Still Blurry

06/22/2026

It's 4:55 in the afternoon, and somehow a trip to the chiropractor and a massage ended with a cat sleeping in my laundry room.

The fog hasn't lifted yet. This is where I'm at now.

Yesterday started with exhaustion, back pain, and a desperate attempt to find some relief. After getting off work at 7 a.m., I waited for the chiropractor to open. Later, I waited again for a massage appointment. I wasn't even sure what was causing all the pain, only that something wasn't right. The chiropractor helped, but the massage released tension I didn't realize I had been carrying.

Before going into the mall, I noticed a small group of workers gathered around a cat. One of them was holding her closely and loving on her. A few days before all of this, I had written a song for Monkey because I felt he deserved one. Standing there outside the mall, I found myself singing that same song to the cat.

As I watched her, a few things became obvious. She wasn't feral. She wasn't aggressive. She wasn't fearful. She was clean, healthy, affectionate, and trusting. Her fur was clean. Her eyes were clear. There were no visible fleas, dirt, or signs of neglect. She looked like a cat that belonged somewhere.

As I stood there talking with the workers, I realized something else.

Everyone cared about the cat.

Everyone wanted the cat to be okay.

But everyone seemed to be waiting for someone else to become responsible for her.

It reminded me of something called the bystander effect, a psychological phenomenon where people are less likely to take action when other people are present because everyone assumes someone else will step up and handle the situation. The more people there are, the easier it becomes to believe responsibility belongs to someone else.

Standing there outside the mall, I found myself watching that principle play out in real time.

Nobody was being cruel.

Nobody wanted anything bad to happen to the cat.

In fact, everyone seemed concerned about her well-being.

The problem was that concern and responsibility are not the same thing.

Caring about a problem doesn't automatically solve it.

Eventually, somebody has to decide that they're the one who's going to act.

So I made a deal with myself.

If she was still there when I came out of my massage, I would take her.

After the massage, I walked back outside.

The workers were gone.

The cat was still there.

Nobody had taken responsibility for her.

So I picked her up.

She immediately curled into my arms and rested her head against me. There was no fight. No panic. No resistance. She simply let me carry her to the car as if she had already decided she trusted me.

During the drive home, I talked to her the entire way. I tried out different names, one after another, until I eventually landed on Lilly. Part of the reason was that Lilly sounded a little like kitty. Before long, I found myself calling her Lilly Kitty and Lil' Kitty. The nicknames came naturally, but the name that stuck was Lilly.

Lilly’s first ride home. 🐾
She rode beside me, holding my hand with her little paw for most of the trip. Eventually she climbed over, curled up on the console, and got comfortable for the rest of the ride.

Getting her home turned out to be an adventure of its own.

By that point I had been awake for more than twenty-four hours. I was exhausted. The mosquitoes were relentless. The outdoor setup I normally use for stray cats wasn't an option because they were swarming the area. I was trying to assemble a litter box, unlock doors, carry supplies, and keep Lilly safe in the car all at the same time.

At one point I was fighting mosquitoes, trying to get the litter box together, and dealing with a locked door all at once.

Eventually my dad opened the door and I got everything inside.

I took a couple of bowls normally used for the outdoor cats, washed them thoroughly, and filled one with food and one with water. I didn't want to risk passing anything from the outdoor cats to Lilly.

I found a pillow for her to rest on.

I set up a fan.

I got the litter box in place.

And finally, after all of the chaos, Lilly had a safe place to sleep.

She now has food, water, a litter box, a pillow, a fan, and a screened window for airflow.

It isn't perfect.

But it's safe.

Right now, safe is enough.

Today I called the veterinarian.

Part of that call was harder than I expected.

I had to update their records and let them know that Little Paw is no longer with us. A few days ago, on June 19th, I received a birthday greeting for him. Seeing that message hurt more than I expected. Little Paw should still be here. Had things happened differently, he probably would be.

 

While I was on the phone, I also requested Monkey's records. For the first time in his life, I'm planning to have him professionally groomed. Nails, fur, the works. He's never had a spa day before, and honestly, he deserves one.

Then there is Lilly.

The veterinarian told me to bring her in so they can scan for a microchip. That's the next step. If she belongs to someone, hopefully we can get her home. If she doesn't, then we'll have to figure out what comes next.

As I sat thinking about all of this, it struck me how strange the timing is.

When I wrote The Blur, I thought I was describing a temporary season.

Looking back now, I'm not entirely sure the blur ever left.

The days still run together. The weeks pass faster than I can process them. Somehow, I'm still navigating life, still showing up to work, still handling responsibilities, and still moving projects forward, even when it feels like I'm doing it through a fog.

The strange thing is that despite feeling stuck, things have actually moved.

I've written more songs. The catalog continues to grow. Between my various projects and identities, I now have close to twenty songs ready to be brought to life. What started as ideas and emotions scribbled into lyrics is slowly becoming something tangible.

I've also made meaningful connections in the music world. There are now a couple of studios within reach. One remains a waiting game, while another is ready to move forward.

Most exciting of all, I'm finally preparing to record my first Bulgarian pop-folk song under my Euro moniker, Carlitos.

If everything stays on course, within the next week or so I'll be stepping into the studio to record "Нищо не е вечно."

After that, the goal is simple: execute. One song at a time until the rest of the catalog is completed.

The connection with this studio has been a blessing in more ways than one. The owner sees the vision. We're aligned creatively. He understands what I'm trying to accomplish. What started as a studio connection is beginning to feel like a friendship. We've even talked about training together and doing some boxing at a gym he recommended.

Perhaps most importantly, he's deeply connected to the Christian community. That's something I need right now.

Because despite all the progress, the truth is that everything still hurts.

I still visit dark places.

I still carry grief.

I still miss my mother.

I know where I stand with Christ. That has never really been the question. Even in my darkest moments, I know where my faith rests. What I've needed lately is not certainty about God. I've needed His presence.

Today, while driving Lilly home, I found myself talking to God the way someone picks up a phone and calls a friend. I asked Him to guide me. I asked Him to help me figure out what to do with this cat. I asked Him to help me navigate everything else that seems impossible to navigate right now.

He knows my heart.

He knows that I struggle.

He knows that I hurt.

And He knows that despite all of it, I still reach for Him.

The grief continues to surprise me.

Recently, a video surfaced on my phone that I hadn't seen in a long time. It was my mother dancing with a watermelon vendor wearing a watermelon costume on the side of the road. It was exactly the kind of random, joyful moment that defined her.

Then came old voicemails.

Her voice.

Her laughter.

Her joking with me.

Just us being silly with each other like always.

Pieces of a life that feels both distant and impossibly close at the same time.

This morning, before my chiropractor appointment, I sat alone in my car waiting for the office to open.

Not a few tears.

The truth is that I miss her.

She should be here.

I've also found myself struggling with something I didn't fully understand at first.

Lately, I've been more frustrated with my dad than I feel like I should be.

More impatient.

More irritated.

More emotional.

For a while, I couldn't quite figure out why.

Then a thought crossed my mind.

Maybe part of my frustration isn't really about him at all.

Maybe part of it comes from the fact that I don't want to lose him too.

Losing my mother changed something in me.

It reminded me how temporary all of this is.

How quickly life can change.

How the people we assume will always be here eventually won't be.

I don't think I'm angry with my father.

I think I'm hurt.

I think I'm scared.

And sometimes grief comes out sideways.

Sometimes it disguises itself as frustration, impatience, or anger when what's really underneath it is fear.

Fear of losing another person I love.

Fear of going through that kind of loss again.

I don't have all the answers yet.

I'm still trying to understand it myself.

But I think that realization explains more than I originally understood.

Yesterday was Father's Day, and I got to spend it with my dad.

Someone special to me treated us to dinner at a buffet she enjoys. My dad had a good time, and that's what mattered most.

One thing I noticed was how much I find myself helping him these days. At a buffet, you're supposed to wander around and pick what you want, but I spent most of my time helping him decide what he wanted, directing him toward different stations, helping him find things, and making sure he was comfortable.

By the time everything was said and done, I barely ate anything myself.

A few bites here.

A few bites there.

But that wasn't really the point.

The point was spending time with him.

Earlier that same day, Chris called and said he was in town.

I had just woken up when he reached out. He was spending Father's Day with his girlfriend and her father and invited me to stop by.

So I did.

It turns out her father knows my dad, and they've recently become friends, which was a strange coincidence.

I got to spend some time with Chris and share several of the new songs I've been working on. The feedback was overwhelmingly positive. He's excited about the direction of the music and will likely be involved in one of the upcoming projects.

It meant a lot hearing that from someone I've worked with for years.

Sometimes when you're creating something new, you're too close to it to see it clearly. Hearing that excitement from someone you trust helps.

I'm still waiting to hear back from the primary studio where I plan to record much of this material. The studio is currently undergoing renovations, but once everything is complete, we'll sit down and discuss options for a multi-song package and determine how to move forward.

A few days ago, I also heard from Mary, my mother's best friend since high school.

She texted to check on us.

I told her we were surviving.

Her response was simple.

"Yeah, we all are."

And maybe that's the truth of it.

We're all just trying to survive each day the best we can.

Sleep continues to be a struggle.

Unfortunately, sleeping pills, sedatives, and anything that helps me force a few hours of rest are still part of my routine. My counselor has repeatedly pointed out that these graveyard shifts are disrupting my circadian rhythm, and I can feel the effects every day.

The truth is that I'm not built for this schedule.

I've done my best to adapt, but the constant cycle of overnight work, interrupted sleep, exhaustion, and trying to function during normal daytime hours has taken a toll on me physically, emotionally, and mentally.

The irony is that while I'm trying to improve my mental health, this schedule has already caused me to miss two counseling appointments.

Those appointments matter.

Lately it feels like I'm caught between two difficult choices.

Work and pay the bills while watching my mental health deteriorate.

Or prioritize my mental health and risk falling behind financially.

Neither option feels particularly good.

I was telling Chris yesterday that sometimes I just want off this place already.

Then today happened.

And I found myself wondering if maybe God still has work for me to do.

Maybe it's helping a cat.

Maybe it's being there for someone who needs support.

Maybe it's something I haven't seen yet.

I don't know.

What I do know is that suffering is part of life.

And if you're reading this and you're struggling too, you're not alone.

Hang in there.

I'm trying.

A lot of people who came before us had to hang in there too.

Somehow they made it through.

"The Lord is close to the brokenhearted and saves those who are crushed in spirit." — Psalm 34:18

"We also glory in our sufferings, because we know that suffering produces perseverance; perseverance, character; and character, hope." — Romans 5:3–4

I don't always feel strong.

I don't always feel hopeful.

But I guess I'm still here.