There are days when my head is completely consumed by politics. but today is not one of them. Today belongs to four people.
We talk about Artemis II like it’s a mission, a milestone, a technical achievement. And it is all of those things. But before any of that, it is four human beings who said yes to something that most of us can barely comprehend.
Reid Wiseman, the commander. A father of two daughters, who lost his wife to cancer just a few years ago. Before he left, he had to sit down with those girls and have a conversation no parent ever wants to have. Not about the glory of spaceflight, but about the reality of risk. About what it would mean if he didn’t come home.
Victor Glover, the pilot. A husband, a father of four daughters. A man who carries not just the weight of the mission, but the quiet understanding of what it means to leave behind everything that matters most and trust that the work is worth it.
Christina Koch, mission specialist. Brilliant, steady, experienced. A partner, a teammate, someone who has already pushed the boundaries of what we thought was possible in space, and chose to go back and push them further.
And Jeremy Hansen. Our Jeremy. A husband, a father of three, deeply rooted in this country in a way that feels personal if you’ve ever had the chance to meet him, or even just listen to him speak. His wife, is a physician and his children are growing into their own paths.
These are extraordinary people. And yet what strikes me most is how entirely ordinary they are in their face to the world. There is no ego in the way they carry themselves, nor distance. No sense that they are somehow separate from the rest of us. If anything, it’s the opposite. They feel like the kind of people you would sit across from at a kitchen table, coffee in hand, talking about family and work and the rhythm of everyday life. I can say that personally about Jeremy. I’ve seen it. I know it to be true.
And then they strap themselves to the top of a rocket and leave the planet.
I will be watching today. I will be watching the numbers, the timelines, the calm voices calling out each phase as they begin that final burn into re-entry. It will be the fastest, hottest return any human beings have ever experienced. Physics doesn’t care about emotion. It doesn’t soften because I am invested. It simply does what it does.
And so I sit here, on a spring Friday, with a knot in my stomach.
Because this is the part that asks the most of them.
I can talk about exploration, about science, about pushing humanity forward. And all of that is true. Every generation has had its version of this, from ships crossing unknown oceans to aircraft pushing past the limits of what we thought wings could do. This is simply our version of the frontier. But frontiers have always come with risk. Not abstract risk. Human risk.
And if I feel this way, sitting here on the ground, watching from a distance, I can only imagine what it feels like for the people who love them.
The daughters, the son, the partners, the parents and the families who smiled, supported, and let them go anyway. We see the composure. We see the pride. What we don’t see is the anxiety and fear that must exist.
Today is not about politics. There will be time for that again soon enough. But I would be lying if I said this team doesn’t make me think about something more. What I see when I look at them is a reminder of something that once felt steady. That sense of Canada and the United States being neighbours and being connected not just by geography, but by trust, shared purpose, and the understanding that when something mattered, we showed up together.
There is a line by John F. Kennedy, that geography made us neighbours, history made us friends, economics made us partners, and necessity has made us allies. For a while now, that hasn’t always felt true. But when I look at this crew, I see it again.
Not in speeches or headlines, but in the quiet, unspoken way they operate as one team. No hierarchy of nationality nor distance. Just four people, from two countries, carrying the same responsibility, the same risk, the same purpose. And in that, I find something I didn’t expect today; hope.
Today is about four people who represent something we don’t get nearly enough of right now. Curiosity, courage, discipline and belief that moving forward still matters.
So as they make their way home, through heat and speed and everything that stands between where they’ve been and where I am, I know this much. My anxiety doesn’t ease. Not until it’s over.
I will be transfixed to that screen, watching every second, waiting for the only moment that matters. All four of them, back on the ground.
Nancy's Notes 