I'm a melancholy man
That's what I am
All the world surrounds me
and my feet are on the ground
I'm a very lonely man
Doing what I can
All the world astounds me
and I think I understand
That we're going to keep growing
Wait and see
When all the stars are falling down
Into the sea and on the ground
And angry voices carry on the wind
A beam of light will fill your head
And you'll remember what's been said
By all the good men this world's ever known
Melancholy Man by The Moody Blues, 1970
These words by The Moody Blues have echoed through my life for decades.
They meant one thing to me as a child—listening in the background as my mom played their records—and something entirely different as I became a man, especially during the storm of my divorce.
This song, Melancholy Man, is one of my all-time favorites. It carries an ache that is familiar. It doesn’t shout for attention or resolution. It simply is. And that presence—that allowance for what is—holds power.
Art has a way of tracking us through life. It waits quietly, and then, when the moment is right, it speaks directly to the version of us we didn’t know we’d become. During the depth of my divorce, I was a man desperately searching for a solution.
I was listening to podcasts. Reading philosophy. Digesting every book I could find on mental health, on relationship patterns, on trauma. Trying to data-load my way to clarity. I wasn’t listening for truth. I was hunting for a fix.
And then one morning, as I was driving into work—coming down the slope of the Altamont—it hit me.
A beam of light filled my head And I remembered what was said By all the good men this world's ever known
It was surreal. I wasn’t doing anything special. Just driving. Listening. Breathing.
And suddenly everything I had heard, all the messages from wise men across time—and even my own past words—came rushing back. Not as answers. But as truth.
And that truth didn’t arrive with fireworks or a solution.
It came through surrender.
Let’s be clear: surrender is not giving up.
It’s not saying, “I guess this is just how it is.”
It’s not collapse or defeat. It’s not compliance or silence.
Surrender is the moment you stop resisting what’s already true.
Surrender is finally letting go of the fantasy that you can out-think your pain. It’s breathing into the sadness instead of bracing against it. It’s unclenching your fists and saying: I’m tired of fighting this version of myself.
Emotionally, surrender is letting yourself feel. Letting the tears come. Letting the anger move. Letting the confusion swirl without needing to organize it.
Somatically, it’s noticing the weight in your chest, or the tension in your jaw, and breathing into it instead of ignoring it.
Spiritually, it’s saying: I don’t want to live like this anymore. Not as a demand. But as an honest whisper.
And for me, that surrender unlocked something.
The ego doesn’t like surrender.
It wants a reason. A justification. A fight to win.
And I was wrapped in that ego for years—shackled to every story I ever told myself. I was the fixer. The one who “should’ve known better.” The one who was supposed to lead.
And yet there I was: angry, afraid, ashamed, confused. A man who had tried everything and still didn’t feel free.
Surrender meant letting go of all the beliefs I’d formed through a lifetime of gaslighting myself.
I surrendered into the raw statement: "I don’t want this."
I didn’t want the blame, the guilt, the fight.
Not because I was weak. But because I was finally ready to stop holding myself hostage.
And in that moment—just like the song said—a beam of light filled my head.
I remembered what had been said. Not from outside. But from within.
Every wise teacher. Every ancient philosophy. Every mentor, every podcast, every moment of grace I’d ever had.
They didn’t give me answers. They reminded me of what I already knew.
That I am free. That I have always been. That I don’t need to earn love through suffering. That I don’t need to control everything to feel safe. That peace isn’t something I find. It’s something I allow.
This is the power of surrender. This is the turning point. Not because the world outside changed. But because I did.
If you’re reading this and feel like you’re carrying the weight of the world—trying to solve your pain, trying to control the storm, trying to outrun your grief—I invite you to pause.
Stop fighting for a moment.
Feel your feet on the ground.
Let the wave rise in your chest.
Let the truth whisper through you—not the logic or the fix. The truth.
And when you’re ready to speak it, I’ll be here.
Let that be your first rep. I’ll spot you.
Or, as The Moody Blues sang:
And you’ll remember what was said By all the good men this world’s ever known
With love and reverence,
—Aaron