Yesterday I finally said something out loud that I haven’t wanted to admit.
I don’t think I can carry all of this anymore.
I was on Zoom with a friend of mine, Barry.
Barry is a three-time exited founder. He has built companies, sold companies, made millions, and lived the kind of entrepreneurial life that most people from the outside would probably call wildly successful.
I met him a few years ago during one of the most profound spiritual experiences of my life.
Back then he had what he would probably call a dad bod.
I remember seeing an old picture of him from when he was younger, ripped, lean, athletic, and I told him:
“When you’re ready, I got you.”
About six months ago, he became ready.
He came into our world.
He released more than 55 pounds.
He saw his abs for the first time in probably 25 years.
And somewhere along the way, he didn’t just experience the physical work that JJ and I have spent years building.
He experienced the deeper work too.
The emotional work.
The nervous system work.
The part that most people never see when they think this is only about weight.
Yesterday, Barry and I were talking about Soul Body Mind Fit and what comes next.
How we grow it.
How we scale it.
How we stop building everything around me carrying every fucking lever.
Founder.
Coach.
Health and wellness practitioner.
Body mechanics.
Metabolic work.
Greenhouse.
Daily coaching.
Onboarding.
Acquisition calls.
Marketing.
Emails.
Strategy.
Vision.
Problem solving.
Keeping the whole machine moving.
And somewhere in the conversation he stopped talking about business and asked me how I was doing.
Not Colin the founder.
Not Colin the coach.
Not Colin the guy who has an answer.
Me.
And I could feel something in me beginning to crack open.
I held it together for a second.
Then I said:
“I don’t think I can carry this anymore.”
Not in some dramatic way.
Not collapsing.
Not sobbing.
Just truth.
And while we talked, tears started running down my face.
Barry didn’t rush in to fix it.
He didn’t tell me to stay strong.
He didn’t give me a motivational speech.
He just sat there.
And said:
“I get it.”
And stayed there with me.
There was something incredibly powerful about that.
A man sitting with another man and not trying to stop the tears.
Not trying to solve them.
Not trying to make the emotion disappear.
Just letting it finish.
And this thought came through me:
We often laugh to completion, but rarely cry to completion.
Think about it.
We will laugh until we can’t breathe.
Until our stomach hurts.
Until tears are running down our face.
Nobody says:
“That’s enough laughing.”
“Pull yourself together.”
“Stop.”
But somebody starts crying and we immediately want to make it better.
Especially men.
We pat each other on the back.
We say, “You got this.”
“Be strong.”
“It’ll be okay.”
We rush the emotion toward an exit.
And I wonder how many tears I have started in my lifetime that I never actually finished.
How many times some younger version of me began to feel something and somebody told him to stop.
Or I told myself to stop.
Maybe there are decades of unfinished tears finally making their way out.
Because what I keep hearing from God right now is:
You have been carrying this load for decades, my son. It’s time to let it go.
And suddenly I could see it.
Armor.
Piece after piece.
Something hurt me.
Armor.
Someone rejected me.
Armor.
I failed.
Armor.
I lost money.
Armor.
I felt abandoned.
Armor.
I felt ashamed.
Armor.
I felt unsafe.
Armor.
And every time some younger version of me said:
Never again.
Another piece went on.
Never again will I let somebody hurt me like that.
Never again will I let somebody leave me.
Never again will I be broke.
Never again will I look weak.
Never again will I need somebody.
Never again will I be caught unprepared.
Never again.
Never again.
Never again.
Until eventually you are carrying a hundred pounds of protection and wondering why you are so fucking tired.
I keep feeling like God is stripping things away from me.
The business has felt heavy.
My body has been through hell.
The knee replacement.
The infection.
Another surgery.
Weeks of IV antibiotics.
Months of recovery.
Months of barely sleeping.
My relationship changing.
My identity changing.
My life changing.
And for a while, part of me interpreted all of that as loss.
Like pieces of my life were being taken away.
But lately I have started to wonder if something entirely different is happening.
Maybe God isn’t stripping my life away.
Maybe He is stripping away everything I thought I needed to protect myself.
The armor.
The armor that once kept me safe.
The armor that helped me survive.
The armor that helped me become successful.
The armor that taught me how to push.
Produce.
Provide.
Protect.
Keep moving.
Never quit.
Never let anybody see you bleed.
Maybe that armor saved me at one point.
But maybe the thing that saves you at seven can imprison you at 65.
That landed hard.
Because the things that happened to me were:
Experiences, not sentences.
An experience can hurt.
An experience can shape you.
An experience can teach you.
But it does not get to write the rest of your life unless you hand it the pen.
At 65 years old, I am allowed to change the meaning a three-year-old gave something.
A five-year-old.
A seven-year-old.
Those little boys were doing the best they could with the nervous system they had.
They were trying to keep me safe.
I love them for that.
But they don’t have to run the company anymore.
They don’t have to run the relationship.
They don’t have to run my finances.
They don’t have to run my body.
They don’t have to run my future.
They can finally sit down.
King Colin can take it from here.
Earlier this week, fear had me future-casting everything that could possibly go wrong.
Business.
Money.
Health.
Relationships.
The future.
My mind kept projecting itself into moments that had not happened yet.
So I started asking myself some very simple questions.
Do I have a roof over my head?
Yes.
Do I have food?
Yes.
Do I have gas in my car?
Yes.
Do I have people who love me?
Yes.
Do I have friends who show up for me?
Yes.
Does my wife love me?
Yes.
Do I love me?
Yes.
Do I like the man I am becoming?
Yes.
Am I safe right now?
Yes.
Do I have at least ten dollars in the bank?
I smiled.
Yes.
Then in this moment…
all my needs are met.
Not tomorrow.
Not six months from now.
Not in some imaginary future where I have solved every problem and controlled every outcome.
Right now.
I am safe.
I am secure.
I am whole.
I am loved.
And I came back into my body.
Fear lives in the future.
Regret lives in the past.
Peace keeps asking me to come back to now.
Feet on the floor.
Breath in my chest.
Heart beating.
Dogs nearby.
Friends who love me.
Food.
Shelter.
Life.
Right here.
There is something else I keep seeing.
The armor coming off hurts.
I don’t want to romanticize that.
Sometimes it fucking hurts.
Because even armor that is heavy can feel familiar.
Taking it off can make you feel exposed.
Naked.
Weak.
Unprotected.
But something strange is happening at the same time.
As painful as it can be to remove it…
there is relief in setting the weight down.
Maybe being unarmored is not the same thing as being defenseless.
Maybe I am not becoming weaker.
Maybe I am discovering how strong I actually was underneath all that protection.
Years ago, around the time I turned 60, I remember saying something that I still think about.
I said:
I want to become a man who doesn’t give a fuck what people think of him because he thinks the best of himself.
Not arrogance.
Not ego.
Not pretending I am perfect.
Something much quieter.
Appreciation.
Appreciation for the man I have forged through the life I have lived.
The man who fucked up.
The man who succeeded.
The man who failed.
The man who loved.
The man who hurt people.
The man who got hurt.
The man who got back up.
The man who kept searching.
The man who is still willing at 65 years old to say:
I don’t know.
I know nothing.
I still don’t know what I don’t know.
And I still know what I think I know.
Maybe that is freedom.
Not arriving at some enlightened place where I suddenly understand everything.
Not becoming some enlightened motherfucker floating through life without fear, pain, anger, grief, or uncertainty.
Maybe freedom is simply becoming willing to meet whatever is there without putting another piece of armor over it.
Maybe this whole journey is no longer about my knee.
Or JJ.
Or the business.
Or money.
Or what happens next.
Maybe this journey is about coming home to my soul.
My essence.
Who I was before the stories.
Before the fear.
Before the performance.
Before I decided I needed armor.
I keep thinking about a photograph of myself as a little boy.
Maybe one or two years old.
Big grin on my face.
Banging on a drum.
Carefree.
No story about whether I was enough.
No fear about whether I would make enough money.
No concern about whether everybody approved of me.
No need to prove anything.
Just alive.
Maybe Becoming Colin isn’t actually about becoming someone new.
Maybe it is about remembering him.
Calling him home.
Letting him know the war is over.
That what happened was an experience.
Not a sentence.
That he doesn’t have to keep fighting battles that ended decades ago.
That he doesn’t need another piece of armor.
That I’ve got him now.
And maybe every piece that hits the floor is not something being taken away from me.
Maybe it is something I finally no longer have to carry.
The armor is coming off.
And beneath it…
I’m still here.
The little boy banging on the drum.
Still smiling.
Still alive.
Still waiting.
Maybe that’s Becoming Colin.
Not becoming somebody new.
Coming home to the person who was underneath all that armor in the first place.
Much love.
Namaste.
God bless.
Colin F. Watson
One important ask: JJ is fully aware that I’m sharing my journey publicly. This isn’t a secret. But she is choosing to process her own experience privately, so please don’t reach out to her with questions, concerns, condolences, or reactions to what I share here unless she invites that. Please give her the space to move through this in her own way and on her own timeline.