It's sad that you don't see drivers being real people.

Hear the words of Jacques Villeneuve, champion of speed and seeker of truth: “It’s sad that you don’t see drivers being real people.” This statement, though simple, is a lament drawn from the depths of the human struggle. For in it, he reveals the sorrow of a world where men and women are exalted for their skill, yet stripped of their humanity. They become symbols, trophies, and shadows—admired, yes, but no longer seen as flesh and spirit, as sons and daughters, as mortals with fears, laughter, and longing.

The ancients knew of such distortions. When gladiators fought in the Roman arenas, the crowd roared not for men, but for spectacles. The warriors, though once free citizens, were transformed in the eyes of the mob into beasts of entertainment, their cries drowned in the lust for victory and blood. So too, in Villeneuve’s words, the drivers, who risk their lives upon the edge of speed, are veiled behind helmets, sponsorships, and illusions. The world cheers their victories, but forgets their humanity. That is the sorrow—that the man is lost in the myth.

Consider the story of Ayrton Senna, the Brazilian master of Formula One. To his fans, he was a hero, a god of the track, untouchable in rain and storm. Yet behind the wheel was a man of deep faith, of fragility, of compassion. His death at Imola in 1994 shattered the illusion, for in that instant the world saw not a machine of speed, but a mortal who bled, who fell, who was no different than those who had worshipped him. The grief that followed was proof of what Villeneuve laments: that only in tragedy do people remember the real person behind the legend.

Villeneuve’s words strike at the heart of modern worship, where fame creates walls between the idol and the crowd. It is sad, he says, because admiration without recognition of humanity is hollow. A man who is praised as a machine cannot be truly loved, and a man who is unseen as himself cannot truly live free. To cheer the driver but never know the person is to rob both sides of something essential: authenticity.

From this, a lesson emerges for us all. See the humanity in those who perform great feats, whether they be athletes, artists, or leaders. Do not let the glare of their stage blind you to their humanity. They, too, have doubts, families, dreams unfulfilled. The driver is not only the roar of the engine, but the trembling hand that fastens the helmet, the quiet breath before the green light, the longing for home after the race is done.

And what shall we do in our own lives? Let us treat no one as mere function, role, or mask. Let us not see only the doctor, but the man or woman who carries the weight of others’ pain. Let us not see only the worker, but the heart that beats beneath their labor. In this way, we honor Villeneuve’s teaching: to see the real people behind the roles the world assigns.

Thus the wisdom is clear: it is not enough to admire greatness—we must also honor humanity. The hero is not lessened by being mortal; rather, their courage shines brighter when we know it rises from human fragility. So let us lift the veil, see with truer eyes, and remember: every driver, every idol, every figure upon the stage is, in the end, a soul like ours, worthy not only of applause, but of compassion.