Surviving the War Within: Becoming a Death Doula – An Interview with Chris Eaton

What if the moment your life falls apart is actually the moment your soul begins to awaken?

For Chris Eaton, healing wasn’t a straight line — it was a collapse. A combat veteran and former military contractor, Chris spent years suppressing emotion, numbing trauma with alcohol and prescription medication, and forcing himself to perform through pain. On the outside, he was successful — a husband, father, entrepreneur. On the inside, he was unraveling. In 2018, overwhelmed by depression, chronic pain, and the weight of perfectionism, Chris attempted to take his own life.

But that moment became the doorway.

From psychedelic-assisted therapy and Tibetan breathwork to deep soul inquiry and trauma integration, Chris’s journey led him from emotional shutdown to radical self-acceptance. Today, he serves as a death doula, coach, and co-owner of Trinity Yoga Wellness Center in Florida, guiding others – veterans, those battling addiction, and people standing on the edge back to themselves.

In this conversation, Chris shares how releasing shame can dissolve lifelong suffering in an instant, why answering the question Who am I? is the foundation of true healing, and how breath, meditation, and presence can rewrite even the deepest neural patterns. Continue reading — or listen in on Spotify, Apple Podcasts, Amazon Music, or YouTube — to discover how Chris Eaton transformed from a man ready to end his life into a soul devoted to helping others reclaim theirs.

I absolutely loved reading your chapter in Awakened Hearts. The opening scene is incredibly powerful — you’re in the midst of deep despair and actually attempting to take your own life. As a reader, it immediately grabs you. My mind was going, Wait — this person is clearly still here because they wrote the chapter… So there’s this moment of celebration, and then I’m pulled back into the moment of despair. What was happening in your life in 2018 that led you to that point?

Chris Eaton: I missed the manual for how to live. No one gave me instructions, and I didn’t have a mentor who taught me what to do with my thoughts and emotions — especially when life gets intense. We all go through ups and downs, that rollercoaster, but I didn’t know how to handle any of it.

Growing up, I was bullied. I’d come home with black eyes. One guy hit me in the head with an old boombox stereo. It was terrifying, and I didn’t talk about it. I would just go home and cry. My dad tried to help — he put me in martial arts — and that taught me some self-defense, but emotionally, I still didn’t know how to process anything.

That pattern actually worked well when I went into the military. In the military, we don’t do emotions. You show up ready to perform your job, no matter what is going on in your mind.

Emotions don’t seem very helpful in the military — unless it’s intensity or anger, or maybe just being highly focused.

Chris Eaton: Exactly. You get very focused and just set emotions aside. I did that for a long time. But when you keep hiding the vulnerable parts of yourself, you put them in a cloud somewhere and tell yourself, I’ll come back for you later. And then you forget to go back. You don’t talk to anyone about it — not a mentor, not even yourself at the end of the day.

I spent 15 months overseas in the military, and then I worked another three years as a military contractor. So I spent almost five years in Iraq, Afghanistan, and the surrounding region. I experienced things that were difficult to rationalize. I shoved everything into a bucket of ‘just ignore it’ — it’s like a crazy movie. But it doesn’t work like that. You can’t sort through your mind or your emotions by pretending they didn’t happen.

I coped with alcohol and prescriptions. I’ll talk more about that later, but that was the beginning of everything unraveling.

On top of the emotional weight, everything bad seemed to pile up at once. I had three fractures in my spine, so I was on pain pills. I had anxiety and depression, which I initially tried to numb with alcohol. It made me laugh a little, but one drink stopped being enough — then it became two, then three.

By 2018, I was drinking almost two-thirds of a bottle of 750ml liquor a day just to kill both the physical pain in my body and the pain in my mind. I just wanted to sleep.

Were you working at the time?

Chris Eaton: Yes. From the outside, everything looked great. People just thought I was a heavy drinker — Scottish and Irish heritage, you know? On social media, it all looked successful. I had started a couple of businesses and was trying to get them off the ground while working a full-time job. I was in a good marriage. My kids were four and two, and healthy. They were well-behaved. From the outside, our life looked ideal.

But inside, I was extremely depressed. It took everything I had just to get out of bed. I couldn’t even look at myself in the mirror. I mention in the book that I would brush my teeth while staring at the sink, thinking, What is this? What is today going to bring?

I started withdrawing from people. I gave away a lot of my things. I lost interest in everything I cared about.

The part that really scared me was when it started affecting my professional development. I developed brain fog. My boss would ask me about something we had discussed a couple of days earlier, and I couldn’t recall the conversation. My grandfather had Alzheimer’s, and my dad is dealing with pre-onset dementia. I thought, Great. I’m losing my mind, too.

My body was broken, my spirit was broken, and I didn’t see the point in living.

I felt like a burden. I wasn’t being a good dad, I wasn’t being a good husband, and I wasn’t performing at work. If I were the boss, I would have fired myself. I was so hard on myself — I was a perfectionist. I saw myself as a discarded human being.

And yet the attempt did not work.

Chris Eaton: No, it didn’t.

I love that line — I may not have it exactly right — but the idea of, “I couldn’t even get this right.” That feeling of, I failed at this, too. And we are all so thankful that you failed. I know so many people in your life are. One of the things you mentioned was that 33 fellow veterans had taken their lives since 2010, when you left the military. When I read that, I thought, Do you actually know 33 people? Were these people you knew personally, or is that just a number from a battalion? Where does that number come from, and how did hearing one after another impact your soul?

Chris Eaton: First, to clarify — out of the 33, every single one of them was in my cell phone. They were contacts. I met them. I knew them to some degree. Some were people I hung out with a few times. Others I worked with for a year or two.

As far as the ones who were super close to me, that number is more like four. Those are the guys I really miss. One of them was supposed to be at my wedding. He killed himself a month before my wedding.

If I told you I had four close friends who took their lives, that alone would be shocking. But you’re talking about 33. I can’t imagine how that impacted you.

Chris Eaton: I grew up around death, so in a strange way, it was familiar. Family members passing from age or cancer. And I grew up outside of Chicago — in my four years of high school alone, I probably went to 12 or 13 funerals. Drive-bys, overdoses, kids experimenting with drugs, some gang-related. Death was normal. It was like, Watch your back. Watch your six.

Oddly enough, that probably helped me in the military.

Fast forward — overseas, I already had situational awareness, and I felt comfortable in the war zones. I thought, if it’s my time, it’s my time. I’m a patriot. I’ll die a hero. A martyr. Maybe. I was strangely comfortable around death.

But I was not comfortable around suicide.
I never understood it. I would have told you back then, “That guy would never attempt that. It doesn’t make sense. People who do that must have lost their minds. They must be on drugs.”

Only to later find myself abusing prescription medications and alcohol to try to end my own life.

I was taking more pills than prescribed. I knew alcohol would amplify the effect and numb the pain. You’re not supposed to mix them, you’re not supposed to exceed the dosage — but I did. I just wanted to stop hurting.

Now, I look back and think…
Maybe they just wanted the pain to stop, too.

Ultimately, that’s what suicide comes down to — hopelessness and wanting to stop the pain. What different therapies or therapeutic paths did you go down to cope with what you experienced — the military trauma, your back injuries, and the mental challenges? What did you try?

Chris Eaton: After the attempt, I knew alcohol and pain meds weren’t the way. I had a couple of really good friends, Chris and Cynthia, who started challenging me. One of them said, “I don’t think you could go a month without drinking.” And I was like, Hold my beer — challenge accepted. That’s my personality. I ended up going three and a half months, just to prove I could.

And we didn’t just cut out alcohol — we cut out sugar, caffeine, gluten, everything. My brain fog started to lift, and I felt clearer. I thought, Wait… If I eat like this, I feel better? Maybe I’ve been doing it wrong. Maybe I’m not Superman. Maybe I need to support my body in a certain way. Not because I’m weak, but because I want a clear mind and mental fortitude.

Nutrition was the first thing that started leveling my emotions and clearing my thinking.

Then I went to the VA, and they put me into mental health counseling. I went through 21 counselors in the VA system. Each gave me a different perspective. Some of it was helpful, but a lot of it felt circular — I’d run through their entire curriculum of 12 or 20 sessions and still feel stuck.

I also went to six or seven different pastors, different denominations, different approaches. Then I went to marital counseling.

There’s a belief in the military — and law enforcement — that if you seek counseling, your clearance gets revoked. You lose your job. If you show mental instability, you lose the ability to carry a weapon. They’ll take your badge, your gun, your career. You’re done.

That belief kept me silent for a long time.

So when I first went for help, I went through marital counseling. I showed up saying, “Yeah, we’re having problems in our marriage,” which was true — but I didn’t dare say, I’m having suicidal thoughts. I was terrified they would Baker Act me, put me in a psych ward, or cut my paycheck. I was thinking, If they do that, my family starves.

Eventually, counseling helped me open up more about depression and anxiety.

But it wasn’t until five years in — in 2023 — that I finally had a breakthrough. I said, “Guys, for four years you’ve been handing me this pill, that pill, and telling me I’ll be in talk therapy for the rest of my life. Maybe once a month, maybe every couple of months. I don’t want that. That sounds like a pretty crappy life.”

I’d like to read a short passage from your chapter, as it’s directly related to what you’re describing.

You write, “The message was always the same: There’s no cure. You’ll learn to cope. The real turning point began over a videoconference with a therapist who didn’t flinch. He listened without rushing, his eyes steady, and he began to assign small tasks such as answering:

“Who are you?”
“What do you value?”
“Who might you be without the story of your pain?”

Answers did not come to him easily because he had never sat long enough to know who the person behind the accomplishments and failures was. And so, the inward journey began.”

What was it about that particular therapist — after more than twenty others — that helped you begin the inward journey?

Chris Eaton: From my experience — and this isn’t judgment or an expert opinion — after being through 27 clinical therapists, plus shamans, monks, and spiritual teachers, the best ones are the ones who listen. They’re not trying to fix you. They’re reminding you of who you already are. It’s not that you’re not great; it’s that you forgot. Life distracted you.

When Dr. Nigel — he’s near Orlando — asked me, “Who are you?” I thought it was a basic question. But it’s the question philosophers and mystics have asked forever. The Stoics asked it. Shamans ask it. Everyone searching for the truth eventually finds it. When you seek the answer to Who am I? you begin to find your connection to God, the Divine, Oneness, higher self, whatever name you use.

So when he asked me, I said, “I’m Chris. A military officer. I’m this, I’m that.” And he said, “That’s not who you are. Come back when you know.”

I tried again: “Well, I’m once divorced. I’m married.”
“No,” he said. “Those are things that happened. They’re not you.”

I thought, If I’m not my accomplishments and I’m not my failures and I’m not my circumstances… then who am I?

He had me start exploring what I value. I didn’t know. I said, “Um… loyalty?”
“Okay,” he said. “Start there.”

He told me to come back with my top three values. So I went to Google: What are values? What are virtues? I researched the Greeks. I researched the Bible. I grew up Christian, but I’ve explored Buddhism, Gnosticism, and many paths.

Eventually, I realized that when I was born, I thought I was just a piece of flesh with a name stamped on me — Christopher. I learned to crawl, walk, talk, succeed, fail… but I thought that was identity.

It wasn’t.

I am a soul first.

The soul never dies. It came here with a purpose. The body is second. The mind just stores experiences along the way. When I began living as a soul having a human experience — not a human defined by his experiences — everything shifted.

Chris has had victories. Chris has done things he’s proud of. Chris has done things he regrets. Chris has had to take a life.
Does that make me a murderer forever? Or did I experience something traumatic in a moment of war?

Realizing I am not my experiences released me.

I didn’t hate the world as much as I hated myself. I believed I was the sum of everything bad I had done or endured. But I am not those experiences — and neither is anyone else.

The chapter is written in the third person because therapists taught me to use disassociation as a tool. When emotions were too overwhelming, I couldn’t talk — chest tight, throat closing, hands sweating. So they had me imagine memories like paintings in an art gallery. I’d walk up to a frame and describe what I saw — as an observer, not as the person reliving it.

By speaking in third person, I could finally release the stored emotions and let go of what I had locked away as a child. Through journaling, speaking it aloud, or sharing it with another human, the emotional charge finally dissolved.

That’s why I wrote the chapter in third person — to create distance so I could tell the truth.

You write about friends suggesting psychedelic-assisted therapy. At first, you resisted, but eventually you chose to participate with a shaman. What was your resistance at the beginning — and then what happened during that first experience?

Chris Eaton: Being military, having a clearance — and also the way I grew up — I saw people ruin their lives with drugs. I had relatives who became drunks or got addicted. I had friends who overdosed or ended up disabled. Others just fried their brains. I wanted nothing to do with that. I didn’t want to go to jail. I didn’t want that life.

On top of that, my dad was a lawyer, so I had that influence too. And Christianity layered shame on top of it. I didn’t want to be seen as “Oh, that’s Chris — he’s tripped out on drugs.” I had shame, legal fear, and personal judgment all mixed in. I didn’t see psychedelics as medicine. All I saw was abuse.

The first crack in that belief came when I started seeing a lot of veterans trying THC. It was helping their PTSD. They were calmer, sleeping better, and less emotionally reactive. I thought, That’s interesting. It wasn’t destroying their bodies the way alcohol had destroyed mine. In 2018, I had such intense reflux from alcohol that doctors were talking about surgery. I was a hot mess.

The next shift came when two different people sent me the same podcast — Sean Ryan on Joe Rogan — about psychedelic therapy for Navy SEALs and Special Forces. I watched the three-hour episode and thought, “Wait… is this being used medically?” This isn’t just some 1960s hallucination thing?

From there, I began researching indigenous traditions and the medicine behind psychedelics. About a month later, someone else brought it up, and I finally said, I don’t want to cope anymore. I’m tired of coping. These guys looked healed. They weren’t in therapy forever. They weren’t on pills. They were whole. Something deeper was happening.

Some therapies help you manage emotions — psychedelic-assisted therapy goes into what psychology calls shadow work, inner child healing, unresolved beliefs, and deep wounds.

I eventually sat with the medicine — a hero’s dose — and then later did another session. During that first one, there was intense crying followed by intense laughter. You see yourself with full honesty. There’s no ego left to protect you. No persona. Just truth.

I saw myself in my 2018 state and realized, You were killing yourself, Chris. You were trying to end your life. Why were you drinking that much? Why were you avoiding yourself so deeply?

And I saw the truth: I was a perfectionist. Anything less than perfect, I hated. I shamed myself constantly. I hated myself so much that I couldn’t sleep. That self-hatred is what ultimately led me to that dark place.

Psychedelic medicine helped me see that clearly.

In the military, we drill weapons training 10,000 times until it becomes automatic. In neuroscience, that’s a neural pathway: If this, then that.
Hear a loud sound → assume danger → tighten chest → reach for weapon.

PTSD locks that pathway in place.

Psychedelics temporarily lift the layer of automatic reaction, like filling in a deep rut in an old dirt road so your tires can finally move in a different direction. It gives you space to respond instead of react. Space to see options. Space to choose.

Ketamine, psilocybin, ayahuasca, and MDMA — they all do something similar. They open a window where you’re not trapped by the same automatic patterns.

It freed me enough to see myself clearly, without the mask of perfection.

You wrote in your chapter that after that first psychedelic-assisted session, the suffering ended in an instant. What was that like, and how did it impact your daily life?

Chris Eaton: Hearing the words “I’m sorry” or “I forgive you,” or even saying “I forgive you” — it’s one thing to hear them, but to know them… that’s joy. That’s tears. That’s the moment you realize your essence — your soul — is perfect. I call it being “perfectly imperfect.” None of us can ever be perfect. If we were perfect, we’d have every skill, every answer, and be the most extraordinary human in the world.

We’re given a set of gifts, and that is perfect. Use them, and that’s enough. But somewhere along the way, we start comparing. We see our imperfections or someone else’s abilities and think, Why don’t I have that? They have more. I’m lacking. That comparison creates distance — and distance becomes suffering.

The Tibetans and Buddhists teach that suffering is the distance between what is and what we think should be.

Our left brain sees differences — logic, labels, separation:
That’s David. This is Chris. Male. Female. Big. Small.
We learn that in school, we categorize everything.

The right brain is the feminine energy — creativity, connection, unity. Not “male or female,” but energies. What we separate must eventually be brought back together. I can say, You have your gifts, I have mine, but the right brain adds, Together, we can create something greater. That’s oneness.

In my first psychedelic session, I healed my feminine side — the part of me that feels, expresses, and creates. Growing up, I was shamed for it.
“Oh, you like art? You’re weak. You’re gay. That’s stupid. Don’t do that.”

I loved art. I loved expression. I loved giving hugs. If we met today, I’d hug you when I arrived and again when I left. But I was shamed out of that. So I locked that part of me away and threw the key somewhere.

That first session?
I found the key.

I opened the door to everything I had shut down: emotion, intuition, softness. I realized I had cut off half of my life by rejecting the feminine within me.

Before that, I could no longer cry. I couldn’t even hold space for someone else’s emotions. My wife would cry, and inside I felt nothing — just logic and problem-solving:
Flowers? Cook dinner? Shoulder massage? Fix it.
But I couldn’t feel with her.

Worse — my kids would cry, and I’d say, “Stop crying.”
Who says that to a child?

It breaks me to admit that.

My deepest wound was seeing my son reach the same age I was when my own trauma happened. I was reliving patterns I swore I would never repeat. I had to change.

After that first session, I knew something deeper was still there, so I went back for a second. In that experience, I learned I was also afraid of healthy masculinity — of being fully present. I learned to witness emotions without shutting down. I learned to say:

It’s okay to cry.
It’s okay to laugh.
I’m here. I’m not going anywhere.

After that, I became an epic dad.

November 20, 2023 — I’ll never forget that date. My life radically changed that day.

As you sit with individuals who are passing — now that this is part of your service to the world — what wisdom or lessons have you received from being with people in those final moments? Beyond “don’t wait until you’re dying — do it now,” what else stands out that you would want us to consider integrating into our lives?

Chris Eaton: Know yourself. Answer the question: Who am I?

The way to get there is through breathwork and meditation. Earlier, you asked how someone could reach this level of peace without spending a quarter of a million dollars on therapy, coaching, psychedelic work, and everything else. This is how.

In January of 2024, I was scrolling through my phone and saw that Tibetan monks — eight elders — were coming to town. They were only 45 minutes away, and instead of a typical two-hour appearance, they were staying for a week. I showed up with an interpreter and asked question after question: How do you regulate emotions? What do you do when someone yells at you? How do you stay centered?

They began teaching me breathwork.

When we’re happy, our breathing is light and effortless. When we’re angry or triggered, our breath shortens. The amygdala activates, the stomach tightens, and we can no longer take a full breath. Most of us only breathe about 30% of what our lungs are capable of.

Oxygen calms the body.
A full breath reverses the fight-flight-freeze response and shifts you from the sympathetic nervous system into the parasympathetic — from reacting to responding.

Anytime intensity rises — someone cuts you off, your boss sends seventeen urgent emails, your partner is upset — breathe. Slowly inhale. Hold if you want. Then extend the exhale. The long exhale is what signals safety to the body.

You can do this in an argument, in a boardroom, anywhere.

Observe your breath.

Meditation is the second key. Everything we experience has to be sorted. If we don’t sort our experiences — if we constantly consume input (scrolling, TV, noise, distraction) — the mind never stops spinning. Thoughts pile up like unprocessed files.

Meditation teaches the mind to let go.

People often say, “I tried meditating. I can’t stop thinking.”
My answer: Great. Try guided meditation.

A guide talks you through breath counts, grounding cues, and visualizations. You focus on their voice, and the thoughts begin to fade. If a thought pops up — What should I make for dinner? — don’t judge it. Just notice it and return to the breath.

You can even say, “Thank you for that thought, mind. I’m giving myself five minutes to create inner stillness.”

Eventually, you learn to guide yourself. Then you can move into silence. None of this is religious or political — it’s just reclaiming the ability to regulate your own thoughts and emotions.

Breathing regulates emotions.
Meditation organizes the mind.

When those two work together, life becomes amazing.

And you are teaching some of these practices now at your own wellness center — Trinity Yoga Wellness Center in New Port Richey, Florida. Tell us what someone might experience at the wellness center you now own. The transformation in your life and how you’re serving people there is incredible. What happens at the Wellness Center?

Chris Eaton: Oh man, this is such a blessed center. Originally, it was Trinity Yoga Studio and Massage, founded in 2008. It changed hands a couple of times, and then this past January, my wife, April, and I became the new owners. Since then, we’ve doubled the number of instructors.

We support the whole person — body, mind, and spirit. We offer various types of yoga, breathwork, and stillness practices. People can take chair yoga, gentle yoga, and rehabilitation yoga. We now have doctors on our instructor team — both yoga instructors and massage therapists — who can help create specific plans for people.

We also offer aerial yoga and movement-based practices, such as Tai Chi and Qigong. We have sound meditation sessions with sound bowls, and we offer an immersive auditory experience with headphones — that’s one of my offerings, and I love it.

I saw you even offer a snowbird discount — for people who spend a few months in Florida. That’s fantastic. Chris, where can people find information about you, your work as a coach and death doula, and the Yoga Wellness Center? Where can they connect with you online?

Chris Eaton: I send everyone to your website — it’s one of my favorite profiles. Otherwise, people can go to Facebook or to our website. We offer some online options, and we’re expanding those for people who are traveling or who prefer to join us virtually.

You can find everything there, and connect with me on Facebook — that’s still my favorite platform.

Chris, we are thankful. We’re thankful that you’re here, and thankful for the ways you’re serving the world. I’m grateful for how you show up for people. Our world is better because of your presence. Thanks for being with us today.

Chris Eaton: Thank you, David. And likewise — I’m glad you made it past that 2008 chapter in your life. It’s been a blessing getting to know you over the last year. Thank you.