Maybe I’m Not Bad at Friendship. Maybe I’ve Been Afraid.

I took a short walk this morning.

Short because I’m still learning how to trust my knee again.

I have the wound vac sitting on top of it, and I don’t have the flexion I had before the infection and the second surgery. Everything feels tighter. Less stable.

So I’m back to using my cane.

There’s something humbling about that.

A couple of weeks ago I was walking thousands of steps a day. This morning I’m paying attention to every step, trying not to bend too far, learning how to walk comfortably again.

And while I walk, I usually Marco Polo with my buddy Adam.

That’s become part of my mornings.

Adam is also the founder of DGHBOY, the men’s group I’ve become a part of, and he was on our Sunday call yesterday when something happened that got under my skin.

So this morning, while I was walking, I found myself reflecting back to him about that moment—especially how quickly I watched Over-Explainer Eddie come into the room after Aslin challenged me.

Two men talking about something one of them had witnessed the day before, while the other one limps around his new neighborhood with a cane and a wound vac.

And what happened on that call was still working on me.

We were talking about relationships and friendships and the idea that cultivating friendship is actually a skill.

I’ve never really thought of it that way.

I’ve always described myself as introverted.

I don’t particularly like small talk.

I don’t enjoy superficial conversations.

I’ve gone to networking events and somehow managed to attend the entire event without actually networking.

I’ve always thought:

That’s just me.

Then Aslin, one of the coaches in the group, challenged me.

I was explaining that I don’t really enjoy chit-chat or superficial friendships and she basically said:

“Well, that’s about you. Not them.”

Ooh.

Then she pushed a little further.

If nurturing friendship requires being curious about another person’s life, maybe my discomfort with those conversations isn’t about the conversations at all.

Maybe it’s about me.

Maybe I’m focused on what I’m getting out of the interaction.

And there he was.

Over-Explainer Eddie.

One of my inner children.

He came running into the room ready to explain:

No, no, no. You misunderstood me. That’s not what I meant.

I’ve gotten pretty good at recognizing him.

When Over-Explainer Eddie shows up, something has usually landed close enough to a wound that I suddenly feel the need to explain why the other person doesn’t quite understand me.

My first instinct was:

But I care deeply about people.

And I do.

Then I started thinking about who I am when I’m coaching.

When I’m sitting across from a client, curiosity comes naturally.

Someone says something unusual and I pull the thread.

“Tell me more about that.”

“What did that feel like?”

“What do you think is underneath that?”

I listen.

I probe.

I’m genuinely curious.

So apparently I know how to do this.

But put me in front of somebody I don’t know, without the role of coach, and suddenly I want to make the conversation as short as possible.

That’s interesting.

Maybe the problem isn’t that I don’t know how to connect.

Maybe there’s something safer about being Coach Colin than simply being Colin.

Then life gave me an opportunity to practice it almost immediately.

Since moving into this house, I’ve been surprised by how many men in the neighborhood have introduced themselves to me.

Kurt.

Francisco.

Mike.

Alvin.

Alvin literally pulled up in his truck one day, jumped out, welcomed me to the neighborhood, gave me a hug and told me if I needed anything to let him know.

Just good people being kind.

This morning I saw another neighbor walking his dog.

Normally I might have just said:

“Morning.”

And kept walking.

Instead, I thought:

Practice.

So I said good morning.

Then I asked:

“What’s your dog’s name?”

“Louis.”

His owner’s name was Mic.

And we started talking.

Mic noticed my wound vac and asked if I was okay.

I told him I’d had a knee replacement, it became infected, and I’d just gotten out of the hospital after another surgery.

“You gonna be all right?”

“Yeah. I’m gonna be all right. It’s just a setback.”

Then he asked where I’d moved from.

Oxnard.

He laughed.

“Why would you move from Oxnard to here? It’s so much cooler there.”

So I told him.

The lease on our beach house ended.

My wife and I are separating.

I grew up here in the Valley, and something in me wanted to come back to my roots.

And we kept talking.

Nothing profound happened.

I didn’t make a new best friend this morning.

We were just two guys standing on a sidewalk talking about dogs, knees, neighborhoods and life.

But something did happen.

I stayed.

I didn’t escape the discomfort of a beginning conversation.

I asked questions.

I became curious.

And I realized:

This is a skill.

Maybe I’ve spent years calling something a personality trait that was at least partially protection.

That realization took me somewhere more uncomfortable.

I have a friend I’ve known for years.

We actually started working together in a hospital.

He was incredibly organized, so he kept track of all the packages coming in.

I was the guy unloading the trucks and bringing everything inside.

Eventually I left and got into the mortgage business.

For the first time in my life, I started making real money.

I remember driving up in my BMW and him looking at me like:

“What the hell are you doing, man?”

I told him about mortgages.

They pay you points.

You can make real money.

You get to wear a suit every day.

Eventually I brought him into the business.

We both ended up building thriving mortgage companies.

And we were competitive.

But he was incredibly good with his money.

He came to this country as an immigrant with about a thousand dollars and eventually parlayed what he created into millions.

Today he lives what I would describe as the life of his dreams.

I’m proud of him.

I’m inspired by him.

His life reminds me what’s possible.

And if I’m completely truthful…

sometimes being around his success makes me feel bad about myself.

Because I compare.

Look how far he’s gone.

Look where I am.

I should be further along by now.

And this morning I admitted something I don’t particularly like admitting.

I think that may be part of the reason I haven’t nurtured that friendship.

That’s hard to write.

Because “I’m an introvert” is a much easier story.

But maybe I’ve allowed some relationships to fade not because I didn’t care about the person…

but because being around them activated something I didn’t want to feel about myself.

Less than.

Behind.

Not successful enough.

Not where I thought I would be by now.

And that’s one of those moments when I have to stop bullshitting myself.

The irony is almost ridiculous.

I’ve spent years saying you become the byproduct of the people you spend the most time around.

And yet for much of my marriage, I increasingly isolated myself.

JJ became the person I spent the overwhelming majority of my time with.

My wife.

My business partner.

My closest friend.

My sounding board.

My encourager.

My person.

And I’m realizing that one human being cannot be everything to another human being.

Maybe they were never supposed to be.

I need men in my life.

Not just “contacts.”

Not people I can sell something to.

Not networking relationships.

Men.

Men I can laugh with.

Men I can learn from.

Men who challenge me.

Men who are building things.

Men who are falling down and getting back up.

Men who are trying to understand themselves.

Men who can see something in me that I can’t see.

And men I can do the same for.

I’ve spent a lot of time lately thinking about brotherhood.

Now I’m realizing brotherhood doesn’t just show up because I finally decided I want it.

I have to participate in creating it.

And maybe that’s what Aslin was trying to show me.

Curiosity isn’t something I should reserve for clients.

I can be curious about a human being simply because there’s another human being standing in front of me.

I don’t need an agenda.

I don’t need a reason.

I don’t need to know whether we’re going to become friends.

I can just ask:

“What’s your dog’s name?”

And see where it goes.

Maybe the deep conversations I’ve always said I want sometimes begin with the shallow conversations I’ve spent my life avoiding.

That’s a little fucking humbling.

My wife and I are separated right now.

Maybe it’s temporary.

Maybe it isn’t.

I genuinely don’t know.

But I’m realizing that whatever happens with our marriage, there are things I need to learn now.

I get to learn what it feels like to nurture friendships.

To nurture myself.

To nurture my health.

To lean into my men’s circle.

To surround myself with men who are leveling up—not just financially, but internally.

Men who are asking questions.

Men who are learning.

Men who are trying to discover who they are.

Because that’s what I’m doing.

I’m discovering Colin.

And here’s the strange beauty of it.

I’m doing it at 65.

I’m walking around a new neighborhood with a cane.

My knee is healing.

My marriage is uncertain.

My business is changing.

My body isn’t where I want it to be.

There are still parts of my life I don’t have figured out.

And somehow I don’t feel like I’m too late.

I’m beginning to understand that some of the things I thought I wasn’t good at may simply be things I never practiced.

And some of the things I’ve called my personality may actually have been protections I built a long time ago.

Maybe I still need some of them.

Maybe I don’t.

I get to find out.

So tomorrow I’ll probably take another walk.

Maybe I’ll see Mic and Louis.

Maybe I’ll meet somebody else.

Maybe I’ll just walk.

But I’m going to keep practicing something that sounds ridiculously simple:

Stay a little longer.

Ask another question.

Be curious.

Let somebody know me.

And maybe, one ordinary conversation at a time, I’ll build a life with more people in it.

Not because my marriage succeeded or failed.

Not because I’m lonely.

Not because I need someone else to complete me.

Because nurturing relationships is part of nurturing me.

I’m discovering Colin.

And apparently, part of discovering him is finally letting him walk back into the world.

Even if, for now, he needs a cane.

Colin F. Watson