That’s Just the Facts! (Or Is It?)
How We Confuse Information with Interpretation
"Everything we hear is an opinion, not a fact. Everything we see is a perspective, not the truth." —Marcus Aurelius
The other day, I was running late to meet a friend for lunch. When I arrived, she barely looked up from her phone. I apologized.
"No worries," she said, but her tone was flat — the kind of flat that makes your inner anxiety monster start doing backflips.
Immediately, my brain went into overdrive: She's annoyed. She thinks I'm unreliable. Maybe she doesn't even want to be here. I felt that cocktail of guilt and defensiveness — I was only five minutes late! I thought!
But then, halfway through lunch, she sighed and said, "Sorry if I'm a little off. I just got some bad news this morning."
Oh.
(Don't you love those moments when the universe reminds you that not everything is about you?)
I saw her expression. I heard her voice. I felt the awkwardness. But the moment I assigned meaning to those things — she's annoyed at me — I had already left the realm of facts and entered the wild west of interpretation.
We do this all the time — we don't just observe reality; we construct it without realizing we've appointed ourselves amateur reality TV producers. And because our brains love a good story (almost as much as they love late-night overthinking), we mistake our chosen version of events for the absolute truth.
In reality, we're only working with a fraction of it.
We like to think we're rational, carefully processing the world around us like human supercomputers — taking in raw data, analyzing it logically, and arriving at solid, fact-based conclusions. But our brains are more like overworked interns at a gossip magazine: they grab whatever bits of information seem juicy, slap together a story, and call it truth. (And much like those interns, they run primarily on caffeine and anxiety.)
This isn't just an occasional glitch—it's how we're wired. Psychologists call it "bounded rationality," a fancy way of saying our brains do their best with limited resources. Like trying to stream Netflix with a bad WiFi connection, we can't possibly process all the information around us, so we focus on what seems most relevant without questioning why it stands out to us in the first place.
Take eyewitness testimonies, for example (a favorite topic of every true crime podcast I've binged). If five people see the same car accident, you'd think they'd give nearly identical accounts — like a perfectly synchronized TikTok dance. But in reality? One person swears the light was red, another is convinced it was green, and a third remembers a blue Honda that wasn't even there. Everyone thinks they're recalling objective facts, but they're just recalling their greatest hits and what caught their attention.
They're not lying. They're just unaware of what they missed — like when you swear you thoroughly cleaned the apartment until your mom visits and somehow spots seventeen things you overlooked. (How do moms develop this superpower, by the way?)
The same thing happens in our daily lives. Have you ever been in one of those arguments where someone insists, "But those are just the facts!" — only for you to feel like they're leaving out something so huge it's practically wearing a neon sign and doing a choreographed dance number?
Here's the thing about facts: they don't exist in a vacuum. We've already started interpreting them the moment we select which ones to focus on — like choosing which photos to post on Instagram versus what happened at that party where your friend attempted karaoke for the first time.
We assume we're seeing the whole picture, but really, we're just working with the pieces our brains happened to grab — like trying to understand a movie by watching only the scenes that autoplay on social media. And the gaps in between? We fill them in faster than an influencer's Instagram caption.
Let me paint you a scene: You and a friend go to the same party on a Saturday night. The next day, over slightly hungover brunch, you're comparing notes:
You: "That was so fun! The music was great, and everyone was in such a good mood! Did you see how packed the dance floor got during that ABBA remix?"
Your friend: "Are you kidding? It was way too loud, and half the people there looked miserable. I could barely hear myself think, and that DJ was trying way too hard."
Same event. Two completely different experiences. Neither of you is lying — you're just starring in different versions of the same reality show.
This happens because we don't experience everything — we experience what we focus on. Maybe you noticed the people dancing and having fun while your friend zeroed in on the ones sitting in the corner, checking their phones. Neither of you is wrong, but you've each built a version of the night based on the details your brain prioritized, like a personalized Netflix algorithm of reality.
Psychologists call this selection bias — which sounds much fancier than "your brain playing favorites with facts," but essentially means the same thing. We do this automatically, like reaching for our phones first thing in the morning or pretending we read the terms and conditions. Once we've locked onto particular facts, we assume they represent the whole truth, like judging a book by its cover.
We see this play out in conversations — like that one friend who only talks about their job through the lens of complaints (we all have that friend, right? And if you think you don't, I hate to break it to you, but...). If they tell you, "My boss is always on my case," you might picture a micromanaging tyrant straight out of The Devil Wears Prada, complete with cutting remarks and impossible deadlines. But if they say, "My boss is invested in my growth," you could imagine a supportive Ted Lasso type who probably brings homemade cookies to meetings and sends inspirational GIFs on Slack. Both might be accurate descriptions of the same person — like using different filters on the same selfie, each highlighting something true but incomplete.
Once we've chosen which facts to focus on, we rarely go back and ask, "What am I missing?" Instead, we double down faster than a crypto enthusiast in 2021. We reinforce our version of reality as the reality. After all, changing our minds would mean admitting our story might have a few plot holes.
This is why two people can examine the same set of facts and reach completely different conclusions — because they were never actually working with the same facts to begin with.
Our brains hate uncertainty like I hate group texts that could've been emails. When faced with information gaps, we don't sit around patiently waiting for more data — we don't even give it the courtesy of a "let me think about it" pause. Instead, we fill in the blanks with whatever makes the most sense to us. It's not a conscious decision; it's just how our minds work, like automatically reaching for our phone the second we wake up or checking our email while still in bed (please tell me I'm not the only one).
Think about when someone took too long to reply to your text. You probably didn't just register "no response" and go about your day (who are we kidding?). Your brain likely jumped into action like it was auditioning for the Anxiety Olympics:
Did I say something weird?
Are they mad at me?
Maybe they're just busy... but what if they're ghosting me?
Should I check if they've been active on Instagram?
[Proceeds to overthink in 4K resolution]
Notice what happened there? The fact is simple: You sent a message. They haven't replied yet. That's it — that's the tweet, as they say. But that's not satisfying to our meaning-hungry brains, so we build a narrative to explain it. And once we've told ourselves a story, it feels more real than that "one quick thing" we ordered during our 2 AM Amazon scrolling session.
These personal narratives we create don't just stay in our DMs — they expand to shape our entire worldview like ripples spreading across a digital pond. Take your music preferences, for instance. Your Spotify algorithm shapes your taste without you noticing, feeding you songs similar to ones you've liked before (goodbye, musical diversity; hello, a three-hour loop of sad indie songs about coffee and unrequited love). The moment we combine a few chosen facts into a coherent story, that story becomes our reality. And once we have a reality that makes sense to us, we become more resistant to new facts than a teenager to family game night.
Take first impressions (basically, our brains playing judge, jury, and executioner in the first 0.2 seconds of meeting someone). If you meet someone and immediately get a bad vibe — maybe they seemed a little cold or distracted, like someone who'd leave you on read or tell you they "don't really like champagne" — your brain will subtly filter out moments that contradict that impression. If they do something kind later, like remember your coffee order or share their emergency phone charger, you might dismiss it as "a fluke" rather than update your mental file on them. It's like when you've decided a restaurant is terrible based on one bad experience and refuse to believe your friends when they say it has excellent service now.
We do this because an incomplete story is uncomfortable—like a Netflix series canceled right before the final season (I'm still not over "The OA," and I never will be). So, instead of sitting with uncertainty, we smooth over the gaps and tell ourselves a version of events that feels whole. The problem? That version isn't necessarily accurate—we just feel it's complete.
The facts we choose influence more than what we know; they also shape what we believe to be real — kind of like how your social media feed shapes your view of what "everyone" is thinking or doing. (Pro tip: If your feed has you believing everyone is on a yacht in Greece or starting a successful side hustle from their perfectly organized minimalist home office, it might be time for a reality check.)
We've all been in arguments where someone, exasperated, says, "Look, I'm just stating the facts." They drop it like it's the mic-drop moment to end all mic-drop moments. This is meant to end the conversation—their way of saying, “Checkmate.”
But here's the problem (and trust me, as someone who once spent three hours arguing about whether hot dogs are sandwiches at a family barbecue, I've learned a thing or two about the complexity of "simple" facts): facts don't speak for themselves. They need context, interpretation, and — most importantly — selection. And the moment we choose which facts to highlight, we've already shaped the story.
Speaking of selecting facts to fit our narrative, nowhere is this more evident than in the world of sports fandom — that ultimate arena where statistics become weapons and every fan becomes an amateur data analyst. Take those heated debates that erupt after any big game:
Fan #1: "He was terrible — he missed eight shots! And did you see those two crucial turnovers in the fourth quarter when we needed him most? Total liability."
Fan #2: "Are you kidding? He scored 30 points, had the game-winning assist, and played lockdown defense in the final minutes! Did we even watch the same game?"
Both statements are technically factual — like how my weather app and the actual weather outside my window technically show me the same day, but they never seem to agree. One focuses on the failures, the other on the triumphs. Neither lies, but both choose which facts to emphasize.
Or think about historical events (those things we all pretend we perfectly remember from high school while secretly Googling under the table). You can frame a historical figure as a hero or a villain, depending on which details you highlight. Take Thomas Edison, for instance — depending on which facts you select, he's either the brilliant inventor who illuminated the modern world with the light bulb and pioneered modern innovation or the ruthless businessman who took credit for others' work, crushed competition, and yes, actually electrocuted an elephant to prove a point about electrical currents: same person, different spotlight.
This selective storytelling doesn't just stay in history books or sports bars — it seeps into every argument we have about what's "really" happening in the world. From political debates to workplace disputes, people aren't usually disagreeing about what happened; they're disagreeing about which parts of what happened matter most. It's like when you and your sibling remember a childhood event entirely differently, and you're both certain your version is right. (For the record, my sister did start that fight in 1995.)
If facts aren't as neutral as we think — if they're always filtered, selected, and interpreted — how do we make sense of anything? Do we give up and assume everything is subjective, that no one can ever really be "right"?
Not exactly. The key isn't to abandon facts but to approach them with humility — a concept about as popular as a dial-up internet connection.
The first step is acknowledging that we never have the whole picture. Every time we form an opinion, make a judgment, or tell ourselves a story about what's happening, we should pause and ask:
What facts am I focusing on?
What facts might I be ignoring?
How would this look from another perspective?
Am I doom-scrolling again instead of doing anything else?
(Okay, maybe that last one is just for me and my 3 AM YouTube rabbit holes about ancient Roman History.)
Instead of clinging to the first version that makes sense try poking holes in your own story. Assume there's more to the situation, even if you can't see it yet, like the plot twist in that show everyone keeps telling you to watch, but you haven't gotten around to because you're still rewatching "Games of Thrones" for the seventh time. (again, just me!)
This doesn't mean doubting everything to the point of paralysis — it just means leaving room for complexity. The best thinkers aren't the ones who insist they're right; they're the ones who are open to discovering they might be wrong (a concept my past self could have used during my dating life).
We all have tendencies in how we see the world — like how my camera roll is a documentary about my children, with occasional appearances by other humans. Maybe you naturally focus on people's mistakes rather than their successes. Perhaps you gravitate toward pessimistic interpretations over hopeful ones. Maybe specific topics trigger emotional reactions that cloud your judgment faster than a poorly timed text from your ex at 2 AM.
Noticing your patterns doesn't mean you have to change them overnight — this isn't a productivity hack or one of those 75-day challenges that take over your entire personality. It's more like updating your mental operating system: gradual, sometimes glitchy, but worth it.
Our brains crave certainty the way we crave whatever food we've decided not to keep in the house (in my case, those specific salt and vinegar chips that I can demolish in one sitting). We want clear-cut answers, good and bad guys, and neat cause-and-effect chains.
But real life isn't that simple. It's full of contradictions, partial truths, and shifting perspectives — like trying to explain why you still watch that reality show you claim to hate to your more intellectually sophisticated friends.
Instead of seeing this as a problem, we may see it as an invitation to stay curious, listen better, and approach the world more humbly.
Because maybe the most important fact isn't any single fact at all.
Maybe it's the simple fact that there's always more to the story — like that extra episode that auto-plays after you thought the series was over, revealing a whole new perspective you hadn't considered.
And sometimes, that's precisely what we need to keep watching.
A Reading Recommendation:
If this exploration of how we construct our realities intrigues you, I highly recommend "Thinking, Fast and Slow" by Daniel Kahneman. Beyond being a Nobel Prize winner, Kahneman has an uncanny ability to explain complex cognitive processes through stories that could have happened at your last dinner party. He shows how our minds operate on two systems - one quick and intuitive (the one that jumped to conclusions about my friend at lunch) and one slower and more analytical (the one I probably should have used). Reading this book is like having someone gently point out all the funny quirks in your thinking while making you feel better about having them in the first place.