Does everything need to be wrapped in a story?
When everything becomes a story, how do you know what’s real anymore?
Gift wrap has become another holiday dilemma. Wrap and waste? Or spare landfills and the magic? An unwrapped gift doesn’t feel the same. It just doesn’t. The sight alone of a wrapped present fuels curiosity and anticipation. And the multi-step process of opening it—even though lasting mere seconds—feels satisfying, just like finishing a good story. A well-wrapped gift can make almost any present good. And if there’s a book inside, then it’s doubly good.
I love stories. I need them. Don’t we all? Stories are interwoven into faith, holidays, and traditions. No matter which you hold, whether they’re old or newly found, it’s hard to think of stories as anything but good. But like wrapping paper, I can’t quite see stories with the same magical innocence I once held.
Storytelling has a dark side. Stories can cause problems, big problems that grow and spread and become deeply rooted. Can you hold the good in the story without carrying the bad? Is faith possible without story? And why do some stories never seem to die, fueling endless waves of backlashes?
Stories of an idealized past might seem harmless. But then, all storytellers have to do is connect societal changes since then to people’s problems or pain now. Once that happens, all bets are off. Will there ever be a new normal that becomes just normal without umpteen challenges to go back?
I’m backlash-fatigued. I’m tired of fanciful explainers and oversimplified ones and can’t understand why common sense increasingly feels contrarian.
Career break explaining
As I’m rethinking stories, I’m also trying to come up with one as a job seeker, one that will quickly explain my decades-long professional career in a qualifying way when inside, I feel like I’m only starting.
I left pharmacy school before getting a PharmD. I never went to grad school as planned. And my work history is a smattered list of part-time positions broken up by career breaks after babies and a home infusion industry’s frequent closures and mergers.
After my daughter’s birth, I didn’t feel up to starting a new job and then figuring out childcare to make it work. Luckily, we were able to get by for a time on my husband’s income. We were both recently out of college and already used to Tightwad Gazette living. Stretching one paycheck also seemed more doable during that low-inflationary time. Then, when Nora reached toddler age, I found part-time work. I did that same cycle (baby, then break, then part-time) three more times.
That’s one story to explain it. Here’s another:
By nature, I’m a very loyal person. But no job will be loyal back. I’m glad I learned that lesson early on. After given the news I’d be unemployed and lose maternity leave pay just weeks before my first baby’s due date, the upper-ups walked me out to my car. They handed me a tissue box for my tears, and put a box in my car’s backseat which held my desk belongings. They’d gathered them for me because I wasn’t allowed to go back and get them myself or even say goodbye. After that, I chose what worked for me and then found work that worked with that. If I’m a replaceable commodity as a worker, then it seems both necessary and fair to treat a job like one too.
Sometimes, explainers come from other people. Here’s one from my grown daughter:
“Maybe your consistent inconsistency and desire to jump from one thing to another can be explained by having ADHD.” To which my mom responded when I mentioned it, “Well maybe everyone has ADHD.” Then my mom told me that the doctor wanted to diagnose me ADHD (the hyperactive/impulsive kind) when I was a teen. Why am I first hearing this now at 50?
No matter the reason, I have no career regrets and only feel grateful for having had choices—all parents should. Having WFH options while my kids were little would’ve made working easier. But I also can imagine the decision to take any time off would’ve been that much harder. I relished having a time away from the outside world, including the online one.
While breaks and part-time work came with some career costs, those paths were still possible as a pharmacist, and that’s often not the case. Yet still, my broken-up work history is coming back to bite now.
Years spent reading picture books to kids qualified me to write about health just as much as any professional work I’ve done.
A quarter of a century later
“So none of these have been full-time?” a recruiter asked me last week over Zoom—in near disbelief.
“That’s right,” I replied, starting to feel small but then reminding myself I’m fifty. I’m so over that. “The last time I worked full-time was in 2000,” I followed up, purposefully highlighting the fact that, yes, it’s been a quarter of a century since I worked in a full-time position. Then, I attempted to sell it as an asset in the way that you do in a job interview. By having to come back and start over so many times, I explained how it shows what a quick study I’ve learned to be. Which is true.
For my first medical writer bio two years ago, I also found something to use from my several decades spent caregiving to help fill in the required space. I went with, “Her writing inspiration comes from decades spent reading books to her four kids, each spaced five years apart.” Which is also true.
My younger self, though, would’ve never imagined including anything so “unserious” in anything “professional”—the lines between those were red and risky to cross in the days of pleated Dockers and beige cubicle mazes. But then again, she would’ve been shocked to see storytelling become a sought-after “STEM” skill. Or how being more factual today can sometimes make a person less believable.
Stories in the information age were for fun. The serious stuff in life required facts. And the facts spoke for themselves. Within real lives though, behind closed doors, in minds and hearts, stories have always ruled. People love storytellers. And people seek stories of every kind.
Stories tell us who we are. They teach us as much as the nearest and dearest and often come from those we love. They tell us who to trust, and who not to. And they write and rewrite history, for better or worse. As wild as stories may be, they can be wildly different depending on the storyteller, even when the points of view are similar.
Stories for kids wrap you in a feeling of someone who cares.
Wrapped in a story
Reading books to my kids was never about skill-building—for them or me. Sharing books while cuddled up were some of the most joyful moments in my life. Reading kept me connected and helped me bond. And books kept me feeling alive inside during those many years home caring for little ones, when moments dragged on or zipped by, often in a daze, I needed stories as much as my kids did.
When my youngest son first learned to read whole books on his own, he said, “I feel like a whole new person.” I knew exactly what he meant, don’t you?
Each week I’d push a stroller with a tot into the library and come out holding the tot on my left side while navigating a stroller full of books back to the minivan with my free right hand. The muscle memory of that maneuver is always there. Sometimes, I’d go alone during those coveted 2.5 hours while they were in preschool, this time bringing a laundry basket I kept in the car to help haul books back and forth.
Stories for kids wrap you in a feeling of someone who cares. They make you feel a part of a story that matters and make you feel like you matter too. They unfold naturally from one sentence into the next. They give clear transitions and markers to help connect points. And they don’t assume, you as a reader, know everything they know. No one knows everything someone else knows, ever.
It’s often surprising how random and unexpected knowledge gaps can be. Keeping them filled in helps keep everyone on the same page. Years spent reading picture books to kids qualified me to write about health just as much as any professional work I’ve done.
Books are to treasure
My mom’s mom was barely literate. Her dad couldn’t read or write at all. My mom got to stay in school through high school, but she didn’t grow up having toys or books—she didn’t even have a toothbrush. So I grew up knowing how precious books were. I saw people keep books they didn’t even like and maybe never read. But they kept them because they were books. You didn’t get rid of books. You treasured them.
I grew up with more books, but they were still pricey and libraries hadn’t yet evolved to have the welcoming vibe of abundance most do today. Anyone louder than a mouse was shushed. Scolding looks of disapproval were given along with strict fines for late returns. And careful notice was nosily given to who was checking out what. My mom was reticent to bring four rambunctious kids through often.
Paperbacks became more plentiful in the 80s and I read all the typical ones from my gen’s limited selection, starting with the Little House series. I liked the easy flow and descriptive text but couldn’t connect with the warm nostalgia. I’d heard from my mom what it was like to live in rural Wisconsin in a house her dad built, lacking water or central heat. Judy Blume’s books were much more relatable. The Sweet Valley High series were not, but I still read them
As soon as I earned money of my own from babysitting, I subscribed to mags galore—YM, Teen, Seventeen, Prevention, Self, Cosmopolitan, Shape. I read every word, sometimes multiple times, including the scammy and tempting ads in the back. There was loads of shame-inducing advice on dieting, camouflaging, and conforming. Still, each issue gave that satisfying feeling of unwrapping a gift, building up anticipation for the next issue to come the next month. And I did find some information in them on important topics like reproductive health and leaving unsafe relationships, topics not discussed elsewhere.
Everything feels click-baity numb when choices are endless and always queued up.
Your own copy times infinity
Nothing though compared to the nineties. It felt like a golden age for reading. Books became abundant beyond belief in a very nineties zip-coded way.
The grandiosity and richness of a Borders were on par with a Barnes & Noble, each becoming the hallmark of a high-income area, often steps away from the other.
Public and school libraries in certain locales generously funded expansions, assuring taxpayers dividends in rising home prices.
I understand some nostalgia for the nineties. I miss that feeling of expansiveness at a time when choices still felt comprehensible and countable. It’s harder to find that satisfying feeling of unwrapping a present after a period of anticipation. Everything starts feeling click-baity numb when choices are endless and always queued up.
But, like I wrote nearly two years ago: “When I see my daughter lovin’ her 90s jeans that she thrifted in her latest haul, I remind her what it was really like being a young woman then. To sum it up: it sucked.”
I learned to shut my mouth outside of home. Speaking up only got me in trouble.
Competing stories
Misogyny was background noise and in me too. I both despised and identified with being feminine. Misogyny might be thought of as being generally hateful toward women, but it was usually more conditional. Women deserved opportunity and respect, but only when they were “respectable.” And only when their efforts aligned (at least in appearance) with what was good for the alpha man in the room. It was your job to make sure he was kept feeling comfortable and safe.
Misogyny just as much divides people within the same gender as opposite ones. Can you elicit respect (men)? Can you stay “respectable” (women)? Those guard rails maintain morality and order and we need them back now; I hear people say who support a return to a more traditional past. To which I say: Those guard rails rewarded the wrongdoers, blamed the vulnerable and kept both hidden enough to allow them to keep happening.
Backlashes are a competition for stories of a past that either sound nightmarish or like the first five minutes of a 90s made-for-TV movie when everything is perfect. The stuff with no clear plotline or resolution—or time spent in a mishmash of boring nothingness—is mostly forgotten.
Like everyone else, my view of the past is biased. I’ll even add a “very” to how biased I am. I very much do not want to go back—just as much for my three sons as my daughter. Susan Faludi’s 1991 bestseller Backlash explained so much when I read it at 17. A year later, I gained a new understanding when my mom’s new boyfriend moved in. Those situations are usually awkward. But this felt suffocating.
Interesting stories
Those long-ago maddening arguments I had with my mom’s new boyfriend have been back in my head, feeling relevant again. The conspiratorial, left-leaning side to him was somewhat interesting. “The government knows how to cure cancer,” he’d say. “They just don’t want everyone to know.” But I was assured not to worry, as I smoked alongside him. He knew of secret health solutions to stay safe.
Many “insights” were full-stop unbelievable, though somewhat interesting. "Inquiring minds want to know"—there's a can't look-away feeling to new, secret information. But I never could figure out if his self-acclaimed MESNA brain really believed all of that or if he was saying those “government’s out to get you” things for other reasons. Either way, if that’s all there was, I could live with it. Yeah, I’d probably waste too much in fruitless debate, but it’d be OK.
Early on, I tried to find some common ground, like agreeing that fathers were widely devalued as caregivers, something he complained about. I agreed. Valuing men as caregivers and valuing women in non-caregiving roles were important changes that seemed connected and a win-win for everyone. But there was only one story and it would only be told by him. If you didn’t buy every word of it, you weren’t welcome in his book club.
Eventually he punched me in the face. And turned to stalking after my mom broke up with him. But there was always a feeling that something far worse could’ve happened during those few years living under the same roof and in the years to follow.
Women got blamed for everything—leading him on, using him for money, tricking him into fatherhood.
Stories about “certain” women
His conspiratorial thinking also applied to women and echoed the misogynistic stories from the time. The tropes were endless, commonly heard in conversation, and rarely challenged. Women got blamed for everything—leading him on, using him for money, tricking him into fatherhood.
As the HIV/AIDS crisis started impacting more hetero men, women were increasingly called “disease spreaders.” As women began having more professional success, they were increasingly called “bitches” and undeserving ones who slept their way to the top. And even when women were harassed or assaulted, they were the ones blamed, especially if they ever said anything about it.
Not all women though. Only “certain” kinds of women that anyone could become. Those arbitrary and biased distinctions were deeply disturbing and consequential, though mostly ignored.
My mom’s boyfriend could be super nice and considerate, like to his daughter or my mom and grandma. But if you didn’t agree him you were a bitch. And if you didn’t sympathize more with his male view you were a “man hater.”
Very quickly, I got labeled both—and told that the only reason any man would put up with me is for putting out. If he was the only person I heard say that sort of thing, maybe it wouldn’t have been so soul-crushing.
His thoughts weren’t uncommon. I know because I routinely heard similar ones IRL and on TV. Those thoughts didn’t need to stay stuck in their thought bubbles. The people thinking them got to speak their minds. And you couldn’t choose not to read their comments.
Getting out and moving on
By 18, I’d learned to shut my mouth outside of home. Speaking up only got me in trouble. I learned to keep it contained in my thought bubble. Having to do that at home, too, made me feel like I would burst. I didn’t want to live for a time and started doing random things to hurt myself, like taking too many diet pills until I felt sick. But it was an FU spite for him that made me stop and plot a path to get out.
“Daphne, give him a hug,” my mom occasionally said, wanting peace in a way Edith might’ve done to end an Archie-Maude argument. So I did, feeling like George Baily did when he shook Mr. Potter’s hand after he considered working for him. I didn’t want to be kicked out. I couldn’t keep up the fight. And I knew how to separate from my body and become numb as I did then from the random hands on me while working as a cocktail waitress.
Still, the lingering feeling of being both a victim and to blame for not speaking up left a horrible yuck of a feeling that stayed with me for years. That’s a big part of why I share these stories and why I’m biased. But I don’t want to stay stuck in a story of my own or waste time in pro-anti debates.
Whatever spite I may have had left for him, I’m letting go of now. It was so sad, even for him. Who really benefits from male chauvinism? A few alpha males and their golden circle—not most men I’ve known. Not most men I think. Not in the ways that truly feel like gifts.
What can be more beautiful than when someone chooses to give or share with you? Not out of fear, or pressure, or have-to norms, but because they care for you.
Storifying everything
Outside of fiction, I’m feeling weary of stories seeping into everything. Not everything adds up. Not every piece connects. At least not in a short span of time.
When I was planning on getting a PhD in Medicinal Chemistry, I knew it meant I might spend a whole career and have no interesting story to show for it. I’d have a lot harder time believing it would still be worth it as a young person today. Research that doesn’t lead to some big reveal matters too.
Storied successes get far too much hype and attention. Storifying everything has also made life feel like reality TV, even without a reality TV star president. Yet still, most regular people’s stories never get heard. And important but boring things get brushed aside if they’re even noticed at all.
Life feels set up to notice the least interesting and fulfilling things there are. But tuning in isn’t compulsory. Why do I have to keep reminding myself of that?
Attention is the most important gift to give and receive. There are no returns when it comes to time.
My kids remind me that smaller gifts are bigger than they might seem.
“I’m thankful for anyone relatively nice,” my middle son shared on Thanksgiving when going around the table. I’ve been holding on to that this holiday season. Anything relatively good deserves celebration.
“In gym class, I’m good at almost doing things, like almost catching a ball or almost making a goal,” another son once said. Being almost good at anything is pretty awesome too.
What’s next?
My winter posts will be stories I’ve been thinking about for a long time: my glam metal groupie days and my 1990 stay in a psychiatric hospital. I still plan on trying my hand at fiction since it sounds like something fun until you do it, and I tend to like those things. As a reader, I’ve just started James by Percival Everett.
I’m selectively looking for a full-time medical writer role, but will continue to freelance in the meantime, focusing more on writing continuing education courses. reported pieces, and med comms content—as always, depending on what assignments I'm able to find.
I imagine working until age 70, like my mom did. Although I know age bias is real, I can’t imagine why. Lots of things that don’t make sense still exist and persist. This fact, I’ll forever be coming to terms with.
SOMETHING MOREs:
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recommends this newsletter and I do too! It’s a fun-to-read mix of culture news roundups, book recs, and essays from Ochuko’s keen Gen Z point of view. It’s a good way to feel with it—without scrolling socials to see what’s trending. Ochuko gives you spot-on quick takeaways or offers thought-provoking questions for you to decide.Finding A Smaller Audience by . Great read on making a living in the arts, and I think it might resonate with freelance writers, designers, or creators of any kind. “Creating isn’t a career path. It’s a way of being. It’s both a life and a life sentence.”
Tangle News. Covers political news from the center and both sides (without bothsides-ism). I’m not following the chaotic news cycle. When I do check in, I’m trying to hear points of view I may not agree with as long as the discourse is civil and the content is fact-based.
The Disappearance of Literary Men Should Worry Everyone. Agree.
I was just talking to another Gen-Xer tonight about this hidden truth behind our childhood; the stories that kept us from knowing who we really were! I love how deeply this takes me into those time periods for you, Daphne. I get the same experience but another perspective.
Thanks for the shout out ♥️