Since I was little, space has been my ultimate dream catcher. At eight years old, I lay awake staring at the stars, imagining myself as the first woman astronaut to stroll across Mars, uncovering hidden alien microbes or ancient secrets of the universe. That childhood wonder never faded—it fueled my path through an astronomy degree and into a career writing about the cosmos, always thrilled to share its magic with anyone who’d listen. So, as 2026 rolled in, I was hyped about NASA’s Artemis II mission, set to send humans back near the moon for the first time in over half a century. Picture it: astronauts orbiting our celestial neighbor, paving the way for landings and long-term lunar living. I pictured the whole world pausing to marvel, just like during Apollo 11. Who wouldn’t feel electric about this? I channeled that energy into stories, newsletters, talks—anything to build buzz. But deep down, I craved that pure, unfiltered excitement, the kind that makes you feel part of something bigger, human ingenuity soaring beyond Earth.
Fast-forward to early January, and my world tilted. I was at an astronomy conference in Arizona, soaking up talks on lunar science, starry-eyed about Artemis and its promise. Then, two days later, I flew home to Minneapolis, only to learn about the shooting death of Renée Good, a woman just a mile from my house, gunned down by U.S. Immigration and Customs Enforcement agents. She was so much like me—new to town, with young kids—and it hit like a cold wave. She’d been watching the surge of ICE operations flooding our streets, part of Operation Metro Surge, the biggest immigration crackdown in U.S. history. My neighborhood transformed overnight: masked agents in tactical gear cruising by, sirens echoing, people hiding behind curtains, unsure if they were safe. I witnessed an arrest across the street, neighbors whistling and shouting, their voices raw with fear and defiance. It was chilling, reminiscent of stories my family shared about hiding during dark historical horrors. My own children were terrified, asking why the world felt so unsafe. Suddenly, space seemed distant, irrelevant even. How could I hype a rocket launch when real lives were shattered right beyond my doorstep?
The unrest swelled. Thousands took to the parks and streets, braving bitter cold as federal agents unleashed chemical irritants like pepper spray, tearing at lungs and eyes. Protests became communal hubs—people singing old anthems together, passing out homemade whistles from 3D printers, organizing meal deliveries for families too scared to venture out. Then came the heartbreaking news: Alex Pretti, a 37-year-old nurse, shot dead while observing ICE actions. He saved lives in intensive care units, yet here he was, another casualty. These events forced a painful reckoning. I sat at my desk, staring at drafts of Artemis stories, my chest hollow. Who cared about moon trips when our own streets were battlegrounds? Emojis and headlines felt trivial; the humanity I’d always celebrated in space exploration felt mocked by the violence unfolding. I thought of Nixon’s words after Apollo 11, about Earth uniting in wonder, but now, in 2026, it seemed fractured. Minneapolis, once a cozy midwestern spot, now pulsed with resistance—vigilante community networks knitting meals, safe rides, defiant stands. It reminded me that when people unite, they can conjure miracles, even in chaos, but it also highlighted how governments prioritize power over protection.
Diving into history offered some solace, if not comfort. Apollo wasn’t the universal celebration I’ve always imagined. Sure, the 1968 moon landing captivated billions on televisions worldwide, everyone glued to Armstrong’s “giant leap for mankind.” But behind the cheers were cracks—the 1960s were turbulent, much like today, with civil rights battles, Vietnam, and blossoming gay rights movements boiling over into streets. Apollo got criticized as a wasteful distraction, a “moonshots” boondoggle while poverty and injustice raged. Activists picketed NASA facilities, holding signs about feeding the poor instead of funding astronauts. Civil rights leader Ralph Abernathy marched to Kennedy Space Center with families and mules, contrasting spaceship tech with struggling farms. Some booed the landing news at festivals, or skipped parades, frustrated with the costs. Even Science News, my publication, hedged its praise, calling APOLLO promising yet costly, urging readers to see beyond the spectacle. Letters poured in, some defending the program’s relative economy, others shaming it as arrogant. Editorials lamented lost awe, begging people to grasp humanity’s smallness amid the vast cosmos. It reassured me that feeling “who cares” about space achievements was normal, especially amid division—perhaps I wasn’t alone in my doubts about Artemis.
In today’s echoes, those doubts mirror the era’s strife. We’re polarized again: debates over borders, identities, justice. NASA’s majestic Artemis symbolizes progress, yet it’s tied to a government seemingly indifferent to Earthly crises. I’ve poured heart into covering this mission, chatting with scientists like Deacon Joyce and Nisia Krassnig about lunar Sample Return, or dreaming of Artemis III’s crewed landings. Experts hail it as a step toward sustainability, exploring resources, pushing boundaries. But hearing politicians defend ICE shootings while slashing science budgets—denying climate realities, gutting research—makes it hard to cheer. Historian Neil Maher notes how space can unite or expose divides, like a mirror reflecting our flaws. Apollo capitalized on Sputnik’s Cold War rivalry, yet sparked dissent. Artemis could inspire again, with global eyes on NASA’s SLS rocket and Orion capsule, carrying Americans, presidents, and explorers. Yet, right now, the thrill feels muted; I dread becoming cynical, losing that childlike wonder that drew me in.
Still, I cling to space’s redemptive spark. It’s our cosmic refuge, reminding us we’re all earthlings with shared star stuff. Artemis II could rekindle that unity, as deputy scientist Marie Henderson says, showcasing collaboration amid challenges. Someday, I’ll feel that lift again. For now, Minneapolis teaches me unity closer to home: neighbors rallying against ICE, singing, protesting, sustaining each other. These everyday heroes—nurses, activists, strangers—perfuse courage. They show how collective action heals, inspires awe. Space exploration holds that same power: forging bonds across differences, chasing the unknown. Even distraught, I know our species thrives through such pursuits. Artemis might not fix our Earth woes, but it can help us see them from afar, urging compassion. As I write, I pray for that transcendence returning, while cherishing the human symphony here below. Space unites us subtly—up there on the moon’s edge, and down here in our shared, fragile humanity.
