My mother has stories of leaving me in the bath as small kid

Allison Tolman, in recalling her earliest memory, once spoke words both innocent and profound: “My mother has stories of leaving me in the bath as a small kid, like a 3-year-old, and there being mirrors on the side, and her going to get a towel and coming back in, and me making faces at myself, like, ‘Now I’m happy. Now I’m sad.’” Though a tender anecdote of childhood, it unveils a truth as old as mankind: that even in our earliest days, we play with the masks of the soul, experimenting with the faces of joy and sorrow, testing the powers of expression as though rehearsing for the great stage of life.

The origin of this moment lies in the natural curiosity of a child, but it mirrors the beginnings of art itself. The Greeks, who gave us theater, called their masks prosopon—faces of tragedy and comedy, worn to reveal the inner states of the human spirit. In Tolman’s playful self-discovery, we see a foreshadowing of that same impulse. A child before a mirror becomes the first actor, trying on the roles of happiness and sadness, long before life itself forces her to feel them. Thus, in the bath, with nothing but mirrors and imagination, she enacted the earliest lessons of empathy and artistry.

History shows us similar beginnings in the lives of the great. Charlie Chaplin, as a poor child in London, would amuse himself by mimicking the people around him—the drunkards, the beggars, the proud, and the broken. In his mimicry, he discovered the faces of both joy and sorrow, and in adulthood, he gave them to the world. Just as Tolman as a child gazed at her own reflection, Chaplin as a boy gazed at humanity itself, learning to wear its expressions until he could make millions laugh and cry with a single glance.

There is also wisdom here in the relationship between self-awareness and performance. To make faces in the mirror is to recognize oneself as both subject and object, as the one who feels and the one who observes. It is the first step toward art, philosophy, and compassion. For only when we see ourselves can we truly imagine another. Tolman’s memory is not trivial—it is the spark of consciousness, the awakening of the truth that we are creatures capable of shaping and communicating the emotions that dwell within us.

The deeper meaning of this memory is that life itself is a series of faces we wear—sometimes genuine, sometimes chosen. We say to ourselves, “Now I’m happy. Now I’m sad,” even as adults, shifting between roles demanded by work, family, and circumstance. The child in the bath was rehearsing not only for the stage, but for life’s journey, where joy and sorrow must be carried, displayed, and sometimes hidden. The mirror was both her toy and her teacher, showing her that feelings are fleeting, flexible, and within her power to embody.

The lesson for us, O children of tomorrow, is to remember that emotions are not our captors but our companions. We can learn, like Tolman as a child, to step back, to look at ourselves, and to say, “Now I am joyful, now I am sorrowful,” without being consumed by either. In this lies freedom—the ability to hold our emotions, to express them fully, yet also to know that they are but passing states, not eternal prisons.

Practical wisdom follows: stand before the mirror now and then, and do as the child did. Practice your expressions, not to deceive, but to remember that you are not bound to one face forever. Let yourself laugh, even when sorrow is near; let yourself grieve, even when the world demands a smile. In mastering your face, you will learn to master your heart—not by denying it, but by embracing the ebb and flow of its tides.

Thus Allison Tolman’s words, though gentle and childlike, carry profound wisdom: we are beings who learn early that joy and sorrow are roles we play, and in recognizing them, we gain power over them. The bath and the mirror were her first stage, but they are also ours, for all of life is a mirror, and we are forever learning which face to show, and which truth to carry within.