The Cosmos Within

Before cities lit up the night, the stars were a constant presence. To our ancestors, the sky wasn’t just beautiful—it was vast and unknowable. Still, over the dying embers of the campfire, they looked up.

When I picked up Carl Sagan’s Cosmos, I expected facts, not feelings. But somewhere along the way, his words touched something deeper: the universe’s story, as strange as it sounds, was mine too.

I started to wonder if this wasn’t just my story. The long path we’ve taken—from superstition to science, from ego to humility—might be one we each have to walk to live meaningfully. Understanding the stars, it turns out, helps us understand ourselves.

How we first made sense of the sky

We didn’t start with science. At first, comfort mattered more than truth. Stories in the form of constellations, gods, and omens helped us cope with a world we couldn’t explain.

The Babylonians told of Marduk slaying the chaos-dragon Tiamat to form the heavens. In ancient China, people believed a dragon swallowed the sun during an eclipse and banged drums to scare it away.

This isn’t far from how we interpret the world as children. The sun goes to sleep, the clouds cry, and when someone dies, they become a star. To ward off the dark, I imagined my stuffed moose standing guard and kept a flashlight under my pillow.

Losing the center

Over time, our stories evolved. Gods and monsters gave way to observable patterns, and science began to take hold.

Early beliefs placed Earth at the universe’s center, with celestial bodies circling us. The model made intuitive sense because the ground beneath seemed stationary while the sky moved. This mirrors childhood assumptions that the world revolves around us. After all, parents cater to our needs, and our experience of the world is limited.

However, planetary motion broke this model. Mars, for instance, didn’t follow a predictable path—it sometimes moved backward. We tried to explain this by complicating the model, layering circles upon circles. Eventually, we accepted the unsettling truth: we weren’t at the center at all, but just one planet among many, circling the Sun.

Even as adults, we sometimes hang on to this mindset. A delayed reply or canceled plan can feel personal. We invent reasons, layer on meaning, trying to keep ourselves at the center.

But like planetary motion, most situations are simpler. People are usually tired, distracted, or just busy living their own lives.

Pursuing uncertain outcomes

Eventually, we chase uncertain dreams—jobs, relationships, ambitions.

Accepting the heliocentric model solved old puzzles but introduced new ones. If Earth moved, stars should appear to shift position slightly. They do—but the distances were far greater than anyone had imagined.

Even measuring the Sun’s distance was difficult, requiring a rare celestial event: Venus passing across the Sun. These transits happen in pairs, more than a century apart.

To capture it, we sailed across the world to observe it from different points. But the effort was fragile—shipwreck, war, illness, or even a single misplaced cloud could undo everything.

I think about that feeling: to prepare for years, for a single moment that might slip away. Athletes understand it. So do students from cultures like mine, where one exam can shape your entire future.

If success is the only measure of meaning, failure becomes devastating. But if fulfillment comes from the process itself, even setbacks carry value and move us forward. And sometimes—only in hindsight—do we realize how far we’ve come.

The uneven path of growth

The Greeks estimated Earth’s circumference. Indian astronomers predicted eclipses, and the Maya built intricate calendars.

But knowledge doesn’t always move in a straight line. Medieval Europe experienced long periods of stagnation, even as the Islamic world made significant strides. Then came breakthroughs from Copernicus, Galileo, and Newton—each building on earlier insights.

My own growth hasn’t been smooth either. In school, I was quiet—more at ease with computers than with people—and I knew I was behind socially. But it wasn’t until my first job, at a small office with older colleagues, that I could no longer hide from it. The gaps became clear during meetings and work trips, where conversation filled every in-between moment. I often felt exposed, unsure of how to join in or what to say. But gradually, I adapted.

Growth isn’t linear. We stall, slip, and occasionally leap forward. Crises, losses, or even a book at the right time can shift our perspective—as does moving to a new country, which forces us beyond familiar routines.

Everyone’s growth looks different, and that’s fine. Like scientists across generations, we advance by learning from each other.

Seeing what’s not visible

Galileo’s telescope showed only what the eye could see. But the universe speaks in many wavelengths—radio, infrared, ultraviolet, X-rays—far beyond human perception. Modern instruments translate those signals, revealing phenomena like dark matter and black holes.

We weren’t present at Earth’s formation or the universe’s birth. Yet by studying isotopes and ancient light, we can piece together their histories.

Adulthood requires similar interpretation. You can easily tell someone’s height. But their values? Their capacity for empathy? People present polished versions of themselves, so we learn to look deeper: who listens without interrupting, who shows up when it’s inconvenient, who changes when no one’s watching.

As children, we expect directness. As adults, we deal in subtext. We hint, soften, and suggest. We avoid confrontation, hedge our feelings, and often bury what we need beneath what feels more polite. And because people rarely name our flaws out loud, we can carry them for years.

But inference—whether in science or life—must be handled with care. Similar to how we once mistook Martian shadows for signs of life, we also misread people—projecting our fears or hopes. We have to leave room for doubt.

How we use what we learn

Einstein’s equation, E = mc², is deceptively simple. It explained how stars shine for billions of years. But the same insight—that a small amount of mass could be converted into enormous energy—later made nuclear weapons possible. One truth opened the door to both wonder and destruction.

With age, we come to recognize simple truths about human nature: we’re drawn to outrage, fear, envy, and desire. I’ve worked in tech my entire career, where we’ve learned to measure and amplify those responses. The result is platforms designed to keep people scrolling, even when it leaves them anxious or isolated.

But truths don’t have to be used that way.

We’re also wired for connection. Kindness, encouragement, and recognition resonate just as deeply. People crave usefulness, trust, and belonging. Those same behavioral patterns can support mental health, reinforce good habits, and strengthen community.

Knowledge carries no inherent morality. What we do with it is up to us.

What remains after us

After millennia of watching, wondering, and reaching beyond what we could touch, we’ve started to understand the shape of the cosmos.

The observable universe stretches 90 billion light-years across—two trillion galaxies, each with hundreds of billions of stars. From far away, Earth is just a pale blue dot drifting in the dark. But to us, it holds everything: every joy, every sorrow, every life ever lived.

I live next to a hospice. Sometimes, from my window, I see visitors greet an older person in a wheelchair. Their faces are solemn, composed. The hugs last a little longer than usual.

It’s a reminder that no matter what we build or believe, we all face the same horizon.

If I watch too long, I start to imagine myself in that chair—fragile, looking back. After all the striving and searching, what truly matters?

Like our ancestors who once sat around the fire, we still look up. But now we know something they didn’t: even distant starlight takes millennia to reach us. Some of those stars may no longer burn, yet their light travels on.

We can too. Our actions, our words, our kindness—they carry farther than we ever see.