Reaching for the stars … and missing

10…9…8…7…6…5…4…3…2…1…Lift Off!

In the NASA visitor stands, I watched as friends have the experience of a lifetime – on the top of the Falcon 9 rocket.  They’re going more than 100 mph as they clear the tower. They have just begun their journey to the International Space Station. For two of the four, it is their first ride to space. They have worked their whole adult lives for this moment and then myriad that will follow it.  For two others, they are making their triumphant return. 

I on the other hand, have just found out that the first round of NASA astronaut applicants has been completed. Though I applied, and my references were checked, I was not asked for an interview.  I think I’d make a good astronaut. I know astronauts and have astronaut friends. I even have trained a significant number of astronauts in leadership and teamwork. It felt like spaceflight was almost inevitable, though I knew it wasn’t. 

Knowing the statistics, I knew it was exceptionally hard to actually make it into that realm. But I was hopeful. I took an alternate path. Everything was training for me. Having the over-arching dream of being selected as an astronaut connected everything I did. It gave me meaning and motivation.  It gave me purpose.

There is no stated age cutoff, but had I been selected, I would have been the oldest astronaut ever selected by one year. With each selection generally being 4 years apart, I’ll be far too old next time around. NASA, in its silence, has spoken.  They’re not interested.

While I didn’t really do anything only because I wanted to become an astronaut, I now can’t help think, what was it all for? What do I do now? Antarctica seems less intriguing when it’s not a training ground for long-duration spaceflight. Everything has less meaning that it did. Flying, sailing, team sports, electronics, mechanics, languages, etc.

For the last 30 years, I’ve worked at this dream. Anything is possible they say. But I came up short. How to not second guess myself? If only I have done this, maybe I would have gotten a shot.  If maybe I had done that…Instead I unwillingly join the ranks of those armchair astronauts. I join the group of people that always wanted to be astronauts.  I made it to the top 500 out of 8,000 applicants. But I didn’t make it to the top 120 – those are the folks who get the interviews. 

So what do I do now?  The wind out of my sails, my life’s purpose dissolved, I’m at a loss and feel a little lost. It is true, I have lots to look forward to, but it isn’t quite the same. For the moment, things have lost their luster. No doubt, I enjoy my life enough that it’ll return, but for the moment, it hurts.  Everything was leading to a climax that won’t come.

And so I’m left to put the pieces back together. What to do with this life now? Where to find the purpose, the meaning, I’m not sure. I guess I’ll just have to be patient.

So many people have supported and encouraged me in this dream. To all of them and you, I am eternally grateful. I am so sorry I can’t invite you to a launch, share the experience with you or call you from space. I was really looking forward to that. I wanted to join that brotherhood of astronauts. The brotherhood of my heroes: the Mercury 7, Neil Armstrong, Jim Lovell, Frank Boreman, Michael Collins…

Every now and then, I just want to say, “FUCK!” out of nowhere. It comes randomly when I buckle my backpack suddenly imagining buckling something in space – something I’ll never get to do. 

So I watched the rocket climb so beautifully into the sky. So excited for my three friends having the ride of their lives! And so sad that I’ll never be in their space shoes. I wanted that experience. To float above the earth…to look down upon our whole planet…to do all the normal things of life, done with a different twist, and do them all while floating.

I’m sorry little yellow spaceman. I can’t take you to space, where you too, have always wanted to go. You’ve been wearing your suit, helmet and oxygen tanks for a long time – forever ready to go. I did my best and my best wasn’t good enough. I could second guess myself for eternity, but we’ll have to just soldier on and find our adventures elsewhere. Thank you for your faith in me. So trusting. I’m sorry.

And to my kindergarten self, with whom the dream was first sparked, I’m sorry. We got close, but not close enough. Maybe we could have gotten there, but we’ve run out of time.

When one door closes, another one opens. There are certainly positive things about not becoming an astronaut. I get to continue to do all the stuff I love. I get to go on a long sailing trip soon, I get to continue to fly, work in Antarctica, have total control of my schedule, and I don’t have to live in Houston!  And new things will arise. Things are good, I’ll continue on in good spirits.

To all who’ve encouraged me over the years, thank you, you mean the world to me. It was still worth it!