When I was a child, I did not gaze up at the stars and dream of what lies beyond. I did not read about space discoveries or watch space documentaries. I did not even know how many planets were in the solar system, and I was only mildly perturbed by Pluto’s demotion from planethood.
I certainly did not notice when, in 2004, the Cassini spacecraft settled in its long-awaited orbit around Saturn. I was completely oblivious when the Kepler spacecraft, after its launch in 2009, revealed a lavish bounty of planets orbiting stars other than the Sun, which I did not yet know are called “exoplanets.”
Instead, I lost myself in books. I cared deeply about music. I found myself enraptured by the powderpuff flowers in my southern California neighborhood, the glimmer of Christmas lights wrapped around palm trees, the taste of persimmons. I expected that I’d grow up to become… something practical. Maybe a dermatologist.
My interest in the stars, and the planets encircling them, began as a flicker in an introductory college astronomy course. I was convinced that the class would be a small aside; I’d learn a few fun facts to rattle off at social events, and I’d continue on my utility-oriented path. Little did I know that, with a bit of nurturing and a huge leap of faith, my small flicker of interest would transform into a full-fledged firecracker.
I would later use data from the Cassini spacecraft to study the atmospheric properties of Titan — Saturn’s largest moon — in my first astronomy research project, opening a window into what a life of studying other worlds might look like. I would later learn that, while I was rehearsing my flute repertoire for high school band concerts, the Kepler spacecraft was collecting a series of snapshot images that would lay the foundation for my career in exoplanet research. I would later search, myself, for a possible “Planet Nine” in the distant solar system: an as-yet undiscovered new ninth planet, purported to lie well beyond Pluto’s icy orbit.
Somehow, despite playing almost no conscious role in the first 18 years of my life, astronomy quietly swelled into a deep, all-encompassing passion. The word “exoplanet” alone came to trigger an involuntary smile and a tingle of joy. Planets ignited in me a deep-rooted sense of wonder — a hunger to understand and to sit with the marvels of life. This feeling was new, and yet it was the same: It was the passion that I had held for stories, for songs, and for persimmons, taking on a new form.
Somehow, despite playing almost no conscious role in the first 18 years of my life, astronomy quietly swelled into an all-encompassing passion.
When I was first drawn to astronomy in college, I was deeply skeptical about the possibility that it could ever become anything more than a hobby. I constantly reminded myself that much of my newfound knowledge was transferable to other domains. Physics, after all, is all about critical thinking and problem-solving — so why not learn those skills in the context of astronomy, just for the time being? I told myself I’d keep going until it wasn’t fun anymore, and then shift to something more pragmatic.
I once believed that sacrificing some levity was always a necessary ingredient in following one’s dreams. We must remain in touch with reality. Life has practical constraints.
The steady pursuit of passion may be the most practical avenue after all.
But, now that I see how my life has unfolded, I can’t help but think that perhaps we perform best, and give back most wholeheartedly, when we dare to nourish our small flickers of inspiration. The steady pursuit of passion may be the most practical avenue after all.
A lifetime is a blink of the eye in the timespan of the Universe. Perhaps that blink should be carried out with a twinkle.
