They very seldom let me lose my cool. They made me like I was

“They very seldom let me lose my cool. They made me like I was Polly Perfect, which was ridiculous so that when I bump into kids on the street they'd say 'I wish my Mom were like you.'”
— Charlotte Rae

In these words of humor and quiet honesty, Charlotte Rae, the beloved actress who played Mrs. Garrett in The Facts of Life, reveals a truth that reaches beyond stage and screen into the very heart of human nature. She speaks of the distance between appearance and reality, between the image the world demands and the truth of the soul within. When she says, “They very seldom let me lose my cool,” she laments the way her character was polished to perfection—so flawless that she ceased to feel real. In this, Rae does not complain of fame, but of expectation—that heavy crown society places on those who represent ideals rather than authenticity. Her words are both confession and lesson: that perfection, though admired, is unreal, and that humanity, in all its flaws and tempests, is what truly connects us to one another.

The origin of this quote lies in Rae’s reflection on her time portraying one of television’s most nurturing figures—a motherly guide to a generation of viewers. Her character, always wise, patient, and endlessly kind, became a symbol of maternal virtue. Yet the actress behind that role knew that no mother, no teacher, no human being could live so calmly at all times. She recognized the quiet danger of being idolized for a fictional perfection—for it creates an illusion that life itself must always be tidy, polite, and controlled. When the children she met said, “I wish my mom were like you,” Rae felt the bittersweet sting of misunderstanding. For behind the makeup and the gentle laughter was not “Polly Perfect,” but a woman of depth, emotion, and struggle—a woman who knew that losing one’s cool from time to time is not a flaw, but a mark of truth.

To lose one’s cool is to show that one feels deeply—that the heart still burns, that love still aches when tested. The ancients, too, spoke of this balance between serenity and passion. The Stoics taught composure, but even they understood that the soul must not be turned to stone. Socrates himself, who preached reason and self-control, was known to grow animated and fiery when truth was at stake. Likewise, Charlotte Rae reminds us that virtue does not mean suppressing one’s humanity—it means guiding it with compassion. A mother who never grows frustrated, a teacher who never falters, a friend who never stumbles—such people exist only in fiction. Real love, real strength, exists in those who err, who grow weary, and yet rise again to give of themselves anew.

Rae’s words also reveal something profound about the power and peril of representation. The stories we tell—whether in art, politics, or religion—shape the expectations of those who watch and believe. When a figure is shown as flawless, the audience learns to measure themselves against that illusion, and in doing so, they may feel their own imperfections as failures rather than as signs of humanity. The children on the street, who wished their mothers were like Mrs. Garrett, did not realize they were comparing the messy, beautiful truth of their lives to a polished dream. And so Rae’s statement becomes not just a reflection on acting, but a meditation on the responsibility of art—to uplift, yes, but never to deceive the heart about what it means to be human.

There is a story from ancient Japan that mirrors this wisdom. The art of kintsugi—the practice of repairing broken pottery with gold—teaches that cracks and imperfections are not blemishes to be hidden, but marks of honor, proof that the object has lived and endured. The gold in the cracks makes the piece more beautiful, not less. In this same spirit, Rae’s truth reminds us that imperfection is what makes love radiant. The mother who loses her patience but returns with an embrace, the teacher who falters but learns alongside her students, the friend who speaks harshly but later apologizes—these are not signs of failure, but of genuine connection. To be human is to break and be mended, to stumble and to rise again, stronger, truer, and more golden with experience.

In her gentle self-critique, Rae exposes a universal yearning—to be seen not as an ideal, but as a person. The world loves to build pedestals, but few can live upon them without losing their balance. She knew the cost of being “Polly Perfect”—the loneliness that comes when people admire the mask rather than the soul behind it. And so she speaks with the quiet rebellion of wisdom, reminding us that authenticity, not flawlessness, is the source of empathy. The woman who admits her weakness inspires more deeply than the one who hides it. The leader who confesses his doubt earns more trust than the one who pretends certainty. The heart that dares to be real becomes a mirror in which others recognize their own humanity.

So, my listener, let this be your teaching: do not strive to be Polly Perfect. The world does not need more masks—it needs more souls willing to show their truth. When you falter, do not hide it; when you are angry, let your anger teach you compassion; when you err, let your humility be your crown. The goal of life is not to appear unbroken, but to live honestly, to feel deeply, and to love bravely despite the chaos. For the people who touch the world most profoundly are not those who never lose their cool, but those who, in losing it, reveal the fiery and imperfect beauty of being alive.

Thus, as Charlotte Rae so tenderly reminds us, perfection is an illusion that blinds us from the miracle of our own humanity. Better to be flawed and real than flawless and hollow. Better to inspire through truth than through fantasy. And when others look upon you, may they not wish you were perfect, but may they say instead, with awe and love, “I wish to live as honestly as you.”