When my daughter was two years old, she shoved three My Little Ponies into the oven of her toy kitchen and proudly announced that she was baking dinner.
Now, I know what you’re thinking: “That’s… concerning.” Should I have stopped her? Should I have asked why dinner involved slow-roasting a glitter-covered unicorn with rainbow hair? Should I have, I don’t know, called Hasbro customer support and reported suspicious culinary behavior?
Instead, I just stood there watching her, completely unfazed, as if it’s totally normal to preheat your imagination to 350° and bake plastic horses until golden brown.
I even asked, “What are you cooking?”
She said, “Dinner. They’re yummy.”
And I, fully complicit in this plastic feast, nodded and said, “Cool,” before moving on with my day.
I don’t know what that says about her, but I’m even less sure what it says about me.
Here’s the thing, though: kids’ imaginations are absolutely wild. They are unfiltered, sometimes mildly alarming, and always fully committed. She didn’t pause to second-guess her idea. She didn’t think, “Well, this doesn’t make sense,” or “People might judge me for this.” She just saw ponies, saw an oven, and thought, “Dinner.”
Vision achieved. No disclaimers.
Meanwhile, I can sit in front of a blank page, a work email, or even a Slack message and spiral into ridiculous territory. Is this too many exclamation points? Does “Thanks in advance” sound helpful or passive-aggressive? Should I just delete the whole thing and pretend I never had an idea at all?
And it’s the same at home. I’ll stand in the kitchen over a grocery list thinking, Do I write “pasta” or “penne”? Should I add “cheese” or be specific so we don’t end up with a block of Velveeta when I meant parmesan? What if I forget the garlic bread and ruin dinner forever?
Or I’ll hover over a text to a friend debating, Do I add a smiley face so they know I’m joking? Or does that make me look like I’m trying too hard? Maybe I should just throw my phone in a lake and live off the grid instead.
Meanwhile, Pony Casserole over there is thriving.
At some point between finger paints and filing taxes, most of us learn to edit ourselves into oblivion. We stop making castles out of couch cushions and start worrying if our LinkedIn headline sounds “professional enough.”
Think about it: if you walked into a conference room and said, “Here’s my idea—it might not make sense, but I’m gonna roll with it,” people would raise eyebrows. If you emailed your boss with a wild, half-baked suggestion, you’d probably hit delete before pressing send. We’ve been trained to tidy, polish, and rationalize every thought before it ever leaves our head.
But toddlers? They’re little mad scientists of creativity. They don’t care about rules or feasibility. They don’t even care if it’s edible. (Bless their tiny hearts.)
My daughter was just fully in it. Baking ponies because why not? That’s how she saw the world that day.
Now, I’m not suggesting we all start shoving our possessions into small appliances to cook them. (Though, if you’ve ever had a college roommate who thought Easy Mac could be made without water, you’ve seen how close adults can get to this level of culinary chaos.)
What I am suggesting is that there’s something powerful in that lack of hesitation.
Because here’s what struck me: I was more concerned about whether this was “normal” than she was. She wasn’t worried if her idea made sense. She wasn’t worried if I approved. She wasn’t worried if her ponies would sue her later for emotional distress. She was just creating.
And honestly? Sometimes the thing that looks weird—or even totally unhinged—is just raw creativity trying to come through.
I started thinking about all the ways I edit myself:
- That work email where I type, backspace, retype, backspace, then settle for the blandest possible sentence.
- That moment in a meeting where I have an idea but let it wither because I’m not sure it’s “good enough.”
- That grocery list where I question my own ability to spell Worcestershire and then give up and write “that sauce.”
And yet, here’s my toddler, casually inventing a recipe for unicorn stew with the confidence of Gordon Ramsay.
She didn’t stop to edit. She just went for it.
What if we lived like that a little more?
Here’s the truth: most of the great things in life start out weird.
The first person who suggested riding waves on a plank of wood probably got laughed at until surfing became a sport. The first person who thought, You know what would make fried potatoes better? Dunking them in a milkshake, was probably ridiculed—until every teenager at Wendy’s proved them right. The first person who decided to record themselves talking in their car and call it a podcast? Definitely weird.
Weird is often just another word for “not yet normalized.”
So maybe the baked ponies weren’t a red flag at all. Maybe they were a tiny, plastic, rainbow-maned life coach whispering: Chill. Make weird stuff. Have fun.
I think we could all use a little more pony casserole energy in our lives—that willingness to try something ridiculous without the fear of failure breathing down our neck.
Because here’s what usually happens:
We start with an idea.
We worry about how it will be received.
We stall, edit, or delete.
And then? Nothing. The world gets one less spark of creativity, one less laugh, one less flash of joy.
But when kids play, they don’t care about any of that. Their audience is imaginary. Their critics are nonexistent. Their process is messy. And it’s all okay.
I could’ve looked at that moment and thought, “Oh no, something’s wrong here.” Instead, I’ve chosen to see it as a reminder:
Not everything has to make sense.
Not everything has to be tidy.
Not everything has to be for an audience.
Sometimes you just bake the ponies.
Sometimes you write the ridiculous idea down. Sometimes you send the email even if it’s not a masterpiece. Sometimes you sing the song off-key, doodle the weird sketch, or say the thought that makes people laugh.
Because the point isn’t perfection—it’s participation.
Here’s the funny thing about parenting: our kids are constantly holding up mirrors to us. They show us the parts of ourselves we forgot, the habits we’ve grown out of, and sometimes the baggage we still carry.
Watching my daughter “cook” that day, I realized that I had let self-consciousness do what she would never let me do with her ponies: shove my creativity in an oven and close the door.
Kids don’t just invite us to play—they challenge us to stop overthinking and actually live.
So yeah, maybe I should hide the real oven mitts for a while. But I also need to hide my own tendency to over-edit, over-analyze, and over-worry.
Because if a two-year-old can confidently serve up unicorn casserole for dinner, maybe I can confidently serve up whatever half-wild, half-silly, fully heartfelt thing I’m working on.
And maybe you can, too.
So here’s to the weird stuff. The glitter-covered, doesn’t-quite-make-sense, slightly alarming ideas that end up being tiny gifts of imagination. The things that make us laugh at ourselves, or surprise us, or remind us that life doesn’t always have to be so tidy and serious.
Your version might not involve ponies in an oven. It might look like finally hitting “publish” on that blog post you’re not sure anyone will read, just because you had something to say. It might look like raising your hand in a meeting and pitching the idea that feels a little outside the box, even if you’re not sure it will land. It might look like wandering through the grocery store and unapologetically adding six different kinds of cheese to your cart because your soul said so and that’s reason enough.
Maybe it’s doodling on a napkin. Maybe it’s planning a road trip just to see Carhenge – an ode to Stonehenge made entirely out of cars. Maybe it’s singing out loud in your kitchen even though you’re not auditioning for anything but the dirty dishes.
Whatever it is, let it out. Don’t edit yourself into silence. Don’t wait until it’s polished or perfect or guaranteed to impress.
Bake the ponies.
Write the words.
Play the game.
Start the thing.
Make the casserole only you would dream up.
And if anyone raises an eyebrow? Just smile and say, “Don’t worry—I made enough to share.”
Rachel L. Richard is a small-town farm girl turned suburbanite, a delightfully irreverent optimist, Mrs & Mama, floppy dog ear scratcher, lifelong learner, channel surfer, wanderer, believer, occasional creative, out-of-practice musician, cupcake addict, book devourer, and lover of all people.
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