Michael Collins, often called the “third astronaut” of Apollo 11, has long been overshadowed by the fame of Neil Armstrong and Buzz Aldrin, the first two men to walk on the moon.

Yet, before his death in 2021, Collins revealed profound insights that challenge popular perceptions of the moon and space exploration, leaving a lasting legacy far beyond his historic mission.

Born on October 31, 1930, in Rome to a military family, Collins was instilled early with discipline and a sense of duty.

After graduating from West Point in 1952, he joined the U.S.Air Force and quickly distinguished himself as a test pilot.

His calm demeanor under pressure earned him the nickname “cool mind,” a trait that would prove vital during the Apollo 11 mission.

Selected by NASA in 1963 from over 2,700 applicants, Collins was part of the third group of astronauts.

His experience included the Gemini 10 mission, where he performed spacewalks and helped develop vital rendezvous and docking techniques that paved the way for lunar landings.

On July 20, 1969, while Armstrong and Aldrin descended to the moon’s surface, Collins remained alone in the command module orbiting the moon.

His role was critical: to maintain the Columbia spacecraft’s orbit, ensure communication, and be ready to rescue his crewmates if needed.

During each orbit, Collins passed behind the moon’s far side, losing all radio contact for about 17 minutes—a solitude no other human had ever experienced.

In his memoir *Carrying the Fire* (1974), Collins described this isolation with remarkable candor: “I am alone now, truly alone and absolutely isolated from any known life.” Yet, he did not feel abandoned or lonely.

Instead, he saw himself as an essential part of the mission, a vital link between Earth and the explorers on the lunar surface.

Collins’ reflections on the moon diverged sharply from the romanticized view held by many.

He described the moon as “not a particularly interesting place,” a “cold, still world where life could not exist.”

To him, its beauty was not intrinsic but came only from the reflection of Earth’s light on its barren surface.

This assessment surprised many in the scientific community and the public, who had attached deep emotional and symbolic meaning to the lunar landing.

Collins saw the moon not as a spiritual destination but as a technical challenge—a test of human engineering and courage.

Collins’ vision extended beyond the moon.

In interviews later in life, he expressed his preference for Mars exploration, famously telling Fox News, “We should shoot directly for Mars. More moon missions just delay us.”

He believed that the true meaning of exploration was pushing human limits and understanding our place in the universe.

More than that, Collins became a passionate advocate for Earth, viewing it as humanity’s final and most precious destination.

From the 1980s onward, he shifted his focus from space exploration to environmental and educational causes, emphasizing humanity’s responsibility to protect the planet.

Unlike Armstrong, who chose silence, or Aldrin, who often spoke of pride in their achievement, Collins was known as the “reflective astronaut.”

He used writing to process the profound loneliness and awe he experienced in space. His calm, philosophical outlook was shaped by seeing Earth from a distance few have ever known.

He once said, “We go outward to learn how to come home,” underscoring his belief that space exploration should deepen our understanding of ourselves and our fragile home.

After Apollo 11, Collins left NASA and pursued a career in public service and education.

He served as assistant secretary of state for public affairs and later became the first director of the National Air and Space Museum in Washington, D.C.

There, he worked tirelessly to preserve humanity’s space heritage and inspire future generations.

Under his leadership, the museum became a cultural landmark, showcasing artifacts like the Columbia command module and celebrating the spirit of exploration.

Collins saw the museum as a sanctuary for courage and curiosity, a place where knowledge belonged to all humanity.

In his final years, Collins lived quietly with his family, enjoying gardening and writing letters to aerospace students.

His last public appearances were marked by humility and a focus on Earth’s unity rather than personal glory.

When asked if he would fly again, Collins replied, “I’ve seen what I needed to see. Nothing can replace the moment of watching Earth shrink in the window.”

His words remind us that sometimes only from great distance can we truly appreciate the beauty and preciousness of our planet.

Michael Collins passed away peacefully in 2021 after a battle with cancer.

His death marked the end of an era, but his legacy endures—not only as an astronaut but as a symbol of perseverance, service, and the quiet power of reflection.

Michael Collins’ story challenges us to rethink what space exploration means. It is not merely about footprints on distant worlds or technological triumphs.

It is about understanding human limits, embracing solitude and responsibility, and ultimately seeing Earth as our shared home.

His life and words inspire a deeper appreciation of our planet and a call to protect it.

As Collins wrote in one of his final letters, “Every time you look up, remember that someone once looked down and saw you all as one.

” His gaze from the farthest edge of space reminds us that exploration is, above all, a journey to understand ourselves.

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