Midnight Sun: a lesson learned about perception

Not to be dramatic or anything—because they’re cats (though Soleil is the love of my life, as you know). But watching her with Mini has been a wake-up call to how distorted my perception of things can be. We all see the world through our own lens, and in my eyes, this orange cat is my baby.

I’ve had pets before, but those were shared, or the bond wasn’t quite as deep. Soleil was different. I knew getting a kitten would be difficult—hell, I’ve done this four times now, with Miniut being the youngest. But I didn’t realize how much it would change how I saw Soleil.

Before, she was my tiny peanut. My sunshine. A sweet, chaotic, tailless orange kitten (even though she’s over a year old now—still a baby in my eyes). But the first day with Mini, I felt fear. PTSD, even, from when I brought Soleil home and tried introducing her to Luna—a connection that never happened. I was terrified the new kitten would "ruin" Soleil, that she’d become stressed and anxious, just like Luna had.

Then came the hiss.

The swats.

The growls.

For the first time, I saw my angelic baby in a different light. And to say it didn’t break my heart would be a lie. I had hoped this introduction would go better, especially since Soleil is so good with other animals—but another cat is different. I knew that.

That night, when I picked her up, she was rigid. On edge. Confused. The look in her eyes filled me with regret and dread. I sat with that feeling and held onto the hope that time would change things.

Soleil has always been playful. She hides under the bed and ambushes my ankles when I do laundry, sprints across the apartment at 3 AM, always in search of chaos. I’ve known for a while that she needed more stimulation than I could give her alone. That’s why, when the opportunity to get Mini came up, I knew it would be hard—but I also knew Soleil needed someone like her.

What I didn’t expect was for it to change me too.

It’s only been a week, but I see Soleil differently now. Not just as my baby, but as a big sister—almost a mother figure. She’s still my silly little peanut, but now she’s showing this tiny, toddler-aged kitten the ropes, despite never having had a mother herself

Yes, I’m getting all deep and philosophical about my cats. But I believe there’s meaning in every experience if you’re willing to see it. That’s the whole point of being here, right? If you aren’t looking for a greater lesson in everything that happens around you, how do you grow? How do you discover deeper truths? How do you use those truths to become a better version of yourself?

Perception.

I first realized how warped it can be in a Denver hotel room, after leaving a Red Rocks show early because I was scared. I had taken acid, then called my boyfriend—past midnight in Florida. He was pissed at my choices.

We talked while I watched vision trails form as I waved my hand in front of my face, the ceiling shifting and breathing when I stared too long. It feels like this moment just happened—probably because I come back to it so often. After we hung up, I lay there in that hotel bed, mind buzzing, and had a realization so obvious yet so heavy:

He doesn’t know me like I know me.

He doesn’t know what goes on in my head, what my intentions are. No one does. People only know what I choose to show them, and even then, they interpret it through the lens of their own experiences.

That thought carried me into sleep.

At the time, I didn’t realize it was a breakthrough—a moment of clarity about perception at the ripe age of 24. I had always assumed everyone knew the real me. After all, I was 100% myself, always.

Sure, I adjusted in different settings. At work, I was professional. With my best friend, I could say whatever I wanted, cuss freely, share the deepest parts of my mind. But I had spent my whole life assuming that everyone—my boss, my parents, my best friend, even a stranger on a plane—saw me the way I saw myself.

It’s silly, right? I only know the people around me based on what they show me, the version of themselves they choose to present. So why did I assume everyone else knew me fully?

It’s a beautiful reality to be your whole self all the time—I won’t pretend it’s not. Someone once told me that, years later, on the cabin trip that led me to many of my Utah friends. We were tripping and staring at the stars when she said, "That’s so amazing. I wish I could live like that."

Maybe that’s why I feel so free to write all this. And maybe that’s why some puzzle pieces—friends, partners, jobs—don’t fit. The goal isn’t to force them. It’s to find the spaces where your whole, raw self can shine. Where you don’t have to shape-shift to belong.

And that brings me back to Soleil.

Because when I look at her now, I see someone who is still herself, but also something more. A nurturer. A protector. A cat who was once the smallest thing in the room but has somehow grown into something greater, without even realizing it.

Maybe that’s just what happens when you step into something bigger than yourself. When you stop seeing yourself as just one thing and let your edges expand. Maybe that’s growth. Maybe that’s love.

Or maybe it’s just what happens when you finally feel safe enough to become who you were always meant to be.