Dear Little Me,
Hey, you with the wide eyes and the shuttle posters taped crooked on your bedroom wall. The one who pressed her face to the TV screen every time a launch countdown started, heart pounding like the engines were inside your chest. The one who cried real tears when the last shuttle touched down in 2011, because you thought space was over.
I’m writing from the future—your future—and I need you to know something important:
We never stopped exploring.
I know it doesn’t always look like it. These days I don’t wear a real orange suit with patches and a helmet bubble. My countdowns are quieter: 3-2-1-go on therapy mornings, or the soft beep of the microwave when I’m too tired to cook. My launch windows are grocery store runs, doctor appointments, and the brave moment I hit “send” on an email I’ve rewritten ten times.
But every single day, I still suit up.
The suit is different now. It’s made of soft things: the playlist I queue before leaving the house, the deep breath I take in the car, the tiny pep talk I whisper while buckling my seatbelt. Some days it includes noise-canceling headphones for the crowded aisles. Other days it’s the cozy cardigan that feels like a hug when the world is too sharp.
I still check my systems before launch.
- Oxygen? A few slow breaths.
- Comms? A text to a friend: “Heading into the void—wish me luck.”
- Fuel? Coffee, water, or just sheer stubborn hope.
Grocery runs are docking missions: navigating aisles like corridors, collecting supplies for the long journey ahead. Therapy sessions are deep-space probes—sending questions into the dark parts of me, waiting patiently for signals to return. Folding laundry is maintenance on the spacecraft: keeping the life-support systems (aka clean socks) running so we can keep flying.
Some days the gravity feels heavier than others. Bills stack up like atmospheric drag. Adult worries try to pull us back to Earth. But even on those days, I feel you in there—tiny helmet tilted up, waiting for ignition.
And I always light the engines for you.
Because you were right all along: exploration isn’t just about leaving the planet. It’s about leaving the house when anxiety says stay. It’s about trying again after a failed launch. It’s about looking up at the same Florida sky we’ve always shared and remembering we’re made of the same stuff as the stars.
We haven’t made it to Mars yet. We might never wear a real NASA patch. But we’re still out here, suiting up, launching anyway.
Every ordinary day is an adventure when you remember who’s flying the ship.
So keep watching from mission control inside my chest, Little Astronaut. I’ve got the controls. And I’m never coming home for good.
We’re still going.
With all my love (and a few gray hairs you’ll earn later), Big You