The Dark Side of the Moon
In 1969, human beings were making history by stepping onto the surface of the moon for the very first time. Astronauts Neil Armstrong and Buzz Aldrin were planting an American flag on the moon and discussing their surroundings with wonder. Together, they explored, snapped pictures, conducted experiments, and stood in awe of what they'd accomplished.
Meanwhile, Michael Collins was alone.
Orbiting above them, Collins waited in the command module. His role was critical—without him, the mission couldn't have succeeded. And yet, he wouldn't go down in history with the same certainty of his crewmates. His name isn't often the answer to history questions in classrooms. He remains largely unknown or forgotten, his solitude overshadowed by the footprints left on the lunar surface below.
Mission Control's statement captures his experience: "Not since Adam has any human known such solitude as Mike Collins is experiencing during this 47 minutes of each lunar revolution."
Now, the year is 2024, and I am not alone—not even close. I am standing in the National Air and Space Museum in Washington D.C., surrounded by people, but I'm drawn into Michael Collins' isolation.
I read his words, reflecting on the profound loneliness he felt as he traveled to the dark side of the moon, completely disconnected from every other living being: "I am alone now, truly alone, and absolutely isolated from any known life. I am it. If a count were taken, the score would be three billion plus two over on the other side of the moon, and one plus God knows what else on this side."
And suddenly, I am crying. Not the discreet, watery-eyed kind of cry that is socially acceptable when staring at something sad in a museum. This is not the sort of pretty crying that pretty women are expected to perform. No, this is definitely not that. I am fully sobbing. Not loudly, thank God, but certainly noticeably. My wife's hand is in mine, and I know I'm surrounded by people—friends we brought with us, security, tourists, and strangers. I'm fully convinced that while I cry about the loneliest man there ever was, I am being stared at by everyone in the entire world.
But I can't help it. Through the words on the wall, I could feel that raw, echoing solitude Michael Collins faced on the dark side of the moon.
I scurry off to the restroom, where I find my mascara is smudged, and I look an absolute wreck. As I clean myself up, I wonder if this intense empathy makes me strange. Who cries in the Air and Space Museum, of all museums? And yet, perhaps this is why stories—true or fictional—matter so much. They allow us to experience another's joy, pain, or even loneliness. They let us touch emotions we might otherwise never know. They make us aware of each other—connected to one another.
Studies show that when we read fiction, and we're emotionally transported into the story, we become more empathetic. We learn more about ourselves, but we also learn how to put ourselves into the minds of others. When we read, we're escaping into someone else's mind—someone else's reality. When it's done well, we see what they see, hear what they hear, feel what they feel. I'm in the National Air and Space Museum, surrounded by people, and I feel alone because I read about when Michael Collins was alone.
That's powerful.
In this museum, crying for Michael Collins, for myself, and for anyone else who has ever been or felt alone, I realize again that stories remind us of our connection to each other. And even though I look like a crazy person for this outburst, I am intensely grateful for the moments of empathy that shape me into a better, more understanding person.
Resources
https://pmc.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/articles/PMC3559433/
https://airandspace.si.edu/amp-stories/dark-side-of-the-moon/index.html