All I Really Need to Know I Learned in Kindergarten: Uncommon Thoughts on Common Things

“Credo,” as a short author’s note observes, is the original essay that inspired the collection and contains the list of wise sayings from the “sandpit,” beginning with “Share everything,” and ending with a reminder to stay close to others when out in the world. The writing of these credos, Fulghum writes, had been for him an annual tradition, though each year they seemed to get shorter as he got closer to the realization that the mind and spirit function best when fueled by fundamental truths—truths that he had known all along. This realization reinforces his belief in the value of simplicity and underscores a central theme of the broader work: that the foundational lessons we need to navigate life are often learned in childhood.

Fulghum reflects on the so-called “Kindergarten Credo” laid out in the previous essay, stressing that its lessons are “elemental.” At 65 years old, he looks back and reaffirms the process by which foundational teachings are crucial to enabling new generations to function in society; all other knowledge is just an elaboration of these basic themes. The notion that life is fleeting, for instance, often seems to arrive unexpectedly in adulthood through events such as a terminal medical diagnosis. However, Fulghum observes, such lessons are already present in kindergarten activities like growing a plant from a seed in a cup. This experiment, illustrating life’s fleeting nature, teaches children about the cycle of life and death. Despite often being presented as simplistic, these kindergarten-level lessons are really a refined distillation of the essential, field-tested standards of human interaction and community building.

This essay examines the afterlives of classic fairy tale characters, challenging their “happily ever after” endings. Fulghum speculates about what happens next in the lives of figures such as Little Red Riding Hood, who might still attract trouble, or Cinderella, whose prince recognizes her only by her slippers. The essay suggests that the realities of these characters’ lives might be more complex than traditional stories suggest. The essay concludes by pondering the value of leaving out harsh realities in stories for children, questioning whether it’s better to protect them from the world’s unfairness or prepare them for it.

A neighbor of Fulghum’s walks into a spiderweb and screams in disgust. This incident leads Fulghum to imagine the perspective of the spider, whose home is suddenly destroyed by an enormous outside force. Fulghum then reflects on the resilience of spiders, which have survived for around 350 million years, adapting to various challenges and disasters. He parallels this resilience with the human capacity to endure hardships. In a postscript, Fulghum talks about how he sometimes opens speaking engagements with a bit about “The Itsy Bitsy Spider.” He tells the audience that he is going to sing silently, and for them to join in when they figure out what he’s doing; by the end of the song, everyone is doing the hand motions associated with it. He goes on to remark that the words to the song can be sung to Beethoven’s “Ode to Joy,” and that he has gotten large audiences to do that as well. Both songs, in his mind, celebrate resilience.

A child runs through puddles in New York City’s Central Park, while his mother tries to pull him away. This scene catches the attention of a man, who, in a moment of spontaneous joy, decides to walk into the largest puddle himself, wearing his dress shoes. Fulghum himself follows, as do a woman and her dog. Inspired by the man’s carefree spirit, the child joins in once again, now with laughter. The mother is conflicted in her emotions, caught between the need to discipline her child and her own memories of similar joys. For Fulghum, the moment captures a common parental paradox: the balance between guiding a child toward proper behavior and allowing them the freedom to enjoy harmless fun. Ultimately, she smiles, laughs, and steps into the puddle herself; the rest of the adult waders applaud. However, Fulghum then reveals that the story is actually counterfactual: In reality, the mother pulled her son away from the puddle, and everyone else’s feet remained dry. Everyone missed the opportunity, and when he goes back later, the moment has definitively passed.

Elias Schwartz, a New York City shoe repairman, fascinates Fulghum. After reading a New York Times article about the Haiho Lama, a Tibetan spiritual leader who died the year Schwartz was born and whose successor remains unnamed many decades later, Fulghum has become convinced that the cobbler is, in fact, the reincarnated Lama. Fulghum’s belief is confirmed when Schwartz deems a pair of his old loafers unworthy of repair, returning them to him with two chocolate chip cookies and a note saying, “Anything not worth doing is worth not doing well. Think about it“ (19). This wisdom convinces Fulghum that Schwartz is the Haiho Lama, an embodiment of the idea that profound insights often emerge from unexpected places.

Fulghum answers a question about whether his stories and the people in them are real. He explains that his stories are based on truth, though sometimes he amalgamates stories to convey a deeper truth and changes details so that the people he describes can remain anonymous. Elias Schwartz, the Lama of the previous essay, is one of those people. The real person, Eli Angel, now deceased, was an Orthodox Jew and immigrant, who was multilingual and knowledgeable in various subjects. He lived in Seattle, where he was respected for his wisdom and his generosity. Fulghum’s wife had been Eli’s wife Rachael’s physician and, after Eli’s death, Rachael was comforted to hear about the Haiho Lama story from the first edition of the book and how it had spread the story of her husband’s good deeds and quiet wisdom around the world. Now that Mrs. Angel has also passed away, Fulghum adds more details to the story, retelling how Rachael had initially rejected Eli’s marriage proposal because she had cancer and had been told she would not live long or have children. However, she defied this prognosis and had four kids during their long marriage. One of those sons continues to run the shoe repair shop, carrying on his father’s legacy of gentleness and good deeds.

Fulghum uses hide-and-seek as a metaphor for human experiences and emotions, beginning with a nostalgic look at what happens when a child hides too well. After a certain point in time, the other players would simply give up, and the hider would reappear later on annoyed that they hadn’t kept seeking until they found him. Fulghum contrasts children’s playful hiding with a doctor who conceals his terminal cancer from his family to avoid causing them pain, presenting this as an adult version of the game with higher stakes, eliciting admiration and resentment. The narrative shifts to Sardines, a hide-and-seek variant that emphasizes togetherness, which Fulghum likens to spiritual seeking and finding. The essay ends by urging those who “hide too well” to allow themselves to be found, highlighting themes of isolation, connection, and the balance between privacy and companionship.

As summer ends, Fulghum turns philosophical, reflecting on the profound needs that bring us well-being, even if other people can’t understand why someone would want that thing. Fulghum’s example is chicken fried steak, a meal that he frankly admits sounds “disgusting,” but that for him signifies happiness and security. The narrative explores Fulghum’s quest for the ultimate chicken fried steak experience, claiming that, despite what the Rolling Stones said, it is sometimes possible to satisfy both his wants and needs simultaneously. In the postscript, Fulghum reports that the site of his most transcendent chicken fried steak meal, a diner in Idaho, had since been closed down by the Health Department. As a result, he made a deal with a restaurant near his home in Seattle to put a “gourmet” version on their menu. He acknowledges that this is not the healthiest meal, but remarks that, since death is inevitable regardless, a person might as well be happy on the way.

Charles Boyer, a film actor of the Golden Age of Hollywood, was known for his numerous on-screen—and gossip magazine—romances. However, as Fulghum writes, Boyer had only one true love, his wife Patricia. Their 44-year relationship was marked by deep affection and companionship, enduring until Patricia developed liver cancer. Boyer cared for her until she died in his arms. Overwhelmed by grief, he died by suicide two days later. Fulghum shares these intimate details not to judge Boyer’s actions but to reflect on the depth and endurance of love. When Fulghum looks at his own wife, he understands the reality of a love so strong it becomes life itself.

This essay reflects on love and conflict, set against the backdrop of an old lakeside cottage outside Seattle. Every spring, the house becomes the meeting spot for raccoons. Their nocturnal mating rituals underneath the house at 3 am produce sounds magnified in volume and intensity, akin to a “three-alarm fire.” Fulghum, awakened by the noise, ponders the complexities of love and life. These thoughts are prompted by the raucous raccoons and the narrator’s experiences with his wife, whose nighttime arguments about domestic trivialities echo the same intensity as the raccoons’ disturbances. He muses on why love often involves so much pain, mess, and effort.