October 4, 2026
Grand day rising.
My Conversation with God.
Sometimes you find yourself in tears over FaceTime with someone you’ve loved for 26 years.
No anger.
No fighting.
No trying to prove who was right.
Just sadness.
Grieving what was.
Fear of what may or may not be.
And underneath all of it, somehow, trust.
Trusting the process.
Trusting God.
And trusting what I know about both of our hearts.
JJ and I had one of those conversations.
And what I realized again is that when our wounded children aren’t running the room, there really isn’t a war between us.
There are two people who love each other.
Two people who have hurt each other.
Two people who have disappointed each other.
Two people who spent 26 years trying to figure out how to love each other while also trying to figure out themselves.
And two people who, at their core, genuinely want the other person to be happy.
Not comfortable.
Not compliant.
Not staying because leaving feels too scary.
Happy.
To their core.
And maybe that happiness eventually brings us back together.
If that happens, beautiful.
Maybe God has some road neither one of us can see right now that somehow bends back toward something incredibly familiar.
Twenty-six years familiar.
And maybe it doesn’t.
Maybe happiness means our lives move in different directions.
Maybe we become forever friends.
Maybe we remain business partners.
Maybe somehow we become this strange anomaly in a world where people seem to believe that when romantic relationships end, somebody has to become the enemy.
Wouldn’t that be fucking amazing?
To love somebody deeply.
To acknowledge that your lives may need to change.
And still want them to win.
Still support them.
Still care about them.
Hell, maybe even still build an empire together.
Somebody reading that is probably thinking:
Yeah. Good luck, buddy.
And maybe you’re right.
I don’t know.
Neither one of us knows.
But I know what the desire is.
The desire is not war.
The desire is not to destroy 26 years so we can each justify whatever happens next.
The desire is not to make somebody wrong because they want to feel loved differently.
That landed deeply for me.
JJ said something to me that hurt, but I understood it.
She said:
I love you. I just can no longer tolerate only getting pieces of you.
She deserves to feel that.
She deserves to desire more.
I don’t have to defend myself against that.
I don’t have to explain all the reasons I was working or building or distracted or trying to hold everything together.
Her experience is still her experience.
And my truth came out too.
I told her:
I love you too. I just realized you no longer believe in me.
And that hurts.
Fuck, that hurts.
Because when somebody has been beside you for more than half of your adult life, their belief in you becomes something you almost assume will always be there.
And when you no longer feel it?
It touches something really deep.
Not-Good-Enough Eddie wakes up.
Fearful Frank starts pacing.
Rejected Reggie wants to know what the fuck happened.
The little boy starts wondering:
Maybe she’s right.
Maybe the dream is too big.
Maybe I should stop.
Maybe I really did fuck this up.
But then something else in me says:
No.
Not no to JJ.
No to abandoning myself.
God gave me these dreams.
They were planted in me.
They have stayed with me through every collapse, every rebuild, every mistake, every reinvention.
The dream has never really gone away.
So at some point I have to believe it without needing somebody standing beside me saying:
I believe it too.
Maybe that is another part of Becoming Colin.
Learning that someone can love me deeply and still not believe in the road I’m choosing.
And I don’t have to make them wrong for that.
But I also don’t have to abandon the road.
Maybe some people figure out how to build massive dreams while being fully connected, fully present, showering their partner with attention and love, creating financial abundance and emotional safety at the same time.
Maybe they do.
For whatever reason, up until now, I have not figured out how to do all of that consistently.
That’s truth.
I can own that.
But I can’t keep beating myself over the head with it.
I can’t keep waking up every day using all the places I failed someone else as evidence that I’m fundamentally failing at being me.
That doesn’t help JJ.
And it damn sure doesn’t help me.
What was beautiful about our conversation was watching what happens when the wounded children quiet down.
Angry Andy.
Sad Sammy.
Sad Shelley.
Not-Good-Enough Eddie.
Choose-Me Charice.
Fearful Frank.
All of them have needs.
All of them have fears.
All of them can feel lack.
And when they’re screaming loudly enough, they can convince us that their fear is the entire truth.
But those wounded parts are not the entire human beings carrying them.
That’s something I have to keep remembering.
I can have fear without becoming fear.
JJ can have fear without fear becoming JJ.
I can feel rejected without turning her into someone who rejected all of me.
She can feel neglected without turning me into someone who never loved her.
Both things can exist.
Pain can exist.
Love can exist.
Disappointment can exist.
Gratitude can exist.
Grief can exist.
Possibility can exist.
All in the same fucking room.
That’s probably the part most people don’t know what to do with.
We want a clean story.
Who was right?
Who was wrong?
Who left?
Who fucked up?
Who’s moving on?
Who’s winning the breakup?
I don’t want that story.
For those of you reading Becoming Colin who think I’ve already moved on, I haven’t.
I’m moving forward.
Those are different things.
I’m moving forward and letting the road show me where it leads.
I am exploring myself.
JJ is exploring herself.
I am discovering what I want.
She is discovering what she wants.
And maybe somewhere down that road our paths meet again.
If they do, beautiful.
And if they don’t?
That can be beautiful too.
Because a few mornings ago, in one of the most frightened moments I’ve had during this journey, I heard something very clearly:
Get in the back seat of the limo and let me drive.
And if I actually believe that was God speaking into me, then I don’t get to sit in the back seat barking directions.
Turn here.
Go faster.
No, not that road.
Take me back.
I know a shortcut.
That’s not surrender.
That’s me pretending to surrender while still trying to drive from the back seat.
If I’m going to let God drive, then at some point I have to stop second-guessing the directions.
I don’t know the destination.
I don’t know the roadmap.
I don’t know whether the road circles back to something I’ve loved for 26 years or takes me somewhere neither one of us has ever imagined.
I only know what I’m being asked to do today.
Keep becoming.
Keep feeling.
Keep telling myself the truth.
Keep loving without gripping.
Keep choosing myself without making somebody else wrong.
Keep letting JJ choose herself without making her choice mean something about my worth.
And trust the fucking driver.
Maybe that is faith.
Not knowing where you’re going.
Just knowing whose hands you put the wheel in.
So today I don’t need an answer.
I don’t need to know whether JJ and I find our way back to each other.
I don’t need to know who I may meet.
I don’t need to know what our business looks like two years from now.
I don’t need to know which road is going to become home.
Today I only need to be here.
And I can love her from here.
I can love myself from here.
And I can trust God from here.
Thank you, God, for listening.
Thank you, God, for being my guide.
Thank you, God, for continuing to show me who I truly am.
And thank you, God, for loving JJ.
She is a beautiful soul.
Namaste.
Colin F. Watson
One important ask: JJ is fully aware that I’m sharing my journey publicly. This isn’t a secret. She is choosing to process her own experience privately, so please don’t contact her with questions, concerns, condolences, or reactions to what I share unless she invites that. Please give her the space to move through her journey in her own way and on her own timeline.