Michael Collins

Michael Collins (October 31, 1930 – April 28, 2021) was an American astronaut who flew the

Apollo 11 command module Columbia 80 times around the Moon in 1969 while his crewmates,

Neil Armstrong and Buzz Aldrin, made the first crewed landing on the surface.

He was also a test pilot and major general in the U.S. Air Force Reserve.

via Regina Ochoa, October 13, 2025

"At the very moment when I bore witness to the planet cresting the moon's surface, tethered by gravity to the solar winds of the bright star at my back-- our sun--that I realized I was more. More than a man, pilot, astronaut, father, and husband. I was part of an intangible grand plan."

[Please note, to avoid confusion: Both the space shuttle Columbia and the the Apollo 11 command module (also named Columbia) were termed "orbiters." Collins piloted the Apollo 11 Command Module and never flew on the shuttle.]

Dear Friends who pray and seek peace…

They told me to shout from my place, here in this afterlife -- my existence. I normally do not shout, but I am still working to figure this out, the communication bit.

I was brought to you by my buddies, the ones who flew with me on Apollo 11. They said I could speak with you, and possibly fill in the missing pieces. I left my family "holding the bag." And realized that wasn't fair to them. But, per your calendar, it has been a few years since I let the 'cat out of the bag' as I lay dying.

Because of the internet, my big secret has become more about assumptions and preconceptions of what may or may not have happened back in July 1969.

You (Regina) were a child; I know this because my friends here and your father have shown me. Yes, I met your dad when he was commissioned to do our Apollo 11 Crew portrait. The three of us — Neil (Armstrong), Buzz (Aldrin), and me.

It's funny how I am considered the 'forgotten astronaut' of this threesome; however, that is not how I felt. Never.

I flew the Apollo 11 Mission the same as I was trained for all my flights, my posts, and commands. I accepted each assignment with gratitude and with the knowledge that these missions or test flights were a privilege.

Gemini and Apollo were gifts collected at the top of the mountain, one for each astronaut-in-training who climbed, summited, and was then honored to receive it. How fortunate a man was I, a mere mortal, to have the opportunity to fly to the moon.

Earth's rise over the lunar surface became my awe-moment. The very point at which my life's existence, the reality of my mortality, became known to me, somewhere deep within, I cannot tell you where, but so deep, it awakened in a spark, like the spark off knapped flint falling upon dry tinder.

At the very moment when I bore witness to the planet cresting the moon's surface, tethered by gravity to the solar winds of the bright star at my back-- our sun--that I realized I was more. More than a man, pilot, astronaut, father, and husband. I was part of an intangible grand plan.

I was no longer one individual in humanity, but a life-force greater than my physical body, larger than the Columbia Orbiter. And then, within minutes, darkness surrounded me, when the light of our sun could not reach me, floating in the shadow of the moon.

That is where the rest of this story, my secret, lies. In the darkness, that is where I saw Life. Not what scientists would determine to be alive, but something beyond our physical senses, a light of ethereal wisdom. I experienced calmness, ecstasy, knowing. I was being fully embraced, enveloped -- protected. Something beyond the orbiter penetrated the walls, assuring my safekeeping. Awash in this knowledge, I had no fear.

I knew my mission: the assignment to review all calculations in preparation for possible mishaps with the orbital rendezvous of the lunar module.

I kept calculations at the ready, was prepared, and completed multiple scenarios with precision and calm. I had no fear. Though circumnavigating the moon solo and physically cut off from communication with the rest of humanity, I sensed aloneness only once—the initial tour into the moon's shadow. Strange as it may sound, I felt I was watched, guarded by another source, another type of being? I never saw it, just felt it.

I couldn't speak of this, even to my family ; I shared only the physical sights I witnessed. However, what changed me was what I could not see.

There was no need to return to space. I received the greatest gift — the awakening of my soul.

I wanted everyone to feel this, and giving up my seat to the next in line was one way. I spent my career in support of space exploration, to go beyond and discover the infinite universe. It is not what you think. It is greater — effervescent.

When I died--when my body expired--all the guys were there to catch me. I fell out of my body. The bed I was in just disappeared, and I dropped into a spatial abyss, the same place I floated through when outside Gemini 10. No gravity, just floating, without a spaceflight suit, no tether to the capsule.

I looked around me, and all I saw was space, the depth of darkness of black space brilliantly lit with the stars. Galaxies floated past me, or was I floating past the galaxies? Dots and swirls of lights made from the atoms of millions of gases and minerals. I wasn't wearing any oxygen, no helmet to shield my eyes, no air-filled space suit to protect me from the coldness of space. I wore nothing, and thought, "How strange..." I existed in utter peace, not a care or worry; I could see my body, still, and I looked at it, getting older. "How could I get much older?," I wondered. "I'm 90 Already!"

But then, the body, its skin, the exposed muscles, and skeleton seemed to just slowly vanish into the "thin air" surrounding me. I experienced a freedom like none other. I was completely and utterly free.

That's when the guys showed up, all of them. Neil (Armstrong), Roger (Chaffee), Ed (White), Edgar (Mitchell), Gus (Grissom), and so many others. John (Glenn), Wally (Schirra), and Alan (Shepard). All the fellow flyers who had escaped Earth's gravity. I hadn't realized how many I stood near. I attended their funerals, spoke with their families and friends, and comforted the grieving.

Here, in space, they all came for me. I was not forgotten.

I am not the forgotten astronaut.

I am getting emotional as I write this to those who wish to read it. I, Michael Collins, was a test pilot, astronaut, and champion of space exploration. I never understood why I was allowed to live so long; why hadn't God taken me sooner, to join my friends and colleagues?

Finally, I understand.

Before the spark of light ignited within my body, I was not alive, not truly engaged with all of myself. For the remainder of my life, I quietly studied and sought the purpose of the soul within, striving to never forget how I was enveloped by a greater sense of reality, a larger sense of being. In that moment, on the dark side of the moon, I became more than a human circling the moon, commanding the orbiter. I felt my soul take its breath.

I felt alive, more than alive — immortal. That physical death would come when it was time, and not any sooner.

NASA gave each of us a gift when we were assigned to Apollo 11's mission.

Mine was the discovery of my soul.

Respectfully,

Michael Collins, Major General, USAF

Commander of Apollo 11, July 1969.

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Note from Regina :

I was 13 years old, living at the foothills of the San Gabriel Mountains, north of LaVerne, Calif. My dad would often have his telescope planted out on the lawn outside our 125-year-old ranch house in the warm air of our summer nights. As a young teen, I was unaware of the excitement happening in the night sky that evening. I am sure the black and white television was turned on with the event, but I was not really paying any attention to it.

Dad ran in from outside, out of breath as he called each of us outside. "Hurry," he said. "It's happening."

We followed quickly; there was no denying my dad's insistence when he spotted something exciting through his 3-foot-long telescope. He was bent over the scope, fidgeting with the dials to get the focus right. A lens was comfortable for dad; he was often spotted behind a camera, working to get the correct angle and composition.

Tonight, it was no different, but the excitement in his voice and body was palatable. We kids were occupying ourselves by chasing each other in the warm night air, enjoying the freshly mowed lawn beneath bare feet.

"Ok, come here." He called, standing proudly next to his telescope. "Be careful not to turn anything."

One by one, we squeezed one eye shut and looked through the lens with wonder. The moon, exquisite in all its divots and imperfections, shone through, almost too bright for our youthful eyes.

"It's just the moon," one of the kids said, "You've shown us the moon before."

"But tonight, tonight something historical is happening," Dad replied. "Never forget this moment, the day. Tonight, there is a man, two men are standing on the moon."

I have never forgotten.

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