We take what kids love seriously.

I didn't set out to build a publication.

I was simply trying to understand something I was watching happen in my own home.

Like a lot of parents, I found myself asking questions I didn't know how to answer. Why was it becoming so difficult for my son to look away? What was happening behind the screen? And if this was the world my children were inheriting, what did they actually need to understand about it?

Like a lot of parents, I had heard the advice. Reduce screen time. Set better limits. Be more consistent.

It didn't feel like enough.

The screen itself wasn't the problem. It was everything happening behind it.

That realization sent me down a path I never expected to take. I started reading about recommendation algorithms, autoplay, behavioral psychology, artificial intelligence, and the invisible mechanisms quietly competing for our time and attention. I wanted to understand the systems shaping my children's world well enough to explain them to my kids someday, not with fear, but with clarity. Because once you can see how something works, you can choose how to engage with it.

But eventually I realized understanding the modern world is only half the work.

A child can understand how YouTube's recommendation algorithm works and still spend an afternoon passively consuming whatever it serves next.

The real question became:

How do I help my children participate more fully in the world they're inheriting?

The more I paid attention, the more I realized children rarely need to be convinced to participate. They already want to. They arrive in the world endlessly fascinated: by birds, golf, maps, horses, baking, weather, insects, construction sites, music. Those fascinations aren't distractions from growing up.

They're the doorway into it.

A child's interests are often their first invitation to contribute. They create a reason to spend time with people who know more than they do. To take ownership of something real. To solve problems. To make mistakes. To practice good judgment. To discover the satisfaction that comes from becoming genuinely capable.

That realization changed how I thought about almost everything.

I wanted to create a place that helped families understand the world their children are inheriting, and raise children prepared to participate fully in it.

A place that helps parents notice the invisible systems shaping modern childhood, not so they can fear them, but so they can navigate them with confidence.

A place that believes capable children aren't raised through endless optimization, but through gradually handing over real responsibility.

A place where thoughtful writing, enduring ideas, and beautifully made tools all exist for the same reason: to help families move from passive consumption toward active participation in the world they're inheriting.

That's Catbird.

Long before Catbird was a publication, it was simply a word I grew up hearing in the foothills of the Blue Ridge Mountains. My grandfather would smile at a child who was curious, capable, and into everything and call them a catbird.

I didn't think much about that word then.

Now I can't imagine a better name.

Welcome to Catbird.

Kayla Founder