I’m rereading the book Writers and Lovers for one of my book clubs, and I came across a phrase I had underlined the first time I read it, a few years ago. “I don’t write because I have something to say, I write because if I don’t everything feels worse.”

I often teeter-totter between thinking what I wrote is incredible and in the next moment thinking it’s grade-A crap. The reality is that it’s somewhere in the middle. But perhaps the quality of the work is not the point. The point is that when I’m writing, it never feels like time wasted. That has to count for something.

I dropped into a thrift store this morning (scored a $3.22 dress) and a dusty wall was filled the books I’d never heard of before and instead of making me sad, like thinking perhaps what I write won’t matter and end up on a shelf no one will read, it motivated me–all these people felt the need to write too, and they did! Finishing a book is not this unobtainable thing I can never hope to do in my lifetime. Look at all the people who have done it!

So this past Tuesday morning I submitted my new short story to four very prestigious literary magazines. They take about 120 days to get back to me, so don’t hold your breath, but submitting to some reach publications felt like a vote of confidence in myself. I’m starting to let myself dream, “Why not me?” I think, “They have to publish someone.”

We’re in full Easter mode over here. We’re reading lots of spring books and listening to the hit toddler song “Hop Little Bunnies” on repeat. We did an egg hunt with some friends this week that lasted exactly 2 minutes. I had to nab some eggs away from the older kids to put in my almost-two-year-olds basket while he toddled behind me, a little stunned at the frenzy. My three-and-a-half year old has been carrying his eggs around the house like they’re made of Faberge gold instead of hollow, neon plastic. There’s something so sweet about seeing what children covert–rarely is it the things you expect.

I’ve been making this carrot cake baked oatmeal regularly for breakfast. It’s usually a hit and a way to get protein and a vegetable into little bellies for breakfast. And carrot cake is Easter-y, right? It’s crucial to use the fine shredder on your box grater. I forgot once and used the bigger holes and the kids discerned that there were actually vegetables in there so I had to eat the whole thing myself.

Joy Bauer's Carrot Cake Baked Oatmeal

Happy Easter, all!

XO,

Casey

“Tweet tweet,” he said and grinned at his own ability to change tactics.

“Bird!” I exclaimed back at him. “You hear the birds chirping!”

“Tweet tweet!” he said again and kicked his feet in delight, shaking oatmeal off his spoon.

This sweet interaction has me thinking about our intrinsic desire to be understood. It’s not enough to just say something into the void. To see it resonate with someone you care about, to sit in this observation with another—this is something we all need.

When I’m sending these Substack posts out into the world, it’s not just the act of writing them and publishing them. It’s the hope that someone out there will read what I’m writing and “get it”. Like most things we do in life, writing is a bid for connection.

I just finished the book Audition by Katie Kitamura. It was very literary and very wild and I’m not even 100% sure I got what was happening plot-wise, but sometimes it’s nice to engage with something that’s a little outside of my grasp. Masterful writing, my gosh. I’m in awe of her ability to write on a sentence level. But now I’m off to Reddit and Goodreads to see other people’s theories of what exactly was going on in this book. Hopefully I can decipher it—I’m sure it was profound!

Thank you, as always, for being here, and reading.

XO,

Casey

I’ve recently been thinking about the universally enduring need for women to convene (I can only speak from a female perspective, maybe it’s a need for men too!) that feels so engrained in us.

When I picture (traditionally) female community spaces, I envision a group of women seated in a circle. I think of knitting circles and quilting circles and prayer circles. Mahjong, bunko, and bridge are played with four seats ringing a table. Any book club I’ve been a part of has the chairs formed in a circle, so that all that we say can mingle in the middle between us.

I read the book the Red Tent in high school, and although I found that idea of women all sitting together during their monthly cycle a little gross (I was fourteen), I now see it as evidence of women’s primal need to share a supportive, safe space.

I’m beginning to believe that this circling up nourishes us more than we can articulate. It’s not about the game we play or the book we’ve read or even really the conversation we have in those gatherings. It’s about setting aside time to share our lives with one another. It reminds us that in this tragically chaotic and unpredictable world we have our little spheres where we can reliably find community.

Feeling grateful for my little circles of women today.

XO,

Casey

By last Sunday, I felt like I’d used all the cards I had up my sleeve to keep two toddlers entertained in the house. We’d built obstacle courses, we’d played in a fake-snow sensory bin, we’d made a ramp out of a paper towel roll for the caps of yogurt pouches to slide down, we’d had dance parties and drum circles. Lunchtime became one long snack that started at 10:00 am and ended at 3:30 pm. Last Tuesday we watched Fantasia (my three-year-old’s recent obsession) in its entirety, twice.

So, when yesterday’s weather was in the 60’s, we took advantage of it. After the little one’s nap, we walked through the nature park across the street from our house.

These nature walks are sweet, although usually sweeter in retrospect. The older one often walks too far ahead on the path and I yell to him to wait up while the little one toddles over roots and bends down to exclaim at the rocks he’s found. Even when we all walk together holding hands, the older one pulls me forward while the little one tries his best to keep up with his short legs. I end up carrying the little one a lot. There is a lot of runny noses wiped on my sleeves and pant legs, a mid-trail poop, at least one outburst, and we arrive home with lots of mud on our shoes.

But, when I reflected on yesterday, the time in nature with my boys was the highlight. To hear the little one say “ruff” as he tries to engage with every dog that walks by, to have the older one take two sticks and pretend to play a violin on a stump, to be breathing in fresh air while I carry a bundle of sticks that my three-year-old has told me look like “Ls” or “Js” or “Ys”—this all far outweighs the inconveniences. When we got home, my pockets were filled with rocks they’d found and presented to me like precious gems. Being out there in the warm weather after a cold spell—it was one of those deliciously sweet outings that I just wanted to bottle up.

Where I grew up in California, most days were nice. In high school we didn’t have indoor hallways; classroom doors opened up to paved paths that cut through manicured lawns. We ate lunch outside every day. I was a competitive swimmer and all pools were outdoors and swim meets were only cancelled if there was lightening. Even as an adult, when I worked in a corporate job, I could go for a walk on my lunch break most days. On the days it was raining and I realized couldn’t go, it was an adjustment—how odd!

Now that I’ve been here for six years, I’m realizing that when you are blessed with a beautiful day—when the air feels just right on your skin, when the bugs that bite haven’t yet hatched, when the humidity doesn’t yet cling to you like a wet wash cloth, when the clear air is not so bitter cold that your knuckles crack open like little craters with dryness—you have to run outside and enjoy it.

I’m realizing there are parallels to this in parenthood too. There are for sure harder days in our future, where it will be cold and crummy out, where naps will be missed and kids will get sick or hurt, and my husband and I will be stressed and worn thin. But that’s why it’s important to lean into the days where things seem to be going well. Savor them. And then catalog them, as a reminder that days like this will come again.

Yesterday was a sunny, joyful day.

Lots of love,

Casey

I’m feeling energized by all that I explored in 2025. Instead of making grandiose resolutions, I thought I’d make a list (your girl loves a list!) of things I’m wanting to carry forth into 2026 and a list of things that I’m happily letting go of.

Ins:

• Writing stories

• Submitting my writing to more publications

• Reading books

• Throwing sticks, leaves, and rocks in the creek with my kids

• Moving my body for 30 minutes ~most days~

• Playing Mahjong with friends

• Starting a neighborhood book club

• Having long chats with long-distance friends on long walks

Outs:

• Wearing rigid pants

• Buying toys with more than 10 pieces

• Scrolling Instagram (every time I’m on there, I’m sold snake oil)

• Owning plants (I understand this is controversial, but I have enough living things to take care of in this house)

• Buying $30 Sephora lipsticks (always lose them)

• Spending impulsively (you have enough clothes! no concealer is crease-proof!)

• Shopping to Costco at peak times (inspired by yesterday morning’s sh*tshow)

Currently Reading:

Discontent by Beatriz Serrano. So far it’s funny, dry, self-deprecating, a little depressing, and all-too relatable—my favorite kind of read. It’s set in Madrid and was translated from Spanish. Beware, it will make you never want to work in a corporate environment again.

Just Finished:

Broken Country by Clare Leslie Hall. This book was overhyped for me. Although the short chapters made it fast-paced, I found it pretty boring. However, it has a score of 4.3 on Goodreads, so clearly I’m in the minority here!

How to Talk So Little Kids Will Listen by Joanna Faber. Really good parenting reframes. My husband and I have tried implementing a few of the suggestions, and they’ve made a difference. (Three-year-old power struggles aren’t for the faint of heart!) I actually bought this book, read half of it, lost it, then bought it again to finish it. Right when I sat down to read my new copy I realized I was sitting on my “lost” copy. If that doesn’t give you a picture into the chaos of life with two little kids, I don’t know what does.

Wishing you more of what makes you happy in 2026.

XO,

Casey

I was notified of my win as I sat in the preschool parking lot. My three-year-old has started this new thing where he wants to wait for a song to end before we get out of the car. His current favorite is “The Night They Drove Old Dixie Down” by The Band—studio version only. Anyway, we were only 15 seconds into a three-minute-and-thirty-second song, so I refreshed my gmail. I had a new email with the subject line “You Have Won the Letter Review Prize.” I was gobsmacked. I felt like I was floating when I handed the kids off to their teachers. I gave myself a hug when I got back in the car. I did a happy dance when I got home, read the email ten more times, and then I ran upstairs to tell Griff. I could not stop smiling for the rest of the day.

The Letter Review asked me to write a blurb about what winning the prize means to me. You can read it on their site here, but I’ve also copied the blurb below.

I am profoundly moved to have won The Letter Review Prize for Short Fiction. As an emerging writer, it feels like an act of faith in my creativity to sit down and write my little stories while my toddlers nap. I feel validated and encouraged by this recognition. I deeply appreciate the editors who pour so much love, attention, and time into this publication. Your work matters to the world, and I feel so honored to have my writing appear in The Letter Review. Thank you!

The winning story, Holding His Hand, was one I had written about a couple posts back that I’d gotten four rejections on. The Letter Review is a real, impressive, reputable publication with an acceptance rate of 1%. The contest is judged blind, meaning my name, bio and previously published works were not made available to them. Not only was I published there, I was selected as one of four short stories to win a monetary prize. Heck yes!!!

When my first short story was published in Feminine Collective, I was proud, for sure, but my inner critic wondered if it was a fluke. With this second publication, I feel validated in calling myself a writer.

I could not think of a better way to spend my birthday then announcing this success to you all! When I think of what I’m most grateful for this past year, it is committing time to my writing and finally having the courage to finally put it out there. So, feeling immense gratitude for you, my readers!

Love,

Casey

I’m reminded that showing up and trying is the most important part of writing (and maybe life?). There were days where I felt energized and sat down already knowing the scene I was going to work on. And then there were days where I felt as whiny as my three-year-old when he does the “no bones” fall to the floor at the injustice of what’s being asked of him. But with any habit you’re trying to built—like yoga, or flossing, or training for a marathon—it’s the consistency that’s most important.

I’d also like to shout out to my sweet husband for supporting me this month! One weekend in November he gifted me a “solo writer’s retreat” where I went to my mother-in-law’s house while she was out of town to relax and write in quiet while he wrangled our sons. (The house was SO quiet. I don’t think I’ve ever known such quiet!) He even got me a new notebook and my favorite pens to use. I wrote over 7,000 words that weekend! Throughout the month he took over dinners, bath times, and park trips while I was churning away at my daily word count. Having someone who believes in you can make all the difference <3

In all, I feel proud of myself for sticking with the commitment. And now I have the bulk of a first draft under my belt! Now hope to stick with it through the Holidays… we’ll see how that goes!

Currently Consuming:

• Podcasts:

  • Good Hang with Amy Poehler. I’m probably late to this game, but I really love this podcast. Most of my podcasts are news related or self-help-y and while both are important and I definitely still have those in the mix, sometimes I want to just giggle while washing dishes instead of learning about generational trauma or the inhumanity of the world. Amy is delightful and puts her guests at ease. Great guests, great questions, good hangs. Highly recommend!

  • Wait, Wait Don’t Tell Me. NPR’s game show on the week’s obscure news always has me laughing. They bring in B-list celebs for a quick interview and to participate in their silly show. Another easy listen!

• Books: (Note that all books are linked to my local indie book store, Quail Ridge Books that ship for free in the US for orders over $75.)

  • Just finished Heart the Lover and Perfection. Heart the Lover is by Lily King who’s work I really love. Perfection is less character driven and is more of an observationalist novel about the gentrification of Berlin of millennials. I really enjoyed both.

  • Currently reading: Broken Country since everyone’s been talking about it. I’m about a third of the way through and its pretty good so far. I can tell it’s building towards a good pay off.

I’m sincerely grateful for you! Wishing you a happy holiday season with your loved ones.

XO,

Casey

And while the actual company is dead, the idea of buckling down and getting a story to the page is not.

A Substack group has rebranded it as “First Draft November.” The idea is to get a draft of a novel out as quickly as possible so as to keep momentum going. You’ll never get the chance to edit your Great American Novel if you keep tweaking your Great American First Chapter. I know from experience that if you put on your editor hat before the story is ready, it can really bog you down. Nothing kills creativity more quickly than a critic asking “are you sure about that?”

So, I’ve joined the First Draft November challenge! And we’re halfway through! I’m currently sitting on 35,000 words (a little over 100 pages typed) of a novel that I’ve written in the last two weeks—how crazy is that?!

On October 31 I went ahead and set two-hour blocks on my calendar of when I would write my 1,667 daily words. It was for when the kids were in preschool, or once my husband got off work, or after bedtime, or when my sweet MIL was scheduled to come over (she’s here right now!). It actually surprised me how I could find the time if I was intentional with it.

I’m not sharing anything about the plot or the characters yet (so don’t ask!) because it’s still in its delicate little infancy and I’m afraid of scaring it away if I talk about it or look at it wrong.

But I did want to share about the excitement and pride I have in sticking to this commitment. Words do not flow easily every day. Indeed, this past Friday night, I counted the following sentence, “This is hot garbage, blah, blah, blah, delete. You can throw this away. Complete TRASH.” to my overall word count for the day. And then after that, I ended up writing three pretty shitty paragraphs and then one paragraph where I thought “Huh, you know what? That’s not bad.” So that’s a good writing day! It’s not about the end result necessarily. It’s about showing up.

Who knows what it’s going to be! It could be years before it’s anything! But it feels playful and fun for now, and I’d like to keep that energy going for as long as possible.

Thanks for being here and reading, as always.

Love,

Casey

Rejections mean you’re trying.

Rejections mean you’re trying.

Rejections mean you’re trying.

Rejections mean you’re trying.

Rejections mean you’re trying.

Rejections mean you’re trying.

Rejections mean you’re trying.

Rejections mean you’re trying.

Recently, I polished up a story I wrote years ago and submitted it to six literary journals. Four have declined it. Two applications are still in-progress. I’m starting to wonder if maybe the story has passed its expiration date. Maybe it was written with an energy I no longer have and the readers can feel it. Or maybe it hasn’t found the right outlet yet. Whatever the reason, this Substack note helped me remember that it is uncomfortable to put yourself out there again and again. It is always easier to sit back and not try.

To bring it back to parenting for a moment, my kid, against all of my best intentions (I even had him try 100 foods before he turned one year old!) has become a picky eater. The Instagram algorithm now sends me mom-influences talking too closely to the camera in sponsored reels, saying things like, “These first five years are the most important time for growing brains to be getting essential nutrients. My son was living on bread and fruit so I knew I needed to make a change. Little did I know that picking eating is 100% reversible.”

At my best, I’m able to see these videos for the fear-mongering, money-grabbing ploys that they are. At my worst, I worry that if I don’t shove a vegetable down his throat, my kid will eventually my turn into a drooling, tantrum-ing lard of peanut butter and jelly sandwiches.

But the day I read this quote, I saw the untouched dinner plates I cleared as a sign of trying. The kids said no to my nutritionally balanced dinner? Okay. Well, rejection is a sign of trying. And I sure as hell am trying.

My sweet husband is always quick to cover for them and say, “thank you for making us such a delicious dinner, mom!” to model the behavior we want to eventually see. And it’s good news that at least he likes what I cook, because he’s always the one stuck eating the room-temperature leftovers that my toddlers decided were unsuitable for their discerning palates.

That said, we had a sweet moment yesterday that I wanted to share—I’m mostly documenting it here to save the memory for myself . On Friday, I made frozen pizza for dinner. I served it with a side of fruit and leftover chicken, but it’s fair to say it was a pretty uninspired meal for the family.

My husband hadn’t come down from his home office yet, and my three-year-old sat down politely at the table, took a bite of pizza and said, “Yummy mom! Thank you for making us a delicious pizza for dinner!”

I stopped chopping apples to look at him, taking in what he was saying. I was so touched. I think he was a little thrown off by the huge hug I gave him. I put my hand over my heart and said that it made me feel really good to hear him say that. He played it cool and kept eating his pizza, but this morning he said the same thing when I gave him his oatmeal.

So rejections mean you’re trying. And then there are those successes (I think he’s turning into a kind, considerate person!) that make the rejections feel worth it.

So whether it be in life, parenting or writing, keep trying, friends.

XO,

Casey

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• Things to post on Facebook Marketplace

• Gifts ideas

• Lists of Substack post ideas

• Grocery lists

• TV shows people tell me to watch

• Story ideas

• Things in our deep freezer

• Places to take kids and toddlers in Raleigh (LMK if you want this, for real)

…the list of lists goes on. There’s something soothing about downloading all the mind murk into a logical format.

But there is one list in particular that I think about all the time. It’s titled “My Big Fat To-Do List” in my Notes App and I believe I will be adding to, and subtracting from it for the rest of my life. It has things like: get car inspected and pay registration, pick up library books, buy mini pumpkin for preschool, baby antibiotics AM, baby antibiotics PM, buy flights for Christmas etc.

If I’m not careful, my life can start to feel like one big to-do list. Even when I’m doing things for pleasure.

I was knitting a Christmas present and as I sat down to work on it, I had the thought, “After I finish this, then I better get busy on that huge cabled sweater I started four years ago so I can actually wear it this winter, UGH!” That gave me pause. Wait, wait, wait, knitting is my joyful hobby. When the hell did it feel like another thing I “should” do?

Not long after, I came across a pattern called Emotional Support Chicken written by Annette Corsino, a woman I actually met at her store in Los Angeles called The Knitting Tree, more than 10 years ago. And Y’ALL, 13,000 people have knitted this pattern. WHAT.

So I had to try it, right?

It was fun! It’s a little confusing of a pattern, to be honest, but I used a lot of scrap yarn I had lying around. In the end, I was surprised by how delighted I was with my new little friend. There was something kind of—dare I say—rebellious (?) about spending time making something useless. Our society values productivity. We’re fed the lie that should always working or always be bettering ourselves in some way. If you’re not optimizing every waking moment, you are falling behind.

So maybe sitting my butt on the couch after the kids have gone to sleep and knitting a chicken is anti-hustle culture? It’s giving myself permission to spend my time making silly little things, in the face of all that there is to do. (Who would have thought that one day I’d be writing about how knitting a chicken is an act of resistance??)

This also reminds me about writing. It can be hard for me to justify carving out time to go upstairs and tinker with sentences and paragraphs. There are dishes to be washed, laundry to be folded, and grapes to be cut in half, damn it! It feels a little defiant to walk past all that to write a story (or knit a chicken).

But to reframe it, maybe creating something “just because” is exactly what I should be doing in those moments—maybe it’s the necessary counterweight to all the to-dos that makes life feel more balanced.

The more I am reading about these emotional support chickens, I’ve found that knitters sometimes donate them to people who have had chest surgery, like mastectomies or heart operations. After chest surgery, patients are given a pillow to hold to reduce pain from chest movement, like coughing and sneezing. The chickens are a nice shape to hold and they’re playful—sure to put a smile on people’s faces in a tough time. They also have that handmade element, and I think you can always feel when time and love have been poured into something.

The more I think about it, it makes sense that 13,000 other people were drawn to this pattern. Maybe they were knitting it for a loved one healing, or maybe, like me, they just needed a silly little project while they put aside the never-ending list of “shoulds" for a time.

I wrote this entire blog post with my new little chicken friend sitting on my lap. And I have to say, he’s a lovely size and squishiness. He snuggles nicely under my arm.

Any suggestions on what to name him?

XO,

Casey

It was the most terrified I’ve ever been. I had the thought if he dies right now at least he’ll die to the sound of me singing.

We were seen immediately. We barely sat down in the triage chair before they took us directly to our own room and began nebulizer treatments. I’d never heard of croup before and I learned it can show up in the middle of the night, without warning, in children who have never had breathing problems before. It was a long night. My son had to be admitted and we didn’t go to sleep until 5:00 am. My husband came to bring some comfort items while my mother-in-law stayed with the baby. We watched “WALL-E”, my son’s favorite movie, three times in a row to distract him from the discomfort of the place and the oximeter they had taped to his big toe.

Once he was no longer exhibiting signs of “Stridor” breathing for several hours and he ate a monster bowl of cheerios (for me, breakfast was a granola bar and lukewarm coffee out of a Styrofoam cup), we were sent home. We were dazed and shaken the next few days. He was extra clingy, as to be expected, and kept bringing up the more traumatic moments of the night, wanting me to provide clarity on what had happened.

I was still trying to make sense of it too. How real the terror was, and then how quickly the threat subsided. How jarring it felt to be expected to go back to normal when there was a moment when I thought it would all be taken away. In the following days, “what ifs” needled me in the back of my mind. What if we hadn’t moved him to a toddler bed a week ago? What if he hadn’t come to find us? What if we had waited at home to see if it would have improved on its own? What if? What if?

On Thursday afternoon, my one-and-a-half-year old woke from his nap with a fever. Good news: it was something other than croup. Bad news: the three-year-old got this illness too. More bad news: my husband was going out of town Friday through Sunday.

I’m waiting for a call from Disney+ asking us if there is something wrong with our account—surely no one would want to watch WALL-E fifteen times in a week? Huge shout out to my mother-in-law, Kleenex, popsicles, Ms. Rachel, graham crackers, and humidifiers for helping us get through it.

I don’t have a “and this is what it all means” summation yet. I’m still shaken and exhausted by the experience. I’m at peace knowing that I wouldn’t have done anything differently—I listened to my gut and took him to the ER when he needed to be taken in. I’m holding him a little tighter this week, marveling over both of them and their extraordinarily resilient bodies a bit more than usual.

Recommendations:

Feel free to also follow me on Goodreads for a full list of books I’ve read and reviews.

Just finished reading: Wild Dark Shore by Charlotte McConaghy. Highly recommend! Kind of has those eerie vibes perfect for snuggling up with as the weather turns cooler and spooky season descends. Kind of a dystopian novel, kind of a mystery, kind of a love story? A little bit of a slow burn, but stick with it. It’s great. The last 50 pages had my jaw on the floor.

Currently reading: Shark Heart by Emily Habeck. I cannot put this one down! When I read the synopsis (the husband of a newlywed couple gets the devastating diagnosis that he’s turning into a Great White Shark) I was pretty skeptical. But it is such a beautiful metaphor for transformation and caretaking and grief. Habeck’s exquisite use of language is next level. As I read it, I’m realizing that this story had to be told as a novel—it would never have worked as a movie or a play or a comic book or a TV show. Something about conjuring the images and emotions inside yourself as you read it is the only way to “get” this story. Having the images created for you would cheapen them and make them humorous, when the story is so much deeper than that. Anyway, I haven’t even finished it yet, but I already admire the storytelling so much.

Currently listening to: Taylor Swift. Duh. Oh, and Old McDonald Had a Farm.

Thanks for reading and for your continued support and words of encouragement. It means more than you’ll ever know.

XO,

Casey

My three-year old has started to drop his nap. If you don’t have kids, this might not seem like a big deal. If you have kids, this might send shivers down your spine.

When I was postpartum the first time, I was seeing a therapist (who for various reasons, including the following observation, was not a good fit) and she said, “your son’s sleep schedule seems to be very important to you.” Um, YEAH IT IS. As a stay-at-home parent with little extra support at the time, his nap time was when I felt I could exercise / eat / shower / meal prep / put on deodorant. Before I had learned to multitask or include him in the day-to-day duties of running a house, I didn’t even let him out of my sight when I used the bathroom. I remember when I’d practice yoga while he napped, I’d do one pose on one side and then immediately go over and do the pose on the other side instead of doing a series of left-sided poses and then right-sided poses. That way, if he woke up while I was mid-flow, I wouldn’t be lopsided for the rest of the day.

So yes, the sleep is important for him, but it was also important for me. It was the little break in the day when the house was quiet except for the low hum of his sound machine through the monitor and maybe the rattling of the dryer, re-drying clothes I’d forgot were in there.

So now we’re working on quiet time in lieu of napping and, as you can imagine, it’s pretty hit or miss. There are times when he sits criss-cross applesauce on the floor and flips through his book like an unbelievable little angel and there are times where—to put it lightly—he is not like this.

This reminds me of what a woman said to me when he was about six months old. She was the wife of my husband’s college classmate, and they came over to visit when they were in town with their two-year-old daughter. I had asked her what her favorite phase of parenting was so far.

She said, “You know how in video games there are different levels?” I’d never really played videos games, but I had a vague notion of this. I nodded, and she continued. “You are on this one level for a while and right before you advance to the next level, you get really good at the level you are on. You’ve figured out all the clues, you know where the hidden thing is hidden, and you’re killing it. And you get so good at that level that then it’s time to advance to the next level. And that next level is all so new, and you have no idea what you’re doing, and you’re kind of lost. I think my favorite part of parenting is right before you level up. Like when you feel like you’ve got it, and you know the terrain, and you can enjoy it for a little bit.”

I thought that was a pretty good answer. I think back to my own moments of feeling like I knew the terrain. There are a few day stretches I can recall—when feeding was going well or no new teeth were coming in; when they’d mastered sitting on their own but weren’t crawling yet, when they’d mastered crawling but weren’t trying to walk yet; when they’d mastered walking but hadn’t tired the stairs yet—where I’d look around and really feel like I was nailing it. These feelings of adequacy were brief, but it’s good to remember that I did have them and will have them again.

I have many years of parenting ahead of me, and there will always be more levels, more phases where I feel really out of my element. Although we may leave behind something that I will dearly miss (naps!), a new level is also exciting.

Yes I’ll miss my own quiet time in the afternoons. But this past Friday, instead of napping, he and I made pumpkin spice muffins with chocolate chips. As we baked, he counted the eggs we needed, gingerly taking them out of the carton, commenting on how cold their delicate shells felt in his small, warm hands. He mixed the batter patiently, and he thanked me when I handed him a napkin to wipe up a mess. He ate more chocolate chips than I wanted him to, but whatever. Seeing him work with me with such patience and interest, reminds me that this “dropping of the nap” comes with a burst of incredible new abilities. His brain is exploding with connections! We are having actual conversations, now! He has questions and such enthusiasm for being alive!

I know he won’t always want to be here, in kitchen beside me. As he grows he’ll keep leveling up, and will get further and further away from me—as is the natural order of things. All too soon I’ll have my quiet afternoons back as he expands his own life away from mine. And perhaps knowing these moments are fleeting makes them all the more special. So while he hasn’t napped this week, he has given me lots of full-toothed, gleeful smiles before he cannonballs into my arms. I’ll take that.

Thanks for being here and reading.

XO,

Casey

While I’ve been writing for a long time now, I haven’t submitted anything since my early 20s. About a month ago I thought, “What the heck, I’ll shoot my shot,” and was delighted when the editor of Feminine Collective, Julie Anderson, reached out saying that she loved my short story and wanted to publish it. I’m pretty sure I smiled more that day than I ever have.

Staying at home with a one-and-a-half year old and a three year old means I don’t have *tons* of time to do the deep thinking work required of fiction. I feel like I’m doing world-cup-goalie dives daily to save the little one from killing himself when I take a minute to chop a plum. I wrote this story during nap times, late in the night, or when I sat up in our room with noise cancelling headphones while my husband did bath time. This was a little passion project that I had just for me, and it has felt really good to challenge myself in this way again.

It also feels validating to know that someone who doesn’t know me likes my story and thinks it deserves a spot in the world. Pretty cool, right?

And while, yes, writing is mostly for my own self-expression, why take the time to put thoughts into words if there wasn’t a part of me hoping it resonates with others? That’s the whole reason for this Substack newsletter, after all.

So thank you for being here and for reading. It means more than you’ll ever know. Hooray!

Read "Marked" on Feminine Collective

XO,

Casey

Back-to-school season elicits memories of unmarked notebooks, sharpened pencils, and shoes not broken in yet. It’s the promise of a fresh start, perhaps mingled with the delusion of reinvention—that this year will be your year.

I spent many years, childless in corporate America, nearly unaware of back-to-school season. My office had the same temperature and lighting in January as it did in July, so it was hard to remember that seasons changed and children grew.

Now that I stay home with my two young boys, I feel acutely aware of the shifts of the year. I’ve become reacquainted with the sensations of summer. How had I forgotten how good cold water on bare feet can feel after peeling off sweaty socks? Even something simple, like rinsing off the sticky residue of a popsicle with a hose, can bring back a core memory. When I think of my own childhood summers, the joyful memories come first—sleeping until 11, reading books on the couch, making friendship bracelets, cannonballing into a pool—but I also recall the lethargy of August. I remember how, even as a kid, I felt antsy and ready for something to challenge me again. I since I’m “all in touch with the seasons” now, I’ll admit that this summer has also been a hot humid slog. I’m tired of rubbing in mineral sunscreen onto squirming bodies. I’m ready for some space and some structure.

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My children are starting preschool next week. My one-year-old will be attending a My Morning Out (MMO) program two mornings a week, and my three-year-old will be in preschool for five days. Five days, people! It’s a half-day program, from 9:00–12:30, but the thought of being kid-free two mornings a week sounds incredible.

I’ve had a few, well-meaning people ask me “what are you going to do with yourself?” and I joke I’m going to lay on the floor until it’s time to pick them up. The question rubs me the wrong way. Taking time for yourself as a mom is not a luxury—it’s an essential piece to feeling like a whole human. When I think about what I want to do with this extra space, I’m excited to have a dedicated time to write more. Maybe I’ll exercise at a normal hour or take walk in nature without stopping every third block to hand someone a graham cracker. Or maybe I’ll lay on the floor. Whatever I choose to do, it will be time well spent.

If we think of summer as a sabbatical for kids, then September is when they are supposed to come back recharged. And that energy is rubbing off on me. As I reorient my life around the school year again, September feels like the start of something new—full of potential and excitement for what’s possible.

Is this season of your life oriented around the school year? Or maybe back-to-school season doesn’t even pop up on your radar—as it didn’t for me for so many years.

Either way, maybe use it as an excuse to go buy yourself a new notebook and an extra glide-y pen.

XO,

Casey

In this recent post, Maggie Smith (the poet, not the Dame who played Professor McGonagall) talks about the dangers of AI cropping up in writing. This quote stuck out to me.

“Writing is thinking on the page. If we use artificial intelligence to write essays, poems, and stories, we’re outsourcing our thinking.”

I often feel as though there are all these half-finished ideas floating around in my mind. I’m grasping for the end of them, but then my beautiful messy life happens (a kid needs me or the buzzer for the laundry goes off or I step in a melted ice cube) and I lose the thread of it. It reminds me of when I’m trying to zero in on a particular bird song from my back porch and then a leaf blower revs. Dang… what was that? Oh well, it’s gone now.

With so much competing for our attention, it can be an act of rebellion to sit with our thoughts. When I do have a moment, it feels a thousand times easier to let my brain consume other thoughts and ideas instead of generating my own. I feel relieved to know that someone else will do the hard work of thinking for me—I can put on a show, read a book, or scroll the internet indefinitely.

So when I do make space to sit with my thoughts and write a little something, it takes me a minute to warm up to how freaking awkward it is to just sit there and listen to my monkey mind yammering shit like:

• “You’re sitting weird.”

• “This is the stupidest thing ever.”

• “Did that person text you back? Don’t check your phone.”

• “What’s the weather going to be like today? Don’t check your phone.”

• “Did I actually order that thing on Amazon or did I just add it to my cart? STOP IT, Casey, do not check your phone.”

And right when I’m about to open another tab on Chrome, *POP* a little thought appears.

It feels different from the others because this one has a distinct tone—like it’s coming from a sage woman that’s been nodding along, listening to the administrative chatter of my mind, waiting to be given the microphone. I’m not sure where this thought will lead, but I know it feels truthful. I need to trust that one thought will lead to the next like stone steps in an overgrown garden.

Eventually, when I read back on what I wrote (be it a journal entry, a Substack post, or a short story), there’s a moment where I think, “huh, I’m glad I did that. I’m a little clearer now.”

One seductive aspect of AI is that it offers to take away sources of discomfort. Almost as if it’s saying “don’t worry about all that thinking… shhh, I’ll take care of it.” How wonderful! But also, discomfort is where growth happens, no?

Currently Consuming:

Currently Reading:

• My Friends by Fredrik Backman. The man can write a great plot and pack a punch with his astute, succinct observations.

  • Just finished: Women by Chloe Caldwell (phenomenal) and The Lion Women of Tehran by Marjan Kamali (on friendship and Iranian culture… good for a book club, which is what it was for!)

Currently Cooking:

• Overnight banana oatmeal for the boys

• Roast chicken—the sauce was to die for, chicken pretty good, breasts a little dry. Served over mashed potatoes with peas. Baby loved. Toddler hated.

XO,

Casey

I first read Don Freeman’s masterpiece Corduroy as a child and immediately loved it. I even had a teddy bear (creatively named “Teddy”) who I put in green overalls. I’d largely forgotten about the book until a coworker gave it to me at my baby shower in 2022. It’s become one of my son’s favorites books, which means I’ve read it approximately 200 times.

My son loves being read to, and after I’ve read a book enough times, I can kind of zone out and recite it by heart (looking at you Chicka Chicka Boom Boom). But then there are some books that make me think deeper with each read, like Corduroy. If it’s been a few years since you’ve read it, you can either read the full PDF here, or get the gist from my summary below.

Corduroy the bear is for sale at a department store. A girl named Lisa wants to bring him home, but her mother says she can’t afford him and points out he’s lost a button on his overalls. They leave without purchasing him. Corduroy decides to set out looking for his button that evening, when everyone is asleep. He rides an escalator to the floor above, and he arrives at the furniture department, where there are lots of lamps and beds. He climbs onto a bed, sees a button on the mattress, and believes this to be his missing button. He tries to pull it off, but falls off the bed, causing a ruckus. The night watchman finds him, and returns him to his place in the toy department. The next day, Lisa comes back, purchases him with her own money, and brings him to her room where she has laid out a little bed for him. She then sews a new button on his overalls. They hug it out and, at the end, they both share that they’ve always wanted a friend.

So how could a book with such a simple story bring up so many questions for me? Are all the mysteries introduced in this book part of its enduring allure? Let’s dive in.

On Corduroy’s life before Lisa

Firstly, there’s the age old mystery of how Corduroy lost his button. Did he lose it on one of his nightly roams through the department store? If so, why have his excursions never taken him to the floor above before?

I’m also curious why he didn’t notice the button was missing until Lisa’s mother pointed it out? Was he blissfully unaware of his inadequacies and only become self-conscious when they were pointed out? He begins his quest with the belief that he’ll be more desirable if he had both of his buttons.

On Corduroy’s understanding of the world and his wants and desires

Secondly, I wonder how has he gathered his understanding of the world thus far and how does he determine his wants and desires? On page 13, when he encounters an escalator, he mistakes it as a mountain and says, “I think I’ve always wanted to climb a mountain.” He “thinks” he’s wanted to climb a mountain, but he’s not sure. Next, when he arrives at the furniture department he similarly says, “I guess, I’ve always wanted to live in a palace” (p 15). He guesses at his wants, but again, he’s a little murky on the subject. But then, when he climbs up on the bed and says “I’ve always wanted to sleep in a bed” (p. 16), he declares his desires without qualification. He clearly wants to sleep on a bed—it’s not something he guesses at or thinks he wants. This makes it all the more touching when we reach the end of the book and see that Lisa has made him a bed of his own. When he arrives home with Lisa, he is finally clear on what he wants. “I know I’ve always wanted a home” (p 30). Lisa’s home is not a palace—it’s a modest fourth floor walk-up with a patchwork quilt and was “nothing like that enormous palace in the department store” (p 30) but somehow he’s reached clarity that this is what he’s been looking for. Similarly, on the last page he says the classic line, “You must be a friend… I’ve always wanted a friend” (p 32).

So, dear readers, how does he know about mountains, palaces, beds and friends, but not about escalators and furniture departments? Was he taught these things or was he programmed? Is it Lisa’s love that helps him better understand himself and his desires?

On the other toys in the department store

I’d argue that the other toys at the department store are also sentient. My main proof for this is that they have all switched places from when Corduroy leaves his shelf on page 10 and is returned to his shelf on page 25. Freeman drew this, so it had to be purposeful right? Otherwise he’d just keep them in the same place. We can only assume that they were also up moving around in the evening. (Also I find it interesting that dolls have the same sleeping schedule as us, no?)

Another clue that the other toys are hip to what’s going on is on page 27, when they’re all staring at him a little enviously when Lisa says she’s going to bring him home. Creepy, red-eyed bunny is staring at him smiling. The lion is giving him the side eye. Even the turtle, whom we have not seen yet, is smiling down at him, somewhat admiringly. (Where have the blonde doll and clown gone in this scene? Were they purchased earlier that morning?) Seems like the dolls are both rooting for him and a little bummed about their own lack of fortune. Lastly, is the store clerk in on this? She doesn’t seem phased that all the dolls are staring at Corduroy as he’s selected.

On Corduroy and Klara and the Sun

Finally, I can’t help but think that this children’s book inspired the 2021 novel Klara and the Sun by Kazuo Ishiguro. In the opening scene, there are robots called “Artificial Friends” (AF) that are in the shop, waiting to be chosen by children. The AF’s sole purpose is to become the children’s companions. Even though these robots are observant and intelligent, they lack a deeper understanding of how the world works around them.

When I read the opening scene in Klara and the Sun, there was a click in the back of my head that signaled, I know this story. Where do I know this from? It wasn’t until I reread the book with my son that I made the connection. Of course, Klara and the Sun diverges course, but the main concept felt so similar. I’ve searched on Reddit before to see if I’m the only one who drew this connection and so far, it seems that I am… but does anyone else out there feel the same way?

So, what is this story about?

After all the humming and hawing of the mysteries of this sentient bear, this story is about acceptance and friendship. It is about how the real ones see beyond our flaws and make us feel love and appreciated for who we are.

There was no need for Corduroy to go on the hunt for his lost button after all. There’s something poetic about the fact that while Corduroy was searching for his button, Lisa was at home counting the money in her piggy bank to see if she had enough to bring him home. Lisa was always going to choose him, whether he had his button or not. When she does sew a new button on his overalls, she even clarifies that she likes him the way he is and is only giving him a new button because she thinks he’d be “more comfortable with your shoulder strap fastened” (p 31). What a good friend, right?

It's been 13 years since I graduated as a Literature major from University of California, Santa Cruz (go slugs!) and I guess the desire to unpack “what’s going on here” never really wears off.

Are there any books you read to your kids that bring up questions for you, or make you pause? Do you think these questions are intentional or are they oversights?

Let me know, and thanks for coming along with me.

XO

Casey

“You get good at what you do. If you practice guitar, you get really good at guitar. If you don’t practice, you get really good at not practicing.”

When I used to swim competitively in high school, I could tell a difference in my body after being out of the water for a few days. When we took three weeks off in the summer, the return to the pool was torturous. I’d feel so out of shape, it was as if I was wearing a lead vest.

I think about this with writing. I love to write and I think of myself as a writer, but I haven’t been practicing much. These past few weeks, as I’ve been writing more, I feel those muscles re-strengthening. You get good at what you practice. Like a musician does scales, a writer, I suppose, has to compose lines daily to hone her skill. So here I am, writing a little for myself, and sending it out into the void.

And what have I been doing?

• Reading picture books aloud (my favorites are Here We Are, Kitten’s First Full Moon, Extra Yarn, and of course, the classic, If You Give a Mouse a Muffin)

• Building “tall towers” out of magna-tiles with my sons

• Making smoothie popsicles and overnight oats

• Wiping up applesauce and yogurt from little chins

• Contorting my arm as I drive to hand a snack backwards to a kid in a carseat

• Napping in the 20 minutes that my two toddler’s naps align

• Cooking dinner in under 30 minutes

And Chloe is right, I have become good at those things. Jokes aside, I notice that since I am spending all this time at home with the boys, I have also become good at slowing down. On walks I point out dogs for the 16-month old to bark at. On our back porch, my 3-year-old will grab my hand and show me an ant crossing a plank of wood. He’ll ask “what is that bug, mom?” I’m honored to give him names to things in the world.

Each day, with each action, we are casting a vote towards who we will be in the future. Every once in a while, it’s good to re-evaluate what we’re voting to become.

Currently Consuming:

Reading:

• Women by Chloe Caldwell. I’m obsessed so far.

• Bird by Bird by Anne Lamott. A lovely re-read.

Cooking: Love this throw it together casserole. Great for a cleaning out the fridge meal, especially since I’ve been bulk cooking and freezing quinoa. Buffalo Chicken Quinoa Bake

Watching: Shrinking. I just finished Too Much. I love Lena Dunham’s writing, but I wish that she had acted in the lead role. She totally stole the show in the very few scenes she was in.

Thanks for reading,

Casey