Mary Schmidt-Luhring, LMHC

01/24/2026

01/24/2026

You are important and necessary—-we rely on persons of all kinds and it is important to recognize everyone’s part in the web of the world. You are not invisible

The man in the three-thousand-dollar suit looked at my hands and asked if I was there to fix the air conditioning.
My hands are thick. The knuckles are scarred from busted wrenches, and there’s a permanent line of grease under my fingernails that no amount of scrubbing can remove. I looked at his hands. They were smooth, pale, with a heavy gold watch on the wrist.
“No, sir,” I said, my voice too deep for the quiet high school library. “I’m here for Career Day. I’m Jason’s dad.”
His smile was polite, but his eyes said it all. You?
My name is Mike. I’m 58 years old. For thirty of those years, I’ve been a long-haul trucker. I’m a widower, a veteran, and a father. My son Jason is a good kid, a senior at this shiny suburban school where I feel about as welcome as a mudflap in a ballroom.
This school… this was my late wife Sarah’s world. She was a teacher here. She loved these hallways, loved these kids. When she passed, this school set up a scholarship in her name. And when my son Jason, God bless him, told his homeroom teacher I was a “logistics and supply chain expert” and that I should speak, I couldn’t say no. It felt like I’d be letting Sarah down.
So I showed up. I parked my F-150—the one I still haven’t paid off—between a brand-new German sedan and a luxury electric SUV. I walked in wearing my best jeans, a clean flannel shirt, and my work boots.
The library was packed with the “A-Team” of parents. Dr. Chen, a neurosurgeon, had a slick video presentation about brain mapping. Mr. Davies, the man with the expensive watch, was next. He ran some kind of investment firm and talked about “leveraging assets” and “Q4 projections.” He used the word “synergy” five times.
I saw the kids’ eyes glazing over. I saw the other parents nodding, pretending they understood. I saw my son Jason slouching in the back row, trying to become invisible.
I felt a tap on my shoulder. It was the principal. “Mr. Riley? You’re next.”
I walked to the front. There was no PowerPoint. No video. Just me. I could feel the weight of their judgment. The whispers from the moms in their yoga pants. “Is he the janitor?” “Whose dad is that?”
I gripped the wooden podium. It was the same one Sarah used to stand at during assemblies. I took a deep breath.
“Good morning,” I said. My voice echoed. “My name is Mike Riley. I’m not a doctor or a banker. I never finished college. I’m a truck driver.”
The silence in the room changed. It went from polite attention to cold, awkward curiosity. The finance guy was already checking his phone.
“My son calls me a ‘logistics expert,’ which is a nice way of saying I drive a very big truck for a very long time. And I guess I’m here to tell you why that matters.”
I looked at Dr. Chen. “Ma’am, with all due respect, what you do is incredible. You save lives. But that machine you use for brain mapping… it didn’t just appear in the hospital. The plastic, the wires, the microchips… they all came from a different factory. They were all put on a pallet, loaded onto a truck, and driven—probably 2,000 miles—by someone like me.”
I turned to the finance guy. “Sir, your graphs are very impressive. But those numbers… they represent ‘things.’ Corn from Iowa. Steel from Ohio. Computers from a port in California. This country… it’s not a website. It’s not an algorithm. It’s a real, physical place. And the only thing connecting all of it… is the highway. And the men and women who refuse to stop driving on it.”
The room was dead quiet.
“In March 2020,” I said, “when the whole world shut down, you were all told to stay home. You learned how to bake bread. You did puzzles. We were told to keep driving.
I was out there. The highways were empty, like a post-apocalyptic movie. There was no one. Just me and 40,000 pounds of… toilet paper. Yeah, I was the guy hauling the toilet paper. You can laugh. But my dispatcher called me, crying, because her elderly mother couldn’t find any. And I drove 18 hours straight, through three states, because I knew that if I didn’t, the shelves would stay empty. You can’t Zoom a five-pound bag of potatoes. You can’t download a bottle of hand sanitizer.”
I saw a few teachers nodding. The kids were leaning forward.
“Two winters ago,” I went on, my voice getting thicker, “I was locked down on I-80 in Wyoming. A blizzard. Shut the whole state down. I sat in my cab for 72 hours. It was 20 below zero. I couldn’t sleep. Not because of the cold, but because of the sound. The hum.
The hum of the refrigeration unit on my trailer. I was hauling a full load of insulin. Life-saving medicine for diabetics. If that re**er unit stopped… if I ran out of fuel… if I just gave up and went to a shelter… that entire load, millions of dollars worth, would be worthless. But it wasn’t the money I thought about. I thought about the grandmother in Denver, the kid in Omaha, waiting for that little vial.
So I sat there. I ate cold rations. I checked the fuel and the temperature gauge every 30 minutes. For three days. I served this country for 12 years in the Army. I thought that was the hardest thing I’d ever do. I was wrong. That blizzard was harder.”
I looked for my son. He was sitting up straight now. His eyes were locked on me.
A kid in the front row, wearing a “Future CEO” t-shirt, raised his hand. “But, like, don’t you regret it? Not going to college? My dad says people who do jobs like that just… didn’t have other options.”
The air was sucked out of the room. I heard the principal give a little gasp.
I looked at that boy. I wasn’t angry. “Son,” I said, “I respect your path. But when the power goes out in a storm, you can’t read your textbooks in the dark. You wait for a lineman. When your toilet backs up, your business degree can’t fix the pipes. You call a plumber. And when you go to the store, you expect food to be there. You expect the lights to be on. You expect the world to work.
We are the ‘other options.’ We’re the people who make your world work. Don’t you ever, for one second, think we’re not proud of that.”
A new voice cut through the silence. It wasn’t mine.
“My mom’s a dispatcher.”
A skinny kid near the back stood up. He was shaking. “My… my mom. She works for a shipping company. She’s the one who answers the calls. People yell at her all day. They… they call her stupid when a package is late.”
His voice cracked, and tears were rolling down his face. “But she’s the one who finds a driver… like you, sir… when a hospital calls and says they’re out of supplies. She’s the one who works all night, on Christmas, moving dots on a screen to make sure the medicine gets there. She’s not stupid.”
He looked right at the “Future CEO” kid.
“Your dad is wrong. My mom is a hero. And so is he.”
The room was so quiet you could hear a pin drop. The finance guy put his phone down. The neurosurgeon was looking at her own hands.
And my son, Jason, stood up. He walked from the back of the room, right up to the front, and stood next to me. He put his arm around my waist. He didn’t say anything. He didn’t have to.
I don’t remember what happened after that. I think some people clapped. The principal shook my hand, and her eyes were wet.
On the drive home, Jason was quiet. Finally, he just said, “Dad… I never knew about the insulin. That was… wow.”
“It’s just the job, son.”
“No, it’s not,” he said. “It’s not just a job.”
Here’s the truth: This country isn’t built on spreadsheets or algorithms alone. It’s built on calluses. It’s built on sweat and steel. It’s built on the backs of people who show up, 24/7, in blizzards and pandemics, to keep the lights on and the shelves full.
We are not invisible. We are the foundation.
Next time you meet a kid, don’t just ask, “Where are you going to college?” Ask them, “What do you want to build?” And if they say, “I’m learning to weld,” or “I’m going to be a plumber,” or “I’m gonna drive trucks like my dad,” you look them in the eye and you tell them, “This country needs you. We are all counting on you.”

01/20/2026

Sometimes toddler logic is the most pure—hurt feelings also need care and attention

01/17/2026

🤷‍♀️

01/09/2026

You never know…pay it forward

"I didn’t find drugs in the bathroom stall. I found a child trying to wash shame out of her jeans with cold tap water, trembling so hard the porcelain sink rattled.

My name is Martha. I’m 72 years old. I should be retired, sitting on a porch somewhere drinking iced tea. But with the price of gas and groceries these days, "retired" is a luxury I can’t afford. So, I mop the floors at Northwood High every night after the buses leave.

People don’t look at the janitor. I’m just a ghost in a grey uniform pushing a yellow bucket. But that’s the thing about being invisible—you see everything.

I see the divide. I see the kids with the $200 sneakers and the shiny SUVs waiting in the parking lot. And I see the others. The ones who wear hoodies in 90-degree heat to hide holes in their shirts. The ones who hoard the free cafeteria apples in their backpacks because the fridge at home is empty. The ones who walk with their heads down, terrified that one wrong move will end up recorded on a smartphone and posted for the whole school to laugh at.

Being a teenager in America right now isn't just hard; it’s a battlefield.

It was a Tuesday in November, raining hard. I pushed into the girls' restroom on the second floor and heard the sobbing. It wasn’t a drama-queen cry; it was that gut-wrenching, silent gasping of someone whose world just ended.

I looked under the stall door. Sneakers worn down to the sole. And a puddle of red on the tile.

It was a girl named Sarah. Maybe fifteen. She was sitting on the toilet lid, knees pulled to her chest. She had used up all the toilet paper and was desperately trying to fold rough, brown paper towels into her underwear.

My heart shattered. I know that panic. In this economy, a box of tampons costs as much as a decent lunch. For some families, that’s a choice they have to make: food or dignity.

I didn't speak. Shame hates an audience. I just mopped the rest of the room loudly so she knew I was there, then I left a "Wet Floor" sign outside the door to buy her time. I went to my cart, grabbed my own emergency spare clean t-shirt and a small pack of pads I keep for myself. I slid them under the stall door with a gentle push.

"Honey," I said, my voice rasping a bit. "Put the shirt around your waist. Toss the rest in the bin. I’ll take care of the floor. Just go."

I heard a sniffle, then a whisper. "Thank you."

The next day, I didn't see Sarah. But I couldn't get the image out of my head. How many others? How many girls miss school because they can’t afford what they need? How many boys walk around sweating because deodorant is five dollars a stick?

There was a broken locker at the end of the math hallway. Locker 305. The mechanism was jammed so it wouldn't lock, and the school hadn't fixed it in years.

That night, I stopped at the discount store. I spent $20—money I really needed for my own electric bill—and bought generic pads, a stick of neutral deodorant, a pack of wet wipes, and a box of granola bars.

I put them in Locker 305 with a note on a neon index card: “Take what you need. No questions. No cameras. You are loved.”

By morning recess, the locker was empty.

I refilled it two days later. Toothpaste. A pair of warm socks. A cheap comb.

Gone in an hour.

I thought I would have to keep doing this alone, scraping pennies from my paycheck. But kids... kids are smarter than we give them credit for. And they are kinder than the news tells you.

Two weeks later, I went to check Locker 305 to restock it. It wasn't empty.

Someone had left a nearly full bottle of expensive shampoo. There was a sealed bag of pretzels. A handful of travel-sized lotions. And a sticky note written in purple glitter pen: “Pay it forward.”

It started a chain reaction. We called it "The Ghost Locker."

It became the heartbeat of the hallway. I watched from the sidelines, mopping the linoleum, acting like I didn’t know a thing. I saw a linebacker from the football team—a giant boy who usually looked tough as nails—check left and right, then quickly slide a stick of deodorant and a bag of beef jerky into the locker. I saw the "popular" girls, the ones who usually only cared about their follower counts, leave brand-new makeup samples and hair ties.

It wasn't just hygiene anymore. It became a lifeline.

One freezing January morning, I found a winter coat in there. It was used, but clean. Pinned to the sleeve was a note: “I outgrew this. Stay warm.” An hour later, I saw a boy who had been shivering in a windbreaker all winter walking down the hall, wearing that coat. He stood taller. He looked human again.

Of course, in today's world, nothing good stays hidden forever.

The administration found out. "Liability issues," they called it. "Unsanitary distribution." "Safety hazard." You know the words—the red tape people use when they want to stop something they can't control.

The Vice Principal, a man who stared at spreadsheets more than students, marched down the hall with a padlock. He was going to shut down Locker 305.

He gathered a crowd. He started lecturing about "school policy" and "proper channels." He raised the padlock to seal it shut.

"Stop."

It wasn't a teacher who spoke. It was Sarah.

She stepped out of the crowd. She was shaking, her face bright red. Teenagers today are terrified of public speaking, terrified of being cancelled or mocked. But she stood there.

"You can't close it," she said, her voice cracking. "That locker is the only reason I came to school today."

Then another voice. A boy from the back. "I got lunch from that locker when my dad lost his job last month."

Then another. "I got a toothbrush there."

"I got gloves."

Dozens of kids. Rich, poor, black, white, athlete, math geek. They all stepped forward. It wasn't a riot; it was a wall of truth. They were protecting the one place in the school that didn't judge them. The one place that didn't care about their grades or their parents' income or their Instagram likes.

The Vice Principal lowered the lock. He looked at the faces—really looked at them, maybe for the first time all year. He looked at the cheap granola bars and the generic tampons inside the metal box. He saw the need he had been ignoring.

He didn't lock it. He cleared his throat, turned around, and walked away.

The locker stayed open.

I still mop the floors at Northwood High. My back hurts more these days, and the winters feel colder. But every night, when I pass Locker 305, I pause.

It belongs to them now.

Yesterday, I saw Sarah again. She’s a senior now, getting ready to graduate. She was standing by the locker, teaching a terrified-looking freshman girl how the "system" works. I saw Sarah slip a chocolate bar into the younger girl's hand and whisper, "It’s okay. We’ve got you."

I walked to my janitor’s closet and sat on a bucket, weeping.

We live in a loud, angry world. We turn on the TV and hear people screaming at each other. We see billionaires building rockets while people down the street can't afford insulin. We feel small. We feel like nothing we do matters.

But I’m telling you, from the quiet hallways of a high school at midnight: You are wrong.

You don't need a government grant to change the world. You don't need a viral hashtag. You don't need to be rich.

You just need to notice.

You need to see the person standing next to you. The one struggling to count out change at the grocery store. The neighbor whose lights haven't been on in a while. The kid sitting alone on the bench.

The world keeps telling these kids—and us—to toughen up. To hustle. To look out for Number One. But life is hard enough without carrying the weight of it alone.

Locker 305 taught me that kindness is contagious. It spreads faster than any virus. It just needs a spark.

So, please. If you are reading this on your phone, scrolling past the noise and the anger: Be the spark.

Leave the extra quarter in the cart. Buy the coffee for the stranger behind you. Drop a can of soup in the donation bin. Smile at the "invisible" people who clean your floors and serve your food.

It might look like nothing to you. Just a small, throwaway moment.

But to someone else? It might be the very thing that convinces them to keep going for one more day.

Don't wait for permission to be kind. Just open the door."

~ Mr Commonsense

11/04/2025

10/01/2025

09/25/2025

It is a difficult to determine when a person is mature and ready for responsible management of internet access (especially the ease of having it on their phone). It is not a decision to take lightly. The more you know 🌈 ⭐️

06/10/2025

This should be hung in every dementia care home and in hospitals where there are patients with dementia.

If I get dementia, I’d like my family to hang this wish list up on the wall where I live. I want them to remember these things.

And I would add one more:
Every time you enter the room announce yourself.

“Hi Mom- it’s Mary.”
NEVER ask- Do you know who I am??? That causes anxiety.

1. If I get dementia, I want my friends and family to embrace my reality.

2. If I think my spouse is still alive, or if I think we’re visiting my parents for dinner, let me believe those things. I’ll be much happier for it.

3. If I get dementia, don’t argue with me about what is true for me versus what is true for you.

4. If I get dementia, and I am not sure who you are, do not take it personally. My timeline is confusing to me.

5. If I get dementia, and can no longer use utensils, do not start feeding me. Instead, switch me to a finger-food diet, and see if I can still feed myself.

6. If I get dementia, and I am sad or anxious, hold my hand and listen. Do not tell me that my feelings are unfounded.

7. If I get dementia, I don’t want to be treated like a child. Talk to me like the adult that I am.

8. If I get dementia, I still want to enjoy the things that I’ve always enjoyed. Help me find a way to exercise, read, and visit with friends.

9. If I get dementia, ask me to tell you a story from my past.

10. If I get dementia, and I become agitated, take the time to figure out what is bothering me.

11. If I get dementia, treat me the way that you would want to be treated.

12. If I get dementia, make sure that there are plenty of snacks for me in the house. Even now if I don’t eat I get angry, and if I have dementia, I may have trouble explaining what I need.

13. If I get dementia, don’t talk about me as if I’m not in the room.

14. If I get dementia, don’t feel guilty if you cannot care for me 24 hours a day, 7 days a week. It’s not your fault, and you’ve done your best. Find someone who can help you, or choose a great new place for me to live.

15. If I get dementia, and I live in a dementia care community, please visit me often.

16. If I get dementia, don’t act frustrated if I mix up names, events, or places. Take a deep breath. It’s not my fault.

17. If I get dementia, make sure I always have my favorite music playing within earshot.

18. If I get dementia, and I like to pick up items and carry them around, help me return those items to their original place.

19. If I get dementia, don’t exclude me from parties and family gatherings.

20. If I get dementia, know that I still like receiving hugs or handshakes.

21. If I get dementia, remember that I am still the person you know and love.”

Message to be shared in Honor of someone you know or knew who has dementia. In Honor of all those I know and love and lost who are fighting Dementia/Alzheimer’s.

06/07/2025

Parenting Isn’t 50/50

Yep, you read that right.

It’s not half Mom, half Dad. It’s not always “You do this, I’ll do that.” As much as we love balance, the truth is—parenting doesn’t work on perfect math.

Some days, you're going to wake up running on fumes, barely feeling 10%. Exhausted, overwhelmed, maybe even defeated. And on those days, it's your partner’s job to carry the other 90%.

Other days, you’re the strong one. You’ve got energy, clarity, maybe even patience (imagine that!), and you carry the 80 while your partner struggles to muster 20.

That’s the real math of parenting: It’s about giving 100%, together, not splitting it evenly.

It’s a constant dance of give and take. Of stepping up when the other needs rest. Of knowing that fairness isn’t always sameness.

It takes grace. It takes communication. And it takes love—the kind that doesn’t keep score.

So no, parenting isn’t 50/50.
But it is 100%, every single day.

Together.