As an international affairs professional in Washington, DC, I have faced immense grief while helping others navigate recent international crises, from the coronavirus to the Ukraine invasion to the genocide in Gaza. These disasters are personal for me, too. My mom was a doctor on the frontlines of the pandemic. My dad — who grew up in Izmir, Turkey, mere decades after the fall of the Ottoman Empire — mourned the implosion of his homeland.
In the midst of the pain that I feel for both intimate and universal reasons, I have found great comfort in rituals. For me, one is stargazing. I have no control over borders being invaded or hostages being taken, or wildfires blazing or banks failing; but I can usually find the Big Dipper if I try hard enough.
One night not long ago, I found myself thousands of miles away from home on a hilltop in Northern California with a dozen perfect strangers. Following a brutal breakup, my father’s cancer diagnosis and the death of a friend, I felt that a significant intervention was required to maintain any remnants of my mental well-being. So, I signed up for an intensive wellness retreat that included experiential learning, visualizations, embodiment exercises and digital detoxing.
One particularly emotional day of the process ended at 9:00 PM. I was too wound up to immediately go to bed and luckily, others in my cohort felt the same way. These new friends
linked their elbows in mine, and we hiked up a nearby hill on our Petaluma campus, climbing until the air cooled and the world fell away.
We found ourselves lying on a blanket of grass beneath a navy sky filled with glittering stars. These people didn’t know who I was in my “real” life or how special this hilltop sojourn hill was to me. They didn’t know about my work with the White House’s Office of Space Policy or my academic research on kinetic anti-satellite testing.
Nor did they know how the cosmos had impacted my personal life — my aforementioned ex partner and I had met in a space policy lecture. Our friends joked that we were the epitome of star-crossed lovers and that he would propose to me at the planetarium. Eventually, that man broke my heart and walked out of my life.
But at that moment on the hilltop, none of that mattered. I was neither a professional nor a damsel in distress. I was simply a human being lying under the stars, marveling at their timelessness and beauty. The weight of my past, the burdens I had carried for so long, felt a little lighter. The stars — ancient, constant, and endlessly vast — reminded me that while pain is real, so is healing.
We ended the night singing Beatles songs under the stars. “Imagine.” “Hey Jude.” Our rhythm was guided by the calls of nighthawks and the steady drip of joyful tears. I felt a rare and profound sense of unity, not only with those around me but with the universe itself.
In the progressive circles I navigate, space exploration often meets resistance. “Shouldn’t we provide healthcare on our own planet before allowing the world’s billionaires to play with rockets?” It’s a sentiment I respect, and there’s merit in focusing on the immediate needs of humanity.
But space exploration isn’t just about reaching other planets; it’s about improving life on this one. For instance, the microgravity conditions aboard the International Space Station have advanced medical research in ways impossible on Earth. Studies conducted in space are accelerating breakthroughs in cancer treatments, drug development and human organ growth. These innovations have the potential to save millions of lives, including, perhaps, my own father.
Additionally, space exploration is critical for addressing the growing issue of space debris. The accumulation of defunct satellites in Earth’s orbit poses a serious threat to global communications and navigation systems. Developing technologies to clean up this debris not only ensures the sustainability of future space missions but also protects the infrastructure that underpins much of modern life, from GPS to weather forecasting.
So to those who balk at the notion of investing in space, the skeptics, and the naysayers, I extend a simple invitation: come stargazing with me. Look up. Bring a blanket and a favorite song. Allow yourself to be humbled by the vastness, the permanence, the unchanging constancy of it all. The stars remind us that while our individual struggles matter deeply, they are part of a much grander, universal story.
After all, the stars have always been there, quietly watching as civilizations rose and fell, as humanity made its first tentative steps toward the heavens. They are a source of wonder, of constancy and, perhaps most importantly, of hope.
Sarah Walker is a Director of International Affairs at FGS Global, based in Washington, DC. She has conducted research on kinetic anti-satellite testing and the private sector’s influence on U.S. space policy. Her advisory services have consulted some of the space industry’s biggest mergers.
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