The Wrong Stuff, Revisited: Why Space Still Hits a Nerve

What a viral post taught me about space, storytelling, and who gets to belong in the stars.

A few days ago, I wrote a short blog post called “The Wrong Stuff.” It was a reflection on a recent all-women Blue Origin suborbital launch—not a critique of the passengers, but of the way it was framed and sold to the public. I questioned whether we’re trading the depth and danger of spaceflight for something slick, safe, and media-friendly.

I thought it would get a few nods, maybe a comment or two.

Instead, it went viral.
Over 300,000 views.
Hundreds of comments.
Dozens of reposts.
And a full spectrum of responses—from applause to outrage.

Some people agreed and felt seen. Others accused me of clinging to a romantic past, of gatekeeping space for men with “the right stuff.” Others argued that this is progress—that billionaire- and celebrity-funded joyrides are part of how we make spaceflight accessible to everyone.

But the reaction—especially the emotional charge behind it—revealed something deeper. Space still matters to people. And we’re not aligned on what it should mean.

A Family Legacy of Opening Space

This isn’t a casual topic for me. I entered the world of SpaceX in 2014, not long after my uncle, Burt Rutan, led the team that won the XPrize with SpaceShipOne. I’d grown up watching that history unfold up close, but SpaceX was something else entirely. It was magic. I wrote about it—and my own unlikely journey through that world—in my book How to Build an Airplane in Your Living Room.

Burt Rutan, who built the first privately-funded spaceplane to reach space and win the XPrize.

The only reason Burt competed for the XPrize was because he believed space should be for everyone. He was deeply disillusioned with the government-run model of space exploration, especially NASA, which he saw as closed, bureaucratic, and elitist.

“NASA has become risk-averse,” he once said. “They’re only interested in doing things that are absolutely safe. That’s not how you make breakthroughs.”

Burt believed that private innovation—not government selection—was the path to truly democratizing access to space. He wanted to take the stars out of the hands of the chosen few and open them to the dreamers, the builders, the curious.

“Revolutionary progress happens when risk is taken. If you’re not flying through fear, you’re not pushing boundaries.”

That belief is what fueled his work—and it’s what shaped mine.

Since then, I’ve had the privilege of being behind the scenes with Rocket Lab as it scaled up through the uncertainty of COVID, and now with Blue Origin, where I’ve observed and supported the company’s growth in a similar role. These roles didn’t just give me technical insights—they gave me perspective on the culture and vision inside each company.

At Blue, there’s often a comparison made to the tortoise and the hare—Blue being the slow-and-steady tortoise, SpaceX the bold and reckless hare. At first, I wasn’t sure which would win.

Now, I’m starting to worry the tortoise isn’t just slow—it’s lost sight of the finish line. Meanwhile, SpaceX, for all its chaos, still has its eyes fixed on Mars.

The Celebrity Effect

What truly ignited the firestorm around The Wrong Stuff was the emotional and symbolic weight of the Blue Origin mission. It was an all-women crew. A clear attempt at making history. And media outlets ran with it.

Take Gayle King’s post-launch interview. Her tone was reverent and celebratory, full of words like “trailblazing” and “history-making.” She called it “one of the most inspiring stories I’ve ever covered.”

Was it a meaningful moment? Sure. But was it really the kind of space milestone we’ve traditionally celebrated—one built on training, endurance, risk, and pushing human limits? No. And the disconnect between the coverage and the accomplishment is part of what makes this moment so polarizing.

We’ve entered an era where space is increasingly symbolic, and the symbols are easier to sell than the science.

“One of the most inspiring stories I’ve ever covered.” —Gayle King

The Perception Problem

The public is catching on. Jeff Bezos — once seen as the measured, mission-driven counterpoint to Elon Musk’s chaos — has increasingly been pulled into the same wave of cultural criticism. As Blue Origin leans harder into spectacle, the more it blurs the line between inspiration and indulgence.

“Instead of inspiring awe, the billionaire space race has stirred fatigue, frustration, and questions about whether these flights are progress — or performance.”

It’s no longer just about who’s going to space — it’s about why, and how those stories are being told. When space becomes a stage for brand optics, instead of a frontier for exploration, people notice. And for many, it doesn’t sit right.

Why This Matters

I’ve been asked: “Isn’t this just how progress works? Didn’t air travel and ocean travel start this way?” And yes—they did. Early flights were risky. Ocean crossings were treacherous. People died doing both.

But that’s exactly the point. No one pretended otherwise. The danger wasn’t dressed up as convenience, and the pioneers weren’t called heroes because they bought a ticket. They earned that recognition because of what they risked—and why they did it.

Even as technology improved and travel became more accessible, it didn’t start with PR stunts. It started with purpose. With the belief that exploration should lead somewhere—and mean something.

Space isn’t just another destination. It’s a proving ground for human ingenuity, courage, and ambition. That doesn’t mean it should stay exclusive—but it does mean we should be honest about what spaceflight is, and what it isn’t.

When someone takes an 11-minute ride and gets labeled an astronaut, when news anchors call it historic without explaining the mission or the vehicle or the context, it’s not democratization. It’s marketing. And that’s what makes me uneasy—not who’s flying, but how we're telling the story.

Blue Origin’s suborbital capsule just after landing.

Listening to the Comments

When The Wrong Stuff started circulating, the reactions were strong—and telling. On LinkedIn alone, hundreds of people weighed in. Many agreed that spaceflight deserves more than spectacle. Others felt I was holding on to an outdated ideal, or that I was critiquing who was flying, rather than how it was being framed.

Some even suggested I was upset about the jumpsuits or the fact that it was an all-women crew. For the record: I’m a female pilot. I’ve spent my career advocating for more women in aerospace, and I’ve taken my share of hits—especially in the wake of recent industry accidents. This post wasn’t about who was in the capsule. It was about the narrative surrounding them—and how we risk losing something important when we confuse a short ride with a milestone.

But I also heard something deeper in the comments. There’s a real philosophical divide emerging in the space community and the public: between those who believe spaceflight should inspire by becoming more accessible, and those who believe it should continue to stand for something earned and intentional.

One comment captured this beautifully through a mountain climbing analogy. A friend challenged someone afraid of heights to climb the Grand Teton. He said, “If you carry your pack, do the training, climb through the night—you’ll stand on that summit not just because you got there, but because you earned it. That’s what gives you the right to belong there.” And he was right. Had his friend been dropped off by helicopter, the fear would’ve returned, because the experience hadn’t been earned—it would’ve felt foreign.

The commenter added: “If Bezos offered me a seat would I go? Hells yeah! But I wouldn’t call myself an astronaut, any more than I’d call myself an artist after my first 11-minute painting.”

That’s the tension. We’re not saying the experience isn’t powerful. William Shatner called his short Blue Origin flight “the most profound experience of his life.” But meaning and identity aren’t the same thing. And when we blur those lines, we don’t just cheapen language—we risk diluting the impact for future generations who do want to earn their place among the stars.

I don’t think inspiration and intention are mutually exclusive. I believe in inclusion—but I also believe in integrity. We should celebrate broader participation without lowering the bar so far that the experience becomes empty.

The Deeper Reason This Blew Up

The reaction to The Wrong Stuff taught me a lot. People weren’t just arguing about space. They were reacting to something deeper: a sense that we’re losing the plot. That the very thing we once treated with reverence and ambition is becoming a backdrop for branding.

But I still believe in space. I believe in opening it to more people—not by lowering the bar, but by making the bar meaningful again. I believe in building something that lasts, something driven by vision, not vanity. I’ve seen what that looks like—at SpaceX, at Rocket Lab, and in the earliest days of private flight when my uncle Burt dared to believe space could belong to all of us.

This isn't about keeping people out. It’s about calling us back to why we wanted to go up there in the first place.

Because space isn’t sacred because it’s dangerous.
It’s sacred because it reminds us of who we can be—together—when we aim for something bigger than ourselves.