I slept seven hours last night.
Seven hours.
After ten or eleven weeks of sleeping four or five hours, sometimes less, that felt like a fucking win.
My Oura ring showed almost an hour of recovery sleep and 48 minutes of REM.
Progress.
I’d been trying to figure out how to get my sleep back while recovering from this knee replacement, the infection, another surgery, and everything that’s come along with it.
I’ve recently added some peptides back into my routine alongside the sleep medication my doctor prescribed. I’m noticing better sleep, although I don’t know yet which part of that combination is responsible. I’m going to discuss everything I’m taking with my infectious-disease doctor.
I still had some pretty intense bone pain last night that made it difficult to fall asleep.
But once I was out, I slept.
And this morning, I was grateful for that.
Even though I was still fucking tired.
I had to get up earlier than my body wanted because Mona, my home-health nurse, was coming to change the dressing on my PICC line and draw my weekly labs.
I got my antibiotic out of the refrigerator so it could come up to room temperature.
JJ and I had some coffee.
I sat down on the couch to begin my morning letter to God.
And right about then, the doorbell rang.
Mona was here.
And my morning was about to get a little more interesting.
Last night, while administering my antibiotic, I’d been moving around and bent over to get something.
The tubing from my PICC line caught on something.
I stood up.
It tugged.
Not dramatically.
Just enough for me to notice.
I immediately stopped, untangled it, and went about my business.
Didn’t think much of it.
Until this morning.
Mona was changing my dressing and preparing to draw my blood.
One of the benefits of having a PICC line is that it can be used to administer antibiotics and, when functioning appropriately for blood draws, collect blood without having to stick me with another needle.
Every Monday, we draw labs to monitor how my body is responding to treatment.
She flushed the line.
No problem.
Then she tried to draw blood.
Nothing.
She tried again.
Still nothing.
And suddenly, I remembered the tug from last night.
Fuck.
Did I move it?
Did I pull it out of position?
Are they going to have to adjust it?
Replace it?
Am I going to need another procedure?
Another drive to a medical office that’s now forty minutes away?
Another fucking inconvenience?
I could feel the energy changing in my body.
My anxiety started climbing.
My breathing shifted.
My mind was already three steps ahead of what was actually happening.
Mona assessed the line, told me to continue administering my antibiotics, and explained that she’d report the change in blood return so the appropriate team could determine whether anything further was needed.
She drew my labs directly from my arm instead.
The old-fashioned way.
Not my favorite, but she’s good at it.
No big deal.
The antibiotic was still being administered under her instructions.
The bloodwork was done.
The change was being reported.
That was what I actually knew.
But my mind?
My mind had already started writing an entirely different fucking story.
It’s fascinating to watch what fear does.
One moment, you’re sitting on the couch having a normal morning.
The next, your mind has you driving to the hospital, getting another ultrasound, having somebody adjust or replace a PICC line, and dealing with yet another complication.
And none of those things had happened.
There was a real issue worth reporting.
But the rest?
I didn’t know.
I was taking myself into a possible future and emotionally experiencing it in the present.
I could feel my nervous system responding to my own thoughts.
The heightened energy.
The shallow breathing.
The anxiety.
All because my mind wanted to finish a story that hadn’t been written yet.
And I recognized it.
There you are, Fearful Frank.
Good morning, buddy.
I see you.
I know you’re trying to protect me.
But we don’t have all the facts yet.
My nurse has assessed the situation.
She’s reporting the change.
We’ve done what we need to do for now.
Let’s not live through five different possible outcomes before we know what’s actually happening.
I started taking some deeper breaths.
And I reminded myself of something I’ve been repeating lately.
Everything is working out for me.
I don’t say that because I have some guarantee that life will unfold exactly the way I want it to.
I say it because it helps me remember that I can meet whatever is actually in front of me.
I’ve been through some shit.
Seven back surgeries.
A knee replacement.
A serious infection.
A second knee surgery.
Business challenges.
Relationship challenges.
Addiction.
Times when I wasn’t sure how I was going to make it through.
And here I am.
Still standing.
Well, sometimes sitting.
Sometimes limping.
Sometimes attached to a fucking antibiotic pump.
But I’m here.
I’ve survived every one of the worst days I’ve lived through so far.
That doesn’t mean every future day will be easy.
It doesn’t mean everything will turn out exactly how I imagine.
But my own history gives me something to lean on.
I’ve been afraid before.
I’ve been overwhelmed before.
I’ve been uncertain before.
And I’ve found ways to keep moving.
Sometimes with help.
Sometimes one painful little step at a time.
I don’t have to know every answer this morning.
I just need to deal with what’s actually happening.
And then something happened.
Not outside of me.
Inside of me.
I stopped looking so far ahead.
And I looked out the window.
The windows were open.
There was a cool breeze coming through the room.
The leaves on the trees were barely moving.
No cars.
No traffic.
Not even birds making noise.
Just quiet.
And the sound of water flowing from the fountain outside my front door.
I could hear it.
That gentle, steady sound.
Water falling into water.
My little three-legged Chihuahua, Chapo, was leaning up against me.
I put my hand on my heart.
And I listened.
The fountain.
The breeze.
The stillness.
Chapo’s little body pressed against mine.
And right there, sitting on my couch, I felt it.
Peace.
A few minutes earlier, I’d been anxious about my PICC line and everything that might happen next.
Now I was sitting in the same room.
The situation hadn’t magically disappeared.
I still didn’t know whether the line would need any additional attention.
But I could feel peace in my body.
I brought myself back into the moment I was actually living.
And I was grateful.
So fucking grateful.
Because I realized something.
I may not have peace throughout the entire day.
Something else might happen.
I might get another phone call.
My knee might start hurting.
I might get frustrated.
Fearful Frank might decide he’s got another fucking presentation he’d like to give.
Who knows?
But I have this moment.
Right now.
And this moment counts.
I’ve been noticing this more and more lately.
A few mornings ago, I was lying in bed with sunlight cracking through the edges of my blackout curtains.
I scanned my body and realized that my knee didn’t hurt.
For the first time in what felt like forever, I could lie there without that constant physical pain demanding my attention.
And instead of immediately getting up to test it, I stayed still.
I let myself experience it.
I thanked God.
I actually cried later when I read that journal entry back.
I couldn’t tell you exactly why.
I was just grateful.
Then there was the morning I woke up in the darkness with Chapo snoring beneath the covers.
I’d barely slept.
My mind was racing.
But as I moved through my thoughts, I discovered that I felt peaceful.
And now here I am again.
A different morning.
A different situation.
A different reason for my mind to start worrying.
But somehow, I found my way back.
I’m beginning to recognize that peace doesn’t always require my circumstances to change.
Sometimes it requires me to notice where I actually am.
To feel my body.
To listen.
To stop demanding that the next hour, the next day, the next month, or the next chapter of my life be figured out before I allow myself to experience what’s available right now.
That’s new for me.
Or maybe it’s something I’ve experienced before and just didn’t recognize often enough.
Either way, I like it.
I like this version of my life where I get to stop in the middle of everything and recognize that there’s something beautiful happening.
Even while other things remain unresolved.
And it brings me back to something I’ve been exploring in my letters to God.
All these parts of me.
Fearful Frank.
Angry Andy.
Sad Sammy.
Frustrated Freddy.
The wounded little boys who show up when something happens and immediately start reacting from what they’ve experienced before.
For a long time, I thought emotional regulation meant getting those parts under control.
Quieting them.
Overcoming them.
Making sure they didn’t show up.
Becoming the man who never gets knocked off center.
But I’m starting to experience it differently.
What if I don’t need to get rid of them?
What if I can recognize them?
Listen to them?
Love them?
Be the parent to those parts of myself that I needed when I was younger?
I can say:
I hear you, Frank.
I know you’re scared.
Something happened with the PICC line, and we don’t know exactly what comes next.
But we’re here.
We’ve taken care of what needs attention right now.
We’re going to get the information.
And whatever the next step is, we’ll deal with it when we get there.
You don’t have to figure it all out this minute.
You can sit here with me.
Listen to the water.
Feel Chapo leaning against us.
Take a breath.
We’re okay in this moment.
And the same goes for Angry Andy.
Sad Sammy.
Frustrated Freddy.
Every part of me.
I don’t have to pretend they’re not there.
I don’t have to shame them for showing up.
I don’t have to let them drive my decisions, either.
I can make room for them.
And keep being the adult in the room.
The man.
The father to those younger parts of myself.
King Colin, if you will.
Not some perfect, emotionless version of me who never feels fear.
A man who can feel fear and still take care of himself.
A man who can be frustrated and still be kind.
A man who can experience uncertainty and still recognize a peaceful moment when it arrives.
That’s the work.
That’s what I’m practicing.
That’s what Becoming Colin is about for me.
As I sit here finishing this letter, the water is still flowing outside.
The breeze is still coming through the window.
Chapo is still leaning against me.
My hand is on my heart.
And I have another day above ground.
Another day to experience this life.
Another day to heal.
Another day to figure things out.
Another day to be surprised by whatever comes next.
I don’t know exactly what today’s labs will show.
I don’t know whether the PICC line will need any further attention.
I don’t know how I’ll feel tonight.
And I’m not going to pretend I do.
But I don’t need those answers to appreciate this moment.
I have this moment.
The sound of the water.
The quiet.
My little dog.
My breath.
My heart beating beneath my hand.
Peace in my body.
And gratitude for being here to experience it.
I may not feel this way all day.
And that’s okay.
If fear comes back, he can come back.
If frustration shows up, there’s room for that, too.
If I’m tired, sad, grateful, angry, excited, or uncertain, I don’t have to make any of those feelings wrong.
I can notice them.
I can listen.
I can take care of myself.
And I can come back to the present when I’m able.
Because here’s what I want to remind myself of today.
All of me is welcome.
The warrior.
The scared little boy.
The man who’s rebuilding.
The man who’s tired of medical appointments.
The man who’s grateful for another morning.
The man who still doesn’t have all the answers.
All of me.
Welcome.
And if you’ve read this far, I want to share something with you.
Whatever you’re moving through.
Whatever parts of yourself you’ve been trying to hide, silence, fix, or make more acceptable.
Whatever you’re feeling right now.
You don’t have to reject yourself for feeling it.
All of you is welcome, too.
Thank you, God.
For this morning.
For the sound of the water.
For Chapo.
For reminding me to come back to my body.
For allowing me to experience peace without needing to know how the whole day will unfold.
With love,
Colin F. Watson