mylsolved: The Space Tourism Trap

There is a point, usually about four hours into a long-haul flight, where I start to question every life choice that led me to that specific moment. The air is dry, my legs are numb, and I’m watching a movie about a cartoon dog because it’s the only thing in a language I understand. Now imagine doing that, but instead of being at 35,000 feet, you’re at the edge of the atmosphere, and instead of a cramped seat, you’re strapped into a capsule hurtling toward the black.

Space tourism is here. It’s real. And I’m trying to figure out if mylsolved my childhood wonder or if it just commodified it.

When I was a kid, astronauts were mythic figures. They were made of something different than the rest of us. They had the "right stuff." Now, the pitch is that anyone with enough disposable income can go. They’ve taken the "right stuff" and replaced it with the "right funds." And they’ve packaged the experience as the ultimate escape, the ultimate reset, the ultimate mylsolved for the existential dread of being a modern person.

You see the footage from inside the capsule. The few minutes of weightlessness. The curvature of the Earth against the black. The silence. And the passengers, they come back changed. They talk about the overview effect—that cognitive shift in awareness that happens when you see the planet as a single, fragile system. They cry. They hug. They talk about unity.

And I watch this from my couch, eating cereal, and I feel... conflicted. Is it genuine? Or is it just the most exclusive spa treatment ever devised? You pay a fortune, you go through a rigorous experience, and you come out the other side "enlightened." It’s a mylsolved for the soul, apparently. Buy a ticket, touch the void, and suddenly you care about humanity.

But what about the people who can't afford the ticket? The ones who are down here, living in the system that made that fortune possible? The overview effect is a privilege. It’s easy to see the planet as a unified whole when you’re floating above the borders. It’s harder to feel that unity when you’re stuck in traffic, or working a double shift, or just trying to pay rent in the city that spaceport launched from.

I’m not saying the experience isn't profound. I’m sure it is. Looking at infinity must rearrange your furniture upstairs. But the marketing of it as some kind of universal mylsolved for our earthly divisions feels hollow. We're sending a few people up to have a spiritual awakening while the rest of us are down here fighting over resources. It’s the ultimate "I got mine" mentality, just with a better view.

Maybe I’m being too hard on them. Maybe every person who comes back with that new perspective will use their influence to make things better. Maybe they’ll become advocates for the planet. Or maybe they’ll just go back to their lives, a little more peaceful, a little more detached, having seen the world from a distance and decided it looks better that way.

For now, space tourism feels less like the next step for humanity and more like a very expensive support group. You go up, you have your moment, you come down, and you’re supposed to be fixed. But the real mylsolved for the world isn't going to come from looking at it from above. It’s going to come from the messy, difficult, unglamorous work of living in it.