is the cancer hospital in your life - the thing your daily work is contributing to that is bigger than the task itself? What is the thing you point at when someone asks you what you are building here?

If you cannot answer that question, the problem is not your job.

The problem is the lens.

Polish the axe. Find the hospital. Show up tomorrow like the work is the most important job on earth.

Because when your why is real enough, it is.

And at the front of the cabin, a flight attendant is demonstrating something important.

She is holding a small yellow oxygen mask above her face. She is pointing to the plastic tube. As she mimes the pulling motion, the securing motion, the breathing motion. She is explaining, in the calm and slightly practiced tone of someone who has said this exact sequence of words four hundred times this year, that in the event of a sudden loss of cabin pressure, the masks will deploy from the compartments above your seat. She is explaining that you should place your own mask on first before assisting other passengers.

And nobody is listening.

The man in 14C is reading a report he brought from the office. The woman in 22A is watching her toddler negotiate with a packet of crackers. The couple in the emergency exit row are already asleep. The teenager in 31B is deep inside a pair of headphones, nodding to something the rest of the cabin cannot hear. Everyone on the plane has heard this announcement before. Everyone on the plane has decided, without consciously deciding, that it does not apply to them.

I want to spend this chapter on why that is.

And what it is costing you.

The Instruction We Were Trained to Ignore

The oxygen mask instruction is one of the most counterintuitive pieces of safety guidance ever given to human beings at scale. Every day, across hundreds of thousands of flights, millions of people are told a version of the same thing: take care of yourself before you take care of anyone else. And almost universally, the people hearing it think: yes, but that would not actually apply to me. If the masks dropped, I would help my child first. I would help the elderly person beside me first. I would make sure everyone around me was okay before I worried about myself.

This instinct is not weakness. It is the product of a lifetime of being taught exactly the opposite of what the airline is saying. From the moment most of us could understand language, we were shaped toward self-sacrifice as the highest virtue. Good people give. Good parents put their children first. Good professionals absorb the stress so their team does not have to. Good partners carry the weight so the other person can rest. The selfless one is the admirable one. The one who asks for something for themselves is somehow suspect.

So when the flight attendant tells you to put your mask on first, you hear it. And then you discard it. Because it sounds like the kind of advice that applies to someone else, someone more selfish than you, someone who needs the permission to be told that it is okay to take care of themselves. Not you. You already know how to sacrifice. You have been practicing for years.

The problem is not that you do not know how to give. The problem is that you have never learned how to replenish. And you are running the engine of your life on a fuel tank you forgot to fill.

Seneca, writing from Rome two thousand years ago, observed that we are miserly with money and reckless with time. He could just as easily have been writing about energy. About attention. About the emotional and psychological reserves that human beings burn through quietly, without recording the expenditure, until the account is empty and the withdrawal bounces.

You cannot pour from an empty cup. Everyone has heard this. Almost nobody acts on it. Because acting on it requires the admission that the cup is empty, and the empty cup person is not who we decided to be.

The Portrait of the Depleted

Let me describe someone you might recognize.

They wake up before anyone else in the house. Not because they love mornings, though they have convinced themselves they do, but because those early minutes are the only ones that belong entirely to them before the first request arrives. They make coffee. They check their phone. They run through the list of things today requires of them, which is long, and the list of things they require for themselves, which is either blank or has been deferred so many times it no longer feels real.

They spend the day being available. Available to the children, available to the team, available to the clients, available to the parents who call at inconvenient hours because they are aging and that creates a particular kind of gravity that pulls at you no matter what else is happening. They absorb stress the way good insulation absorbs sound. Quietly. Without appearing to work at it. Without letting the difficulty show, because showing difficulty feels like failure, and failure is not on the list.

At the end of the day, when the house is quieter, they are still going. Because the night owl knows what stillness actually is. It is not rest. It is the only window to do the things that the daylight hours consumed. The business that needs building. The book that needs writing. The correspondence that stacked up while they were busy being everything to everyone else.

And somewhere inside all of this, so deep they rarely acknowledge it, is a tiredness that sleep does not fix. A kind of depletion that goes below the physical. The kind that lives in the chest, just behind the sternum, that shows up as a short fuse at 6 PM when someone needs something small and you have nothing small left to give. That shows up as the inability to be fully present in a moment you actually wanted, because you arrived at it already spent.

This person is effective. This person is impressive. This person is running on empty, and the people who love them are getting the reserve tank version of someone who had so much more to give.

The mask is on the floor. It has been there for months.

The Science of Running Dry

Antonio Damasio, the neuroscientist, spent decades mapping the relationship between the body and the brain's decision-making architecture. His research demonstrated something that should have been obvious but somehow was not: a depleted body produces a depleted mind. The two systems are not separate. The physical state you are in when you walk into a room is the cognitive state you bring into every judgment that room requires of you.

When you are rested, you are more empathetic. The neural circuits responsible for reading other people's emotional states, for accurately perceiving what someone needs from you, function better when the body is resourced. When you are depleted, those same circuits become imprecise. You misread situations. You react faster and listen slower. The patience that you believe is a character trait turns out to be, in part, a renewable resource that requires genuine replenishment.

Research on compassion fatigue, which was developed in the context of healthcare workers and caregivers, reveals something that applies far beyond hospital corridors. The person who gives the most, without building in recovery, becomes the person who gives the least effectively over time. The quality of their presence deteriorates. Their attention narrows. Their emotional range compresses. They begin to protect themselves unconsciously, rationing the care they give because the well is low and they have learned, at some cellular level, that there is not enough to keep giving at this rate.

The painful irony is this: the person who refuses to rest in order to give more is actually giving less. The sacrifice is costing the exact people it was intended to help.

You thought you were choosing between yourself and the people you love. You were actually choosing between a full version of yourself and a depleted one. Between someone who can show up completely and someone who arrives already gone.

Carol Dweck's work on the growth mindset is often cited in professional development contexts as an argument for persistent effort. What is less often quoted is her equal emphasis on recovery. Growth does not happen during exertion. Growth happens during rest, when the brain consolidates what it learned and the body repairs what the effort cost. The rest is not the interruption of the work. The rest is the completion of it.

The night owl who never sleeps is not more productive than the night owl who knows when to stop. He is just louder about his depletion.

What Islam Already Knew

There is a hadith, authenticated in both Sahih Bukhari and Muslim, about a companion of the Prophet, peace be upon him, named Abdullah ibn Amr. He was known for his devotion, his fasting, his night prayers. He pushed himself hard in worship, the way serious people push themselves hard in the things they love. And the Prophet came to him with a correction that has echoed across fourteen centuries because it carries a truth that every serious person eventually needs to hear.

"Your body has a right over you. Your eyes have a right over you. Your wife has a right over you. Your guest has a right over you."

The Prophet was not advising moderation for its own sake. He was stating a principle of Islamic law: the self is an amanah. A trust. A thing given to you by your Creator not to be depleted carelessly but to be maintained and protected and returned in good condition. Neglecting your body, your rest, your mental health, your inner life, is not humility. It is negligence toward something that was never fully yours to begin with.

The structure of Islamic worship itself encodes this understanding. The five daily prayers are not only acts of devotion. They are reset points, distributed across the arc of the day, that interrupt whatever you are doing and require you to stop, to breathe, to return to your center, to remember what is real. The Qaylulah, the midday rest, was Sunnah, the practice of the Prophet himself. Rest was not a concession to weakness. It was built into the architecture of the righteous life.

Ramadan, which strips away the chemical comforts we are so addicted to makes this visible in a particular way. When the caffeine is gone and the food is delayed and the fog settles in, what remains is the self without its props. And the self without its props has only one reliable source of energy: the connection to the One who made it. That connection requires presence. And presence requires that you have not given every last piece of yourself away before you arrive.

Tawakkul, the deep trust in Allah that is one of the highest stations of the believer, is not passive. It is not the resignation of the person who has stopped trying. It is the active, practiced trust of the person who has done the work, filled the tank, prepared the vessel, and then placed the outcome in hands larger than their own. You cannot practice tawakkul on empty. You cannot trust with a depleted soul. The surrender requires something to surrender from.

Take care of yourself. This is not a Western self-help concept imported into a religious framework. It is older than any self-help book ever written. It is woven into the faith.

Pro Max XL: What the Masks Dropping Actually Looks Like

Let me take you back to the airplane.

This time, it is not a hypothetical. This time, somewhere over the Atlantic at 35,000 feet, the cabin pressure drops. It happens fast. The air changes in a way you feel before you understand it. The masks fall from the overhead compartment with a plasticky clatter, a dozen yellow cups swinging on their tubes, and the sound of the aircraft shifts into a register that your nervous system recognizes as wrong.

You are seated next to someone you love. Someone whose wellbeing has been the operating system of your life for longer than you can accurately remember. Someone for whom you have gotten up early and stayed up late and moved things around and made sacrifices so quiet that even you have stopped counting them. Someone who, in this moment, is reaching for their mask with hands that are not quite steady.

And you reach for theirs first.

Of course you do. It is not even a decision. It is reflex, the accumulated momentum of every time you put them first, arriving in this moment as pure instinct. You get their mask around their face. You tighten the elastic. You see their chest rise with the first breath of oxygen and feel the thing in your chest that is the feeling of having done the right thing.

And then your vision starts to tunnel.

It starts at the edges. The periphery goes soft, then gray, then something that is not quite a color. Your fingers, reaching for your own mask now, feel thick and uncooperative. The simple task of pulling the plastic over your nose becomes suddenly complicated, because hypoxia does not announce itself, it simply removes the parts of you that you were relying on. Your fine motor control goes first. Then your judgment. Then your awareness that something is wrong. The last stage of oxygen deprivation is the absence of the knowledge that you are being deprived.

You do not get your mask on in time.

And now the person beside you, the one whose mask you secured, is fully conscious and fully unable to help anyone because the person who was supposed to be helping is gone.

This is not a metaphor anymore. This is the physics of the situation. And the physics do not care how generous your intentions were. The physics do not award points for selflessness. The physics simply record that the help arrived too late because the helper forgot to first ensure they were capable of helping.

Pro Max XL is not a setting reserved for your work or your hustle or your output. It is the full version of you. All systems running. All capacity available. All presence accounted for. You cannot operate at Pro Max XL on a depleted battery. The resolution drops. The processing slows. The people who deserve your best get something that used to be your best, archived from a time when you were taking better care of yourself.

The most loving thing you can do for the people who need you is to remain capable of helping them. The most responsible thing you can do for your work, your family, your faith, your dreams, is to protect the engine that makes all of it possible.

Put the mask on.
Then help everyone.
In that order.
Every time.

What Your Mask Actually Looks Like

The mask is different for every person. This is the part of self-care advice that most books get wrong, because they prescribe a universal remedy for an individual problem. The mask for one person is eight hours of sleep. For another it is five and a half hours and a twenty-minute afternoon rest, which the Prophet did and people called it Sunnah and which modern sleep science has independently validated as highly effective. For some it is the gym, the specific peace of a body working hard at something uncomplicated and raw. For others it is the quiet that comes after the last child has finally gone to sleep and the house makes its settling sounds and for twenty minutes nothing is required of anyone.

For the night owl, identifying your mask requires an honest reckoning with a specific question: what refills you, and are you actually doing it?

Not what you tell yourself refills you. Not the Instagram version of your self-care, which is elaborate and aesthetically appealing and happens perhaps twice a year. What actually works. What you feel afterward. What takes you from the reserve tank version of yourself back to the full version. What makes the people who love you say, quietly, to themselves: there you are. There is the person I know.

For some people the mask is a conversation they have been avoiding with themselves for months. The one about whether the current configuration of their life is actually sustainable. The one where they admit that the pace they set cannot continue without cost, and the cost is being paid by the people they most wanted to protect from it. That conversation is uncomfortable. It is also oxygen.

For some people the mask is prayer. Not the rushed, functional version performed between commitments, but the kind that Rumi was pointing at when he wrote about the soul's longing for its origin, the kind that arrives when you are still enough and available enough for something larger than your own thoughts to come through. The five daily prayers as actual resets, actual returns, actual moments where the weight of self-sufficiency is lifted because you remember, bodily, that you are not carrying this alone.

For some people the mask is simply admitting, to at least one other human being, that things are hard. That the strong one is tired. That the capable one is struggling. That the person everyone leans on has been leaning on nothing for a while and the math is starting to show.

None of this is weakness. All of it is oxygen.

They Need You Breathing

Here is the thing that the flight attendant knows and is trying, every single flight, against the inattention of a full cabin, to communicate.

She is not telling you to be selfish. She is not telling you that your child matters less than you do. She is not telling you that your instinct to help the people you love is wrong. She is telling you something simpler and more precise: that your capacity to help is not a given. That it is a resource. That it can be depleted. And that the moment you lose consciousness, everything you were planning to do for everyone else becomes impossible.

The people who need you need you conscious. They need you present. They need you resourced, rested, recharged, in possession of your full range. They need the Pro Max XL version of you, not as a luxury but as a baseline. Because the depleted version, however well-intentioned, is already giving less than they deserve and less than you are capable of.

Your children do not need a parent who sacrificed their health building something for them. They need a parent who is alive and present for the thing that gets built. Your team does not need a leader who burned out carrying the load. They need a leader who was wise enough to manage the load sustainably, which models for them the very behavior they will need when leadership falls to them. The people who love you do not need you to give until there is nothing left. They need you to give in a way that is renewable, that can be sustained across the full length of the life they want to share with you.

Ibn Khaldun, the fourteenth-century historian and philosopher, wrote about Asabiyyah, the social cohesion that holds groups together and drives civilizations. He observed that the groups with the most durable Asabiyyah were not the ones who spent themselves fastest. They were the ones who knew how to recover. How to rest between efforts. How to rebuild before the next push rather than pushing past the point of recovery.

Civilizations collapse for the same reason individuals do. Not usually from a single catastrophic event. Usually from the accumulated cost of never replenishing what was spent.

Build yourself with the same seriousness with which you build everything else. Because without the builder, nothing gets built.

Back on the Plane

The announcement plays again. The flight attendant holds up the yellow mask. The cabin is distracted and comfortable and fully convinced that none of this is relevant to them today.

But you hear it differently now. You hear it as the most honest piece of advice anyone gives in the modern world, buried inside a safety briefing that nobody listens to because the wisdom of it runs directly against everything we were taught about what it means to be good. To be useful. To be worthy of the people who depend on us.

You hear it as a reframe of the entire project of self-care, not as indulgence, not as a trend, not as something you do when you have earned enough or achieved enough or been sufficient enough to finally deserve a rest. But as the foundational act. The prerequisite. The thing that makes all other things possible.

You hear the Prophet's words about the rights of your body. You hear the logic of the five daily prayers as reset points distributed across the day. You hear Seneca on time, and Damasio on the depleted body, and Dweck on recovery as the completion of growth. You hear all the traditions, scientific and spiritual, that arrived at the same conclusion from different directions:

You cannot give what you do not have. You cannot help from unconscious. You cannot love fully from empty.

You cannot build the life you are trying to build, for the people you are trying to build it for, without first securing your own oxygen supply.

Put the mask on.

Then help everyone.

In that order.

Every time.

Breathe! Allah Hai Na;

Now go. Everyone is waiting for the full version of you.