Excerpt
Introduction: Why Space Needs Women
There’s something magnetic about looking up. Not just glancing at the sky during a walk, but really looking—into the dark, endless stretch above Earth, dotted with stars that don’t blink, moons that orbit faraway planets, and galaxies that twist like giant spirals of glowing dust. People have been doing this forever. Long before telescopes, computers, and space shuttles, humans stared at the night sky and felt something they couldn’t explain. That feeling hasn’t gone away. If anything, it’s grown stronger.
It’s easy to think of space exploration as just science and rockets and data. And yes, those things are important. But there’s more to it than charts and countdowns. There’s something emotional, something weirdly personal, about space. Whether you're obsessed with black holes, hoping to live on Mars someday, or just casually interested in stars that went out millions of years ago, space has a way of pulling people in from all over the planet—different languages, different beliefs, different histories—and sparking the same deep curiosity.
Space doesn't belong to any one country. It’s one of the few things we study that truly affects—and belongs to—everyone. Satellites orbit above places they’ve never touched. A probe sent from Florida might end up taking photos of Saturn that inspire students in Nigeria. Astronauts from Russia, the U.S., and Japan might be laughing over freeze-dried meals together on the International Space Station while their home countries argue on Earth. Space makes our problems feel smaller and our possibilities feel bigger.
And yet, as universal as space exploration should be, it hasn’t always been equally open. That’s part of what makes it so important to talk about who gets to participate in it—and why more voices, more perspectives, more people matter. The more variety in the room—on the launchpad, in the lab, at the console—the more creative, inclusive, and meaningful space exploration becomes. But before diving into that, it helps to understand the emotional power space holds, and why people feel so drawn to it in the first place.
There’s the sense of awe, obviously. Seeing a picture of a distant planet or watching video from the surface of Mars doesn’t get old. It doesn’t matter how advanced our tech gets—those images still hit something primal. Space is like a mirror and a window at the same time: it reflects what we value and opens a view into something completely outside our everyday world.
Then there’s the challenge. Some people are pulled to space because it’s hard. You can’t fake your way through physics. You can’t half-try and end up on the Moon. Space exploration demands your best thinking, your deepest problem-solving, your strongest teamwork. It’s not about being perfect; it’s about being persistent. For some teens, that’s the hook—it’s a field where being curious and obsessed with “what if?” questions isn’t weird, it’s required.
And let’s not ignore the adrenaline. Launching a rocket is one of the most intense things humans have ever done. There’s fire, force, velocity, and the absolute gamble of sending people or machines to places where survival depends on math, metal, and hope. That edge-of-your-seat risk has drawn people in for decades—not just the ones riding the rockets, but the millions watching from home, holding their breath during launch, touchdown, or unexpected silence.
Even the quieter parts of space exploration have this epic energy. There’s the scientist waiting years for a probe to send back data. The engineer designing a robotic arm that has to work perfectly in zero gravity. The programmer building code that will navigate a spacecraft when it’s 300 million miles away. It’s not all loud. Sometimes space is patient. Still, every job feels connected to something much bigger.
And here’s the thing: space doesn’t judge who’s curious about it. It doesn’t care where you’re from or what you look like. But humans have often brought those judgments with them. For too long, the idea of who “belongs” in space was shaped by one narrow picture. But space exploration should reflect everybody on Earth—not just in theory, but in practice.
That’s why it matters when people break into the field who weren’t “expected” to. Every time someone challenges that old idea of who gets to be in STEM or on a mission team, it opens a door a little wider. And the truth is, the most exciting futures in space won’t come from one type of person with one type of background. They’ll come from collisions—of cultures, ideas, life experiences, and imaginations.
There’s a reason students around the world tune in when a launch is happening. Or why a girl in India might build her own model rocket after seeing a space documentary. Or why a teen in Brazil might stay up late watching videos about black holes. Space speaks a language everyone understands, even if they’re not using the same words. That shared fascination is a rare thing.
Why representation matters in science and beyond
Walk into most science museums, flip through an old textbook, or even Google “famous scientist” and you’ll notice a pattern fast. White coats, white men. Names like Newton, Einstein, and Darwin dominate the spotlight. And sure, they made major discoveries. But that narrow image doesn’t tell the full story of who’s actually contributed to science—or who’s capable of doing it today.
Representation in science isn’t about filling a diversity quota or ticking off boxes. It’s about power, access, and the stories we tell about who gets to be brilliant. If all you see in a field are people who don’t look or live like you, it can send a quiet but sharp message: This isn’t for you. And even if no one says it out loud, that message sticks. It shapes how people feel about their place in the world, their confidence, their future.
Think about it. If every movie about astronauts starred the same kind of person, you’d start to believe that only that kind of person could fly a spacecraft or run a mission. If all the scientists in your textbooks look like they walked out of the same prep school, it's hard to picture yourself doing what they did—especially if your background doesn’t match theirs. That’s the trap. Not a lack of intelligence or curiosity. Just a lack of visibility.
That’s why it matters when someone who’s been historically left out of the spotlight shows up and stays in it. When a Black woman becomes a rocket scientist. When a Latina teen wins a national robotics competition. When a trans researcher presents their work at an international science conference. Those moments don’t just prove what’s possible—they change the definition of what’s normal.
And once that definition shifts, it ripples out. It changes who applies for internships. Who feels confident raising their hand in AP physics. Who decides to build a telescope, join a coding club, or stay up all night designing a new propulsion model for fun. Visibility doesn’t just open the door. It tells you that you’re allowed to walk through it.
The frustrating part is that science hasn’t always welcomed everyone equally. Some people had to fight harder just to be in the room. Others were in the room but weren’t credited. There are researchers whose names were buried under footnotes, whose data was used without recognition, whose ideas were stolen or dismissed—just because they didn’t fit the mold. That history still affects how we talk about genius today. It’s no accident that certain names are famous while others are footnotes.
When we talk about representation, we’re not talking about making people feel good with inspirational posters. We’re talking about who gets funded, who gets mentored, who gets hired, and who gets believed. If scientists are mostly coming from one type of background, then a lot of problems will get looked at from the same angle. That’s not just unfair—it’s inefficient. Diverse teams don’t just bring fairness; they bring better science. Different life experiences lead to different ideas, and different ideas lead to better results.
If you’ve ever been in a group project where everyone thought exactly the same way, you already know how that turns out: boring, limited, and stuck. But when someone comes in with a different perspective—maybe because they grew up solving different kinds of problems, or just saw the world differently—it unlocks something. It makes the project sharper, deeper, and more creative. That’s what representation does on a much bigger scale.
This isn’t just about race or gender, either. It’s about economic background, disability, culture, geography, identity, and access. When students from rural areas can bring agricultural knowledge to climate science, or when someone who speaks multiple languages helps translate complex research into global impact, that’s representation, too. Every time science becomes less exclusive and more inclusive, it gets stronger.
But here’s where it gets real: none of this happens automatically. Systems don’t change themselves. And people in power don’t always like giving it up. That means pushing for representation takes effort. It means listening to people who’ve been ignored. It means fixing the pipeline—not just getting more kids interested in STEM, but making sure they’re supported all the way through, from school to internships to careers. It means calling out the moments when people are being left behind, and not pretending it’s fine when it’s not.
There’s something magnetic about looking up. Not just glancing at the sky during a walk, but really looking—into the dark, endless stretch above Earth, dotted with stars that don’t blink, moons that orbit faraway planets, and galaxies that twist like giant spirals of glowing dust. People have been doing this forever. Long before telescopes, computers, and space shuttles, humans stared at the night sky and felt something they couldn’t explain. That feeling hasn’t gone away. If anything, it’s grown stronger.
It’s easy to think of space exploration as just science and rockets and data. And yes, those things are important. But there’s more to it than charts and countdowns. There’s something emotional, something weirdly personal, about space. Whether you're obsessed with black holes, hoping to live on Mars someday, or just casually interested in stars that went out millions of years ago, space has a way of pulling people in from all over the planet—different languages, different beliefs, different histories—and sparking the same deep curiosity.
Space doesn't belong to any one country. It’s one of the few things we study that truly affects—and belongs to—everyone. Satellites orbit above places they’ve never touched. A probe sent from Florida might end up taking photos of Saturn that inspire students in Nigeria. Astronauts from Russia, the U.S., and Japan might be laughing over freeze-dried meals together on the International Space Station while their home countries argue on Earth. Space makes our problems feel smaller and our possibilities feel bigger.
And yet, as universal as space exploration should be, it hasn’t always been equally open. That’s part of what makes it so important to talk about who gets to participate in it—and why more voices, more perspectives, more people matter. The more variety in the room—on the launchpad, in the lab, at the console—the more creative, inclusive, and meaningful space exploration becomes. But before diving into that, it helps to understand the emotional power space holds, and why people feel so drawn to it in the first place.
There’s the sense of awe, obviously. Seeing a picture of a distant planet or watching video from the surface of Mars doesn’t get old. It doesn’t matter how advanced our tech gets—those images still hit something primal. Space is like a mirror and a window at the same time: it reflects what we value and opens a view into something completely outside our everyday world.
Then there’s the challenge. Some people are pulled to space because it’s hard. You can’t fake your way through physics. You can’t half-try and end up on the Moon. Space exploration demands your best thinking, your deepest problem-solving, your strongest teamwork. It’s not about being perfect; it’s about being persistent. For some teens, that’s the hook—it’s a field where being curious and obsessed with “what if?” questions isn’t weird, it’s required.
And let’s not ignore the adrenaline. Launching a rocket is one of the most intense things humans have ever done. There’s fire, force, velocity, and the absolute gamble of sending people or machines to places where survival depends on math, metal, and hope. That edge-of-your-seat risk has drawn people in for decades—not just the ones riding the rockets, but the millions watching from home, holding their breath during launch, touchdown, or unexpected silence.
Even the quieter parts of space exploration have this epic energy. There’s the scientist waiting years for a probe to send back data. The engineer designing a robotic arm that has to work perfectly in zero gravity. The programmer building code that will navigate a spacecraft when it’s 300 million miles away. It’s not all loud. Sometimes space is patient. Still, every job feels connected to something much bigger.
And here’s the thing: space doesn’t judge who’s curious about it. It doesn’t care where you’re from or what you look like. But humans have often brought those judgments with them. For too long, the idea of who “belongs” in space was shaped by one narrow picture. But space exploration should reflect everybody on Earth—not just in theory, but in practice.
That’s why it matters when people break into the field who weren’t “expected” to. Every time someone challenges that old idea of who gets to be in STEM or on a mission team, it opens a door a little wider. And the truth is, the most exciting futures in space won’t come from one type of person with one type of background. They’ll come from collisions—of cultures, ideas, life experiences, and imaginations.
There’s a reason students around the world tune in when a launch is happening. Or why a girl in India might build her own model rocket after seeing a space documentary. Or why a teen in Brazil might stay up late watching videos about black holes. Space speaks a language everyone understands, even if they’re not using the same words. That shared fascination is a rare thing.
Why representation matters in science and beyond
Walk into most science museums, flip through an old textbook, or even Google “famous scientist” and you’ll notice a pattern fast. White coats, white men. Names like Newton, Einstein, and Darwin dominate the spotlight. And sure, they made major discoveries. But that narrow image doesn’t tell the full story of who’s actually contributed to science—or who’s capable of doing it today.
Representation in science isn’t about filling a diversity quota or ticking off boxes. It’s about power, access, and the stories we tell about who gets to be brilliant. If all you see in a field are people who don’t look or live like you, it can send a quiet but sharp message: This isn’t for you. And even if no one says it out loud, that message sticks. It shapes how people feel about their place in the world, their confidence, their future.
Think about it. If every movie about astronauts starred the same kind of person, you’d start to believe that only that kind of person could fly a spacecraft or run a mission. If all the scientists in your textbooks look like they walked out of the same prep school, it's hard to picture yourself doing what they did—especially if your background doesn’t match theirs. That’s the trap. Not a lack of intelligence or curiosity. Just a lack of visibility.
That’s why it matters when someone who’s been historically left out of the spotlight shows up and stays in it. When a Black woman becomes a rocket scientist. When a Latina teen wins a national robotics competition. When a trans researcher presents their work at an international science conference. Those moments don’t just prove what’s possible—they change the definition of what’s normal.
And once that definition shifts, it ripples out. It changes who applies for internships. Who feels confident raising their hand in AP physics. Who decides to build a telescope, join a coding club, or stay up all night designing a new propulsion model for fun. Visibility doesn’t just open the door. It tells you that you’re allowed to walk through it.
The frustrating part is that science hasn’t always welcomed everyone equally. Some people had to fight harder just to be in the room. Others were in the room but weren’t credited. There are researchers whose names were buried under footnotes, whose data was used without recognition, whose ideas were stolen or dismissed—just because they didn’t fit the mold. That history still affects how we talk about genius today. It’s no accident that certain names are famous while others are footnotes.
When we talk about representation, we’re not talking about making people feel good with inspirational posters. We’re talking about who gets funded, who gets mentored, who gets hired, and who gets believed. If scientists are mostly coming from one type of background, then a lot of problems will get looked at from the same angle. That’s not just unfair—it’s inefficient. Diverse teams don’t just bring fairness; they bring better science. Different life experiences lead to different ideas, and different ideas lead to better results.
If you’ve ever been in a group project where everyone thought exactly the same way, you already know how that turns out: boring, limited, and stuck. But when someone comes in with a different perspective—maybe because they grew up solving different kinds of problems, or just saw the world differently—it unlocks something. It makes the project sharper, deeper, and more creative. That’s what representation does on a much bigger scale.
This isn’t just about race or gender, either. It’s about economic background, disability, culture, geography, identity, and access. When students from rural areas can bring agricultural knowledge to climate science, or when someone who speaks multiple languages helps translate complex research into global impact, that’s representation, too. Every time science becomes less exclusive and more inclusive, it gets stronger.
But here’s where it gets real: none of this happens automatically. Systems don’t change themselves. And people in power don’t always like giving it up. That means pushing for representation takes effort. It means listening to people who’ve been ignored. It means fixing the pipeline—not just getting more kids interested in STEM, but making sure they’re supported all the way through, from school to internships to careers. It means calling out the moments when people are being left behind, and not pretending it’s fine when it’s not.