When she lifts her head, she first sees the faintest morning light on the horizon. Then the sound of the ocean rushes into her ears. Below her, the hammock sways, and it’s the nausea that makes her bolt upright.

Wrapping herself up in her own arms, she stumbles out to the ground. It feels like she’s still swaying, an ocean wave propelling her from inside her belly.

She doesn’t know how she does it, gets home with ease, hails a cab and watches the sunrise blur past the window, making it into the house before anyone else is awake.

In the shower, she washes the sea brine from her hair. It hurts to stand, to push her fingers against her scalp. She remembers the fire on the beach, the sparks flicking into the breeze; the turquoise drinks in plastic cups; hands clasped around her arms as she fell, giggling, into the sand. Waves licking her ankles. A fox on the shore. It’s the fox she remembers most clearly, that flash of red fur like a sign of life as the world seemed to slip away.

They come into her room just as she slides underneath the blankets. Her mother holds a phone in her hand, worry spanning across her sharp face.

Where have you been?

She doesn’t answer them and doesn’t need to. She knows they can tell, can read her eyes, the thin line of her lips. She can read their expressions too, can see the acknowledgement, the disappointment, the downright disgust.

Then her mother said the thing, the first terrible thing, and all she could do after they left was sink deeper into the bed like it was an ocean wave pulling her under.

***

Her legs were the first to go. It took her a few seconds after hitting the floor to understand what had happened. She looked down at her pajama shorts and the thighs that didn’t look like her thighs. They were glued together, the skin fused seamlessly. She ran her fingers along the crease, trying to pry her legs apart. But it was as though the thighs had always been like that, attached in the center.

She propped herself against the side of the bed and reached for her phone. She couldn’t yell for her parents, not yet. Not after the way they had looked at her earlier, the things they had said. What could be done? This could very well be a dream. She hoped, deep down, that it was.

Her fingers shook as she held the phone up to her ear.

Hello?

Her friend didn’t sound like her friend, and the unfamiliarity made her sick all over again. She recounted what she did know--the turquoise drinks, the fox, the music, the smoke plumes in the air. With trepidation, she asked about what she didn’t know.

Then her friend said the thing, the other thing, the thing that made her wince because it was like listening to a story about someone else. And her friend still didn’t sound like her friend, still sounded so disappointed, said something about the party being ruined, about handling liquor better, about—

She hung up the phone and stared at her legs.

***

Her voice was the second to go. She tried to yell out for her parents that evening. The sun was setting, swathing the house in orange. As she dragged her body down the stairs, prepared to face them despite what they’d said, what they’d done, she realized they were gone. There was no note, no text message.

She lay in the living room, her cracked lips opening and closing. But no words came out. She clawed at her throat, desperate gasps and only gasps coming out of her mouth.

Frantic and so sick she might throw up her empty stomach, she did the only thing she could think of and dialed 911.

When they showed up, the two men in navy blue, it took all of her strength to reach up and open the door. They stared down at her in confusion, especially when she gestured at her mouth.

I lost my voice. I can’t talk. Please help!

One of them knelt down and examined her legs, gently tried to prise them apart with gloved fingers.

She grabbed her phone and typed out a note, trying to explain everything that had happened, from the fragments of last night to falling to the floor to losing her voice. The paramedics looked at each other, then at her, their faces showing a strange mix of pity and amusement. Had they seen this before?

They lifted her onto a gurney and pushed it up into the back of the ambulance. Her eyes darted around at the cold steel, at the strange bags and instruments, the whiteness of the lights. One of the men in blue smiled sympathetically at her, but his gaze wandered up and down her body.

Then he said the final thing, still looking at her pink pajamas, and it was the final thing that made her grasp at her throat again. She swallowed and sucked down big breaths, flailing her single stump of a leg before remembering what had happened all over again.

His body got closer, whether purposefully or thanks to a bump in the road, she didn’t know. It was all such a flash, the smell of his mint gum and her hands pushing his chest and the perfectly timed red light that allowed her to worm her way out of the back doors and onto the pavement.

She cursed silently as the scrapes burned her skin. Cars honked at the sight as she used her arms to drag herself over the crosswalk, following the smell of salt. The sun was nothing but a deep orange orb in the distance, the air breezy and cool.

She made her way through a near-empty parking lot and then over a path of wooden slats that were covered in tiny rocks and sand. Her knees were bleeding. Her hands were nearly numb from the effort.

But the ocean was right there, and somehow, she knew that was where she needed to be. Somehow, this would fix everything, would right all the wrongs, would unstick her legs and return her voice and—

Her clothes were the third to go. She shimmied over the sand, moving as fast as she could to the sea. The waves splashed up against her face just as she looked down and saw all of herself, sandy and exposed and raw. When she looked back, expecting to see scraps of pink across the sand, all she saw was the fox. It was sitting back on its haunches, unmoving as it stared in her direction. Her vision blurred as another wave rushed upwards, pulling her attention away from the creature.

The salt water stung her open wounds as she dragged her body into the ocean. She could have sworn she heard shouts behind her, but there was no turning back now.

The water rushed and roared, a big wave swallowing her up. Her arms flailed out of sheer instinct, but as the tide tugged her downwards, all she could hear was a perfect silence. Her eyes snapped open to take in the most crystal-clear vision of the green, watery world around her.

Her body knew what to do, did not betray her now. She swam down, down, down, not in death or dying. She moved and breathed, felt the gracefulness and strength of her new body. The last remnants of sun faded away from the water’s surface as she, the last to go, sank to the bottom of the sea.

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(and I hate it)

The decision on whether or not to have a child is, of course, a massive one. Yes, you should be all in on the notion that you will love your child, that will you care for them. I understand the general meaning of the phrase, but many people take it to a level of black-and-white that feels dismissive. It leaves no room for rational thinking, for worry. The phrase is perfect for something like choosing a certain dress to purchase, not something as nuanced and critical as having a baby.

A lot of the discourse about the baby decision (which I try very hard to avoid) shames people for even expressing a concern.

A person could ask a question as simple as, “I’m worried my marriage will suffer when we have a baby” or “I’m scared of how my body will change” and people will be quick to reply, “Then don’t have a baby! It needs to be 100 percent certainty!”

And that’s just not fair. People acknowledge risks and still make big, amazing decisions. I made big decisions by moving countries and getting married. Those are things I feel really good about now but at the time, I would never have been able to say with complete certainty that it would be the best, most perfect decision. It’s not easy to see the positive payoffs until you’re in it. The hardships? The sleepless nights and the stress? Well, those are easier to envision.

We should all hope that the people who bring children into this world are the ones who give it a lot of thought, the ones who weigh the pros and cons, the ones who worry.

I have to wonder if the people who give the advice “if it’s not a hell yes, it’s a hell no” are realizing it’s now harder to have a child than they imagined so they themselves are wishing they’d given it more thought. Either way, it comes across as a form of gatekeeping, as though you could possibly never join the world of parents if these are the sort of thoughts you’re having. It used to make me feel like there was something wrong with me, like I’d be a bad parent if I couldn’t “commit” the way that people insisted I need to. It gave me so much doubt!

Yes, I do think about the “baby decision” a lot (and have read the wonderful book The Baby Decision by Merle Bombardieri). Trust me when I say I do not take this decision lightly and because of that, I may be a hopeful and nervous yes.

I may be an optimistic and realistic yes.

But I will never be a “hell yes.”

But no show brought me more joy than I Love Lucy. I owned Lucy calendars, Lucy board games, Lucy everything. It hooked me in from the moment I first watched it, and it hasn’t let up since.

If you aren’t familiar, the sitcom follows Lucy Ricardo, a housewife, and her bandleader husband, Ricky. Their landlords, Ethel and Fred, are also their best friends, and together, the group is always getting involved in some crazy scheme or hilarious situation.

There was something infectious about it, even as a kid who didn’t understand every one-liner or anything at all, really, about life in the 1950s. All I saw was a hilarious, beautiful woman getting into shenanigans with her bestie.

Now, I can safely say that I Love Lucy holds up for me in ways other classics just don’t. Perhaps it’s the way Lucille Ball didn’t shy away from physical, “ugly” humor. It felt (and was!) edgy for the time, a woman displaying her comedic side in that way. She wasn’t afraid to get messy, to look silly. She was bold. She was sassy. She was unapologetic.

In the iconic episode, “Job Switching,” Lucy and Ethel take a job at a chocolate factory, which inevitably goes awry. They begin shoving chocolates into their hats, down their shirts, and in their mouths. The comedic timing, the physicality, the silliness of it all is just refreshing and hilarious to watch, even over 70 years later!

The friendship between Lucy and Ethel is another element of the show that I believe lends itself to appreciation today. They are two adventurous women who feed off each other’s energy. They get into hysterical situations together, and the on-screen chemistry is palpable and likely attributed to the fact that off-screen, Lucille Ball and Vivian Vance were best friends. Maybe it’s the girl’s girl in me, but I love watching two women act as ride-or-dies for each other.

Yes, the show takes place in the 1950s. Yes, Ethel and Lucy are housewives. Yes, there are certain jokes that make me wince because they are just grossly inappropriate and sexist. However, I Love Lucy somehow feels more modern than other sitcoms that aired years and decades later. It doesn’t feel like I’m watching something dated. It’s easy to overlook certain elements that might have aged poorly because they are not the majority.

The physical comedy and the cast chemistry aside, the fact that the show is set in New York City brings a certain modernity to the screen. This wasn’t a Leave It To Beaver-type sitcom, with a Midwestern suburban house like something out of a magazine. That sort of life is easily conjured up in one’s mind if they think of the 1950s.

This was (for the majority of the show) a display of apartment living in the Big Apple. We witness Lucy struggle with the lack of space in their home, the fact that they’re not allowed to have a dog, or the way their baby keeps their neighbors up at night. We hear complaints about overdue rent, leaky faucets, and a stingy landlord who won’t let them turn up the heat.

This “realness” is peppered in between nights out dancing, glimpses of Ricky’s nightclub, and trips to California and Europe. I Love Lucy shows both sides of life: the “washing dishes until your hands are raw” side and the “staying at a beautiful Los Angeles hotel” side. It’s neither gloomy nor falsely cheerful. It’s neither boring nor extreme. To me, I Love Lucy is the perfect blend of banal and celebrity.

There is so much more to be said about the show, about the cast, about the ways in which I Love Lucy just excels in so many areas. But I will wrap this post up and put on an episode in honor of “America’s favorite redhead” and the funniest, most refreshing show I think I will ever see. The best time to start watching I Love Lucy was yesterday, and the second best time is right now. ;)

—all photos credited to CBS

Besides, it's only July. You can't even think about school yet. Your friend Jessica calls the house phone to ask if you want to go to the pool. You do, of course, so you put on your tankini and some flip-flops and wait for her mom to pick you up.

The pool is crowded. You do handstand competitions in the deep end, dare each other to go off the high-dive. You act like mermaids in your own underwater kingdom, pretending the dive sticks are special jewels. You take a break to buy concession stand chips and Gatorade, your fingers salty and chlorinated on your tongue.

That night at the family computer, when you're sure no one needs the phone anymore, you hop online to www. amandaplease .com to check out the video of the week. It loads so fast today, in just a few minutes! Amanda Bynes is the funniest person you've ever seen.

When your parents finally kick you off the internet, you go to your room to turn on Nick At Nite while you make some spirograph art before bed. The theme song of All That plays through the room while a breeze blows in the open window. Outside, the crickets buzz louder than you've ever heard before.

A sleepover at Angela's the next day means you get to have a Mary-Kate and Ashley movie night while taking personality quizzes from a book you got at the last Scholastic book fair. Angela shows you her new Bonne Bell lip gloss, and your Dr. Pepper chapstick pales in comparison. You coat yourselves in cucumber melon lotion and debate dying your hair with Kool-Aid. When "Jaded" by Aerosmith comes on the radio, you both rush to record it on a cassette tape so you can listen to it again and again.

You sleep on the roll-up mat next to Angela's bed, talking about boys and outfit ideas. Tomorrow, you'll spend the morning outside in your torn jeans and dirty sandals, swinging from trees while her dad picks up donuts in town.

The glow-in-the-dark stars on the ceiling slowly fade into gray as you close your eyes, dozing off to the sound of Angela's dad watching TV Land downstairs.

As I began to go through the process of the assessment with her, the truth became clearer--there was no doubt in my mind that I was autistic. The questions she asked me were baffling, and the fact that I even found them baffling was a sign in and of itself. Issues with my social life came into focus, along with little habits that I didn’t even clock as strange.

Things became even more apparent when my mother phoned in to one of our appointments and did her portion of the assessment, where she answered questions about my birth and childhood. I was shocked at how much my mom revealed, things I didn’t even know about myself. (Apparently, my preschool days were friendless. Ouch! Sorry, little Casey.)

The assessment was hard. I realized how much I’d struggled at work, socially, in relationships, you name it. It was several long, tough hours dissecting all the most difficult parts of my life.

At the end of it all, the psychologist told me I met all the diagnostic criteria for autism. That surprised me because during my very thorough research beforehand, I was almost positive I didn’t meet one or two of them. She said my symptoms couldn’t be explained by anything other than autism.

Relief washed over me. I had an answer! The mortification I felt while my mother talked about how I didn’t understand sarcasm as a kid and was obsessed with lining up the family’s shoes, the embarrassment I felt while explaining to this lady that I kept having fits of rage at work--it was all worth it. Puzzle pieces clicked together for me. Things began to make sense.

Unfortunately, she said she wouldn’t be able to officially diagnose me and put it in my medical journal, as that was up to the psychiatrist, who was a man I’d never met. At this point, I’d moved from Sweden to Denmark, so she said it should be okay to do this appointment over video call. He would look at her notes and then give me his answer.

This call, scheduled for 45 minutes, was 12 minutes from start to finish. He said I could not be autistic because I wasn’t “cold to the world” and I can walk “easily” through busy city streets. He inquired about a head injury I’d received at age 25, thought maybe that could be the cause, even though my “symptoms” dated back to preschool age. It was all so casual, so abrupt. I don’t think he understood how devastating of a call that would be.

And that was the end of that. The diagnosis that had seemed so certain, that gave me such brief clarity about myself, and comfort, was gone. It didn’t make sense to me, how the opinions of someone who did this for a living, who had spoken to me and my mother for hours, who said I met all the criteria, seemed to mean nothing now.

Is it a requirement for me to have an official diagnosis? Is there any medication or school/work accomodation for me? No. But it meant a lot to me. It felt healing and necessary in ways I can’t put into words.

Someone said to me, “You should be grateful! It’s a good thing to not have autism.”

But that’s the thing -- his lack of diagnosis didn’t change anything about my struggles, past and present. To me, I am still as sure about my autism as I ever was, and maybe that should be enough. I still meet the criteria. I still feel it in my soul and body.

The confirmation would have been nice, though. The justification from a medical professional would have been nice. Hearing that I can’t be autistic because I’m not cold to the world (when “cold” has been something I’ve heard about myself for many years) is ignorant at best.

It was disappointing. I left the autism subreddits. I stopped sharing memes. I stopped talking about it. I became deeply unsettled and sad. I felt like a fraud and a phony, someone who had had a doctor say, “Um you don’t wear headphones in the city so...” as if it was obvious that meant I wasn’t autistic. At one point, I wished I hadn’t done the assessment at all, even though it truly was enlightening in spite of everything.

I’m only just now getting back to a place where I can talk about it with confidence, embrace this identity I’m certain of. I’m now on a much longer waitlist for a second opinion, and sometimes I wonder if I’ll go through with it. Maybe by then, by the time my June 2028 appointment rolls around, I’ll be even more at peace.

This is all to say- I’m autistic? Yes, no, yes, no. YES. I am! That’s me, has always been me, and if I want to meme about it, I’m going to.

xoxo

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The gritty, non-glamorous answer is: alcohol and compartmentalization.

His apology to me was to do whatever I wanted for that in-between week. I ate great dinners with licorice butter, drank lots of canned cocktails, and visited the tomato greenhouse restaurant where the Kardashians had once dined. I went to the spa and sank into the warm water while my stomach churned with nausea. I pretended like I was on vacation because I guess, at that point, I was.

One day, under a chilly blue sky, I stood with my toes on the edge of a rocky cliff, looking down at the icy crater that had once been a volcano. I thought about jumping, would later write a poem about this very moment, about not dying in the traditional sense but sliding across the ice like a penguin on my belly. To freedom, to wherever. Maybe a little bit of dying.

Two days before the flight back to the US, he kicked me out of the house. Then I really did want to die. I considered running away the way an angry child might, not seriously, and without any real plan, but simply escaping into the night.

I’ll skip the vicious parts between the Seljavallalaug swimming pool earlier that day and the teary-eyed taxi ride to the nearest hotel where I sank into a bathtub and had pizza crust with a side of gin. I had never felt more alone in my life, a sort of all-encompassing loneliness that seemed to crush my chest. I was sure that I would never recover, considered calling a mental institution that very second. Something was so deeply wrong with me, I just knew it.

But somehow, I did recover. I did push through. I look back now and still believe that was the lowest point of my life, but the point was I kept doing the thing. I booked myself the Covid test needed to travel. I arranged my taxi to the airport, put food in my belly. I sorted out my next steps for when I arrived in the US and called my parents to get my car back.

And I just didn’t stop. I got on the plane with all my bags and got off the plane with all my bags. I got into a rental car and drove to Connecticut before stopping at a hotel. I slept soberly and badly, but the next day I woke up, chugged my hotel coffee, and kept going. I cried all the time, but I kept going.

Don’t get me wrong, I was devastated and humiliated. I missed what could have been, with me, with us. I missed our relationship. I missed Iceland. I missed the early days of my trip, when everything felt beautiful and wild. I didn’t like the judgments, the people who said I’d been reckless and stupid, the ones who insisted I must have missed red flags. Someone asked me if I regretted it.

I didn’t regret it. I could never regret the Icelandic New Year’s on the beach, witnessing the Northern Lights from the warmth of my bed. I could never regret the simple view from the living room window as the sky turned golden or the river that ran impossibly warm as it snaked through the icy ground.

If anything, I was proud of myself. I liked that I had tried something so big. I liked that I picked myself up, eventually moved into a beautiful apartment and found a great paying job back in Pittsburgh. Life moved on and took me with it. I rebuilt so much. Maybe it sounds like that is the lesson here-- “everything can be rebuilt. You can do anything. You can hit rock bottom and recover.”

Five years later, I still don’t regret having gone to Iceland. I look back fondly at the pictures, and yes, there are still negative memories and associations that swirl around inside me sometimes. But mostly, it feels like an adventurous moment in time, a chaotic chapter in my life that probably taught me way more lessons than I was prepared for.

As chaos and heartbreak always do.

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The first month of Iceland was nothing short of astounding. I sank my body into hot pools of water, steam rising up against a hazy sky. I walked through fields of snow, the crunchy stalks breaking underneath the crampons on my shoes. I saw black beaches with chilling winds rolling off of the sea and breaking on my cheek. I stood in front of roaring waterfalls, the icy blue water churning against rock. I dragged a Christmas tree through the snow. I popped champagne by the sea for New Year's as fireworks flashed against the sky for what felt like miles.

But it was the mountains that did it for me.

One afternoon, after a grueling uphill hike, I looked down at the maze of frozen dirt and moss snaking below me thinking, "I am HERE. Can you even believe it?" I felt small in the best way possible, tuned in, calm in my soul.

I slept and slept, waking up on occasion to the dancing green ribbons of the Northern Lights outside the bedroom window. I lay back against the pillows and cried from sheer joy. If anyone doubted me (myself included), they were wrong. Look at me now.

Life moved slowly and quickly at the same time. The days were short. The end of the 90 days was drawing nearer. I could sense his anxiety. There is a preparedness one needs in order to move countries, of course, but that same preparedness is also needed by the partner on the other end. I don't know if either of us were truly ready, but I was certainly ready to try.

I'm not sure when everything started to crash down around me. I do know I was making phone calls in the laundry room. I do know I wasn't sleeping so great anymore. Time was almost up.

I turned myself into the Chillest Girl I knew. I became a dream girlfriend. I was RELAXED. I was FUN. I wasn't WORRIED. This would pay off, right? My Chill Girl demeanor, my clear ability to be a perfect roommate, potential wife. In retrospect, I'd felt so desperate, and that was the thing that made me the most sick.

But still, we weren't having the hard conversations. The 90 days were almost done, and someone had to say it. I brought it up after a careful assessment of mood. I was vibrating with anxiety. I was desperate in that way that makes you sick, clawing and scratching for eye contact and reassurance. I couldn't stay calm. The Chill Girl doesn't cry, but I did. I cried, and my shoulders heaved.

No arm pulled me in. No hand rested on my knee. He faced the front, flat and elsewhere, and I knew. I could only nod when he said he'd buy my tickets home.

The adventure, the calm, the fairytale was over.

It had been a terrible night of sleep followed by a rainy, nine-hour drive that day. My body was electrified and jittery from the Red Bull that had gotten me safely to Boston, and even though I needed to eat, the burger sat like lead in my stomach. I had never felt nerves like this before, the frozen-in-place sensation tugging me in two different directions.

I video-called him, relaxing at his joke about ketchup on my face. This was good. Humor was good.

Are you getting on the plane?

I came all this way, didn’t I?

It was Thanksgiving Day 2020. My apartment in Pittsburgh was empty. My car sat at my parents’ house. My houseplants had been handed off to friends or sold on Facebook. In my carry-on was the printed out evidence showing that I was, in fact, in a relationship with this person, which was the only way I was able to move to Iceland in the thick of a pandemic.

So I did it. I got on the plane, my nerves slightly calmer if only because the decision has been made.

Delirious and sleepless, I arrived in Iceland five hours later. After maneuvering my massive suitcases at baggage claim, I headed through the exit and saw him. Relief rushed through me. This was the guy I was going to marry in only 90 days, the guy who saved me from the absolute dumpster fire of the US, from my awful job, from my irrepressible desire for more.

It was not a perfect plan. It was not a plan guaranteed to work. But I had to try.

The snow was really coming down as he drove us back to his house. He had surprised me with an Icelandic hard seltzer and a grocery store brand tuna sandwich I had fallen in love with while on vacation there three years earlier. I drank the seltzer, watching the snow melt against the glass and wishing I could see through the darkness.

After a deep sleep, I felt like a new person, and I guess I have felt that way ever since.

I had my first look out the windows. Everything had a golden hour hue to it, due to the time of year. It would never be quite bright, not for months. The sea, the mountains, the slurry of clouds against the sky--it was all calling to me.

Later, when my eyes were almost swollen shut from crying, I’d wonder if that was my mistake, if my longing for adventure had led me to this fate.

I put on my snow boots and waited for him to finish working. The orange cat wrapped herself around my legs, already a friend.

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2025 was bad. It seems like so many of us can agree with that. The year saw what felt like an entire planet of people experience the same collective anger, grief, and exhaustion.

While I can't solve the collective depression or the terrible ways in which this spinning rock of ours is home to such great tragedy, I am eager for a new year and another chance to get it right. (Didn't Oprah say that?)

Ins: therapy, slowing down, lemon water, Substack, reading, Meetups, writing goals, cozy games, community, hugging

Outs: phones before bed, bottling it in, putting it off, whatever new dating show graces our screens, skipping breakfast, monetizing every hobby

What are your ins and outs, as they say? Or your resolution, if you're old school 😎