“The universe is made of stories, not atoms.”
Muriel Rukeyser
It’s been more than a minute since my high school days, and now, in my 40s, the past feels both distant and strangely close.
Every wrinkle—etched by laughter, worry, and more sun-soaked vacations than dermatologists would recommend—marks a chapter of my life. Between raising teenagers, scaling Everest-level laundry, and attending more parent-teacher meetings than I’d like to admit—there’s still one voice from the past that rings loud and clear: Mr. Schmidt’s.
Mr. Schmidt wasn’t your run-of-the-mill high school teacher. Perpetually wrapped in the same plaid shirt from 1985 and orbiting his own universe, he had a gift for blending life’s great mysteries with trivia none of us ever fully understood.
“All stories are true…and some of them actually happened,” he’d declare in the middle of a lesson, as if unveiling the secrets of the universe. To our teenage ears, it was just another Schmidt-ism, a term I coined for his quirky wisdom that walked the line between profound and completely absurd. Yet, that line—more than any pop quiz or algebra formula—stuck.
Throughout history—parables, myths, and legends have stood side by side with documented events and scientific discoveries. Not as a challenge to empirical facts, but as a testament to another kind of truth. These stories—spun around campfires or whispered at bedtime—weren’t about facts. They’re here to shine a light on those murkier, intangible corners of life—the ones that make you laugh, cry, or stare at the ceiling at 3 a.m., questioning every life choice, including what you ate for dinner.
Like our ancestors, each of us carries our own collection of stories—tales of friendships, family, and those turning points of self-discovery. When we revisit these memories, a summer day becomes a little brighter, a whispered secret a bit more mysterious with each retelling.
And that’s perfectly fine.
There are stories I cherish, ones I share during family reunions or quiet nights at home. They chronicle adventures with childhood friends, unexpected detours on family vacations, and those introspective moments that caught me off guard. When I tell them, it’s never about nailing down the timeline. It’s about the feelings—the joy, the surprise, the heartaches, and the lessons tucked inside mistakes I was sure I’d never make (until I did, of course).
What Mr. Schmidt understood better than most was that life isn’t just a series of events but a continuous stream of experiences and emotions. In our narratives, it’s not just about the “what,” but the “how” and “why.” It’s not solely about the circumstances we found ourselves in but the essence we extracted from them. Each story, no matter how its details evolve over time, captures a piece of this emotional and transformative truth.
Now, as I navigate the minefield of parenting—watching my own kids weave their tales, stretching the truth just enough to make themselves the heroes—I’m reminded of what Mr. Schmidt was getting at. It’s not always about factual accuracy. The realness of a story lies in the emotions it evokes, the truth it stirs, and the memories it cements.
The spaghetti stains from my youth have long faded, but their ghosts linger—like a memory you thought you’d buried, only to have it tap you on the shoulder just as you’re about to enjoy a quiet dinner. In an age where facts are at our fingertips and truth is often negotiable, it’s the stories—the myths, the legends, the Schmidt-isms—that lend depth to our existence. It’s in the tales we tell, the memories we cling to, and the lessons we pass on.
In the quiet moments—when the kids are asleep and the house is hushed—I find myself thinking of Mr. Schmidt. Grateful for the wisdom, the stories, and the not-so-subtle reminder that life—in all its messy, chaotic glory—is always a story worth telling.
