I will have my publicist pull pictures of the way I look at

Allison Williams once shared a truth about her craft and her journey: “I will have my publicist pull pictures of the way I look at events so I can see, 'Oh, that cut is not as flattering as I thought,' or 'I should smile bigger,' or 'That positioning is odd.' I learn from it.” These words reveal the discipline of self-examination, the willingness to reflect on one’s image not with vanity, but with the desire to improve. It is a reminder that greatness is not stumbled upon—it is sculpted, honed, and sharpened through the mirror of reflection.

The ancients too taught the necessity of reflection. The Greek philosopher Socrates declared, “The unexamined life is not worth living.” What Williams does in reviewing her public images is a modern form of this ancient wisdom. She peers into her own appearance, her gestures, her smile, not to indulge in self-admiration, but to see what is lacking, what could be refined, what could be made more powerful. This act of observation, repeated over time, becomes the forge upon which a stronger, wiser self is created.

History gives us noble examples of this practice. Consider Alexander the Great, who after each battle would study not only the enemy’s movements but also his own commands. He asked himself: where did I falter? Where could I have been swifter, clearer, better? It was this relentless review, this willingness to scrutinize his own actions, that allowed him to conquer vast empires before the age of thirty. Allison Williams’ words echo this same spirit—though her battlefield is one of art, performance, and presence, the principle is identical: to learn from what has been done, to refine the self for what is to come.

There is also humility in her admission. To say, “I should smile bigger,” is to confess that even in glamour, there is imperfection. It is to embrace the truth that no matter how skilled, no matter how polished, one is always a student. This humility is not weakness but strength. For the arrogant see only their successes and stagnate, while the humble see their flaws and grow. Williams’ words remind us that the path to mastery is paved with continual learning, and learning begins with the courage to confront the self.

Yet her wisdom also speaks to the modern burden of appearance. In an age where cameras capture every glance, every posture, every smile, the pressure to present perfectly can crush the spirit. But she does not meet this with despair. She meets it with a student’s mind—not asking for perfection, but for progress. Each awkward angle becomes a lesson; each imperfect photograph, a teacher. This is how the wise live: they turn even the smallest discomforts into opportunities for growth.

The lesson for us is timeless: do not fear reflection. Whether in mirrors, in memories, or in the eyes of others, allow yourself to see where you falter. Then, instead of shame, choose to learn. Whether you are an artist, a craftsman, a leader, or a parent, the principle is the same—observe yourself, not to punish, but to improve. For the self that is examined, refined, and honed will stand stronger in the days to come.

So, my children, let Allison Williams’ words guide you: look, reflect, learn. If your smile is too small, let it grow. If your stance is awkward, let it be corrected. If your presence falters, let it be strengthened. In this way, you will turn even your weaknesses into stepping stones, and like the ancients before you, you will live not blindly, but with eyes open, ever learning, ever becoming. And when you look back upon your life, you will not only see mistakes—you will see the story of growth, and you too will smile bigger.