Nancy Range Anderson – Author

  Last fall, I captured this swan just as it lifted its wings from the water. It wasn’t yet flying, but it was no longer resting. The photo showed up on my memories today and it reminded me of healing Healing isn’t a straight line. It’s a series of small lifts… moments where you test your strength, trust your body, and try again. Some days feel strong. Some feel heavy. But little by little… you rise. Not everyone is the same and some people rise earlier and some later. You can’t compare myself to others. Still, I wonder… Are the people we love, the ones I write about in Caitlin’s Star with their “Special Jobs,” beside us in these moments— helping us find our strength, steadying our wings, reminding us to keep going?

  Fire at my core...water at heart It all started this morning when I heard James Taylor sing Fire and Rain. For some reason, I wondered what my Element is  (Fire, Water, Air, Earth).  I thought I must be water because I love the beach so much. So I  looked it up. I was born under the sign of Sagittarius , a sign known for seeking meaning, telling stories, and looking for the deeper truth in life’s moments. While Sagittarius may be my core, my heart tells a different story. I don't  really follow astrology and  don't know how to figure out my "Moon and Rising Sign".  I had to google that. It has to do with the time and place you were born.  It said that both my moon and rising signs are Cancer , a sign rooted in home, memory, and emotional connection. It is the part of me that holds on to moments, that remembers the small details, and that feels deeply the love of family, both here and beyond. When I write, I can see now that both parts are al...

Every year, on the eve of my children’s birthdays, I find myself reliving the day before they were born. Today is the eve of my son’s birthday, and as I moved through the ordinary actions and activities of the day, I was carried back 33 years. I remember that it was cloudy. I was sitting on the front porch of our new house when a neighbor mom and her toddler daughter stopped by to say hello and see how I was doing. I also remember reading the morning paper and seeing a color picture of my work friend George and his beautiful wife. The day before, they had won $10 million in the New Jersey lottery. We called to congratulate them, and they turned it right around and said that we were the lucky ones because we were about to welcome our beautiful baby boy. We had spaghetti for dinner. After dinner, around 7:00 p.m., I began to feel the pains while I was giving my daughter her bath and getting her ready for bed. I told her that when she woke up in the morning, she would have a new broth...

Some chapters stay with us long after the page is turned.   B ack in college, my freshman English professor once asked us to write about the difference between knowledge and wisdom. At the time, I’m not sure I fully understood the question and the professor had us write and rewrite our responses ad nauseam. Now, I think I do know the difference. Wisdom comes with time. With living. With loving and letting go. With looking back and seeing things not as we wished they had been, but as they truly were. Lately, I’ve found myself reflecting more t han usual. Maybe it’s what comes with healing. Or maybe it’s time, age, or simply where I am in this moment. But I’ve been thinking about the people, the moments, and the chapters that shaped me. Not with regret. Not with longing. Just with a deeper understanding of how it all fits together. Some things don’t need to be revisited. They just need to be recognized for what they were… and how they still live within us. I ...

 A friend sent me a quick note yesterday. She said that her friend came over for tea and as they were talking, the friend shared that when her granddaughter visits, she walks over to the bookcase, pulls out Caitlin's Star and asks her granny to read it to her.  While that part of the story made my heart soar, the next part tugged at it. She said to my friend, "I struggle not to cry as I read it."  Oh my heart.  Thank you, that's what the book is for (not the crying part but that the book brings children comfort.)  I'm grateful to see the book is finding its way into these special moments.

 Today my father would have been 108 years old. He’s been gone almost 33 years, and I still miss him terribly. Lately, as I’ve been recovering from my knee replacement, I’ve been thinking a lot about him and his courage, both as a WWII pilot and later when he was so sick with cancer. On the harder days, I can almost hear his voice telling me to keep going and to be strong. This morning, while I was walking Augie, a man stopped, looked at him, and said, “Go get ’em, Tiger.” Those are the exact words my father used to say to my sister and me whenever we were facing something hard. I actually stopped for a second. In that moment, it didn’t feel like a coincidence. It felt like him. Like his way of saying hello on his birthday. If I think about his “Special Job,” the way I describe it in Caitlin’s Star , I can picture it so clearly. He’d be leading a group of children in a march, singing I’ve Got a Lovely Bunch of Coconuts , with all of them following along right behind him....

  Today, during my at-home physical therapy exercises, I cried. I am seven weeks post knee replacement surgery, and while I’ve made a lot of progress, moments like today remind me that healing isn’t always linear. For over seven years, yoga has been part of my life. It’s been my place of strength, calm, and connection. I look forward to my practices, especially the open and welcoming people, and the grounding that comes with it. This morning, I was doing heel pulls, (slipping my foot into a yoga strap and pulling my leg toward me). With a good knee, it’s easy and something I never gave a second thought to before. With a recovering knee, it’s everyone’s least favorite exercise. As I pulled as far as I could and held for ten seconds, I heard my physical therapist’s voice, “When you pull your knee toward you and it hurts, breathe out.” So I did and in that moment, my mind drifted to yoga and to the poses I love. Warrior I and Warrior II, poses that once took time, patience, ...

  Tonight, my neighbor and I were walking our dogs when we stopped at the corner. A black Jeep pulled up, and a woman stepped out in a beautiful red dress, holding a matching scarf. “Excuse me,” she said, “I’m meeting my father for dinner—it’s his 86th birthday. Would one of you mind tying this scarf around my dress?” My friend held the leashes, and I tied the scarf. As I adjusted it, she told us the dress had belonged to a dear friend who had recently passed away. Every time she wears it, she remembers her. And there we were, three women who had never met, standing on a street corner, helping each other without hesitation. I didn't think it was unusual. There’s something about women… we stop, we trust, we help. No explanation needed. We wished her father a happy birthday, and she went on her way and we continued our walk. Sometimes connection looks like a conversation. Sometimes it’s something as simple as tying a red scarf.

  Each morning I wake up and think this will be the day I feel great, the day I bounce out of bed. And then I limp to the kitchen. The day unfolds. I meet friends for lunch, enjoy the conversation, feel like myself again… and then struggle a bit to stand when it’s time to leave. It’s humbling. Healing doesn’t happen all at once. It comes in small steps. Moments of normalcy followed by reminders that my body is struggling to find a way back. So I remind myself… baby steps. Patience. Because even on the harder days, I am still moving forward.

  Yesterday I found myself thinking about the ten year old girl I used to be. Today my thoughts moved forward again into another stage of life and what love has meant along the way. It’s funny how our minds sometimes wander back to earlier chapters of our lives. Moments when everything felt new and full of possibility. Like springtime. There is a kind of ache or yearning that can come with those memories, and for the longest time I couldn’t quite name it. Maybe it is my age now but I think I figured it out. Sometimes the yearning we feel when we look back at earlier moments in our lives isn’t about another person at all. It’s about who we were when we were living in that moment. It’s about missing the version of ourselves who lived there. There was an innocence and openness in that time. A belief in possibilities that felt natural and unguarded. So it isn't always about missing another person. For me it's missing the young woman who believed so fully in what life and love mig...

Ten-year-old me. This little girl didn’t know it then, but the love she felt on Sunday afternoons would stay with her for a lifetime.   When I was a little girl, I couldn’t wait to grow up. Birthdays couldn’t come fast enough. Getting my driver’s license. Turning 21. First boyfriend. Finishing college and starting work. It all felt like a race toward the next milestone. Now, especially as I recover from surgery and life has slowed down a bit, I find myself traveling back to earlier days. Lately my mind has been returning to small moments from my childhood when I lived at home with my parents and sister. Rainy days. Halloween costumes. And recently, Sunday afternoons. Today as the clouds rolled in and I couldn’t get outside, I remembered the Sundays of ten-year-old me. After church, my mother would stop at the local bakery and pick up a loaf of sliced rye bread, a few hard rolls, and sometimes a crumb cake. When we got home, the “play clothes” came out and our Sunday outfits a...

  A friend had a transplant two days ago. What he is going through is enormous and life-saving. It reminded me that everywhere you look, people are carrying something — a biopsy, a transplant, recovery from surgery, or simply finding their way through a difficult season. In each case, helping the recovery are the prayers and grace of family and friends.  We all move forward the same way, one step at a time. Today mine was walking the dog, a first since January.

Today I took one of my many strengthening walks as part of my recovery from knee replacement surgery. As I walked, I started to feel sorry for myself and wondered if I would ever fully get back to normal. Would I dance again? Sit cross-legged on the floor? Do yoga on the beach? So many small things that I never thought twice about before surgery suddenly felt uncertain. That reaction reminded me of something I taught many times during my corporate career. Ken Blanchard described Seven Dynamics of Change that people experience whenever change enters their lives or organizations. One of the earliest dynamics is this and it is what I felt today: People initially focus on what they have to give up. The seven dynamics include: • People feel awkward, ill-at-ease, and self-conscious • People initially focus on what they have to give up • People feel alone, even if others are experiencing the same change • People can handle only so much change at once • People are at different level...

  I learned something surprising today while walking through a thrift store with a cane. My physical therapist suggested that I use a cane in crowded places while I’m recovering from knee replacement surgery. Not because I can’t walk, but to protect the joint from being bumped. Today I drove myself to a local thrift store. That alone felt like a milestone after several weeks of recovery. Once inside, I’ll admit I felt a little anxious. Many of the women around me were so focused on the racks and finding a bargain that they seemed completely absorbed in their search. For a moment I worried that someone might bump into me. The cane barely seemed to register. The men, on the other hand, often noticed it right away and stepped aside or made space. It was a small moment, but an eye opening one. Sometimes we are so focused on what we are doing that we become oblivious to the people around us. When I wrote Caitlin’s Star , I wrote about noticing the small signs of kindness and con...

  Welcome. I’m Nancy Range Anderson, author of Caitlin’s Star . This site is a place where I share reflections on healing, memory, resilience, and the small moments that remind us we are never truly alone. Caitlin’s Star began as a story I told my daughter many years ago after the loss of a loved one. Over time it grew into a children’s book designed to help families talk about love, loss, and the memories that continue long after someone is gone. You can explore the book, watch the trailer, and find related resources on the Explore Caitlin’s Star page.

  Lately—today, yesterday, even last week—we’ve been hit with the news that people we loved, cared about, or admired have passed away. And yet, somehow, we still find ourselves arguing, holding grudges, or pouring energy into outrage over things that, in the end, don’t really matter. What does matter? Love. People. Friendships. Family. Life. And life—fleeting, fragile, unpredictable—becomes more real with every passing year. It's impossible to ignore. So check in on someone. Especially when things seem quiet—reach out. Not to rant about politics (because let’s be honest, most of it is just noise), but to tell someone what they mean to you. Remind them what makes them special. I get it now—why my dad, after a few scotches used to call up his old Army buddies just to say how much he appreciated them. They’d swap stories, laugh, and reconnect. That’s what it’s all about. That’s life. That’s what lasts

At the start of yoga class, the instructor often invites us to set an intention. One particular day last week, I chose: “Be open to learning new things.” That intention came after weeks of frustration with the tools I’ve been using to format my children’s book. Page sizes, bleed lines, text boxes, and images all seemed to have their own rules—and I was tired of feeling stuck and was so discouraged. Carrying the Intention Off the Mat For me, on the mat, “being open” means easing into postures I tend to resist and allowing my breath to carry me through the uneasy moments. Later that day, when I sat down at my computer to work on Canva, I reminded myself of the same intention. Instead of bracing myself for another round of frustration, I approached Canva like I would a challeng...

  This small nook is where I come to breathe and heal. I prepared it before surgery as a reminder that healing can’t be rushed or forced. Like many of us, I sometimes feel the urge to move quickly through difficult seasons, push past discomfort, and prove my strength. Some of the most meaningful progress happens when we allow ourselves space to pause, breathe, and simply be. Healing often arrives through strength and perseverance but it also needs stillness.

  I'm grateful to share this special moment. A dear friend surprised me with this photo of a group of women who gathered together, each holding a copy of Caitlin’s Star — purchased to share with others. Moments like this remind me why I wrote the book: to support families as they navigate love, loss, and memory, and to offer tools for meaningful conversations and healing. To everyone who has shared Caitlin’s Star with friends, libraries, and classrooms — thank you for helping its light reach even further. 🌟 If this book has touched you or someone you love, I’d be honored if you shared this post or tagged someone who might need its message. 🌟