When my grandson Will was a small boy, he used to stand in front of the full-length mirror in their front hall and talk to his reflection. These were not short greetings, but long dissertations—especially for a three-year-old. His parents, Suzy, and I were always fascinated to overhear the discussions, but we were careful not to interrupt or comment. Will is now over twenty-five, living and working as a software engineer in Cincinnati. My three-year-old philosopher has become a pragmatic adult, and I often wonder if he continues to have those vital conversations with himself, as I know I still do.
It is absolutely healthy to talk to oneself. At times, we desperately need a pep talk, and who better to pull us out of the doldrums than our own trusted voice? Whether I am planning out future weeks and months—reminding myself to set aside time to finish my latest book, clean out the storage room, or finally book that beach trip I need so badly—the act of verbalizing my plans brings clarity and commitment. Conversations with God can take a similar course; we don’t always have to be formal or serious. God is always present to hear about our deepest troubles and our brightest highlights.
Will’s three-year-old conversations sometimes took a surprisingly serious turn. It was fascinating what concerned a boy that age; it wasn’t always about raiding the cupboard or problems with his twin brother. I had similar experiences in my career as a lawyer. I would talk through a difficult case or rehearse a closing argument to a jury until the words felt right and the solution was solid. I still work out being stuck with my writing by talking to myself, often in that fictional mirror.
The mirror is the perfect listener: it gives you back your own image, reflecting a non-judgmental version of yourself capable of offering counsel. Will’s spontaneous use of that hall mirror wasn’t just a child’s game; it was an innate recognition that the most effective way to process the world—its puzzles, its disappointments, and its joys—is to externalize our internal monologue. As we age, that externalization moves from the physical reflection of a mirror to the solitude of a quiet room, or perhaps to the silent practice of prayer. Regardless of the form it takes, this constant, necessary conversation with ourselves is the true engine of self-awareness and growth. It allows us to be both the student and the teacher, ensuring that the philosopher we were at three years old remains an engaged partner throughout our lives.
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