Atmosphere

by Taylor Jenkins Reid

To look up at the nighttime sky is to become a part of a long line of people throughout human history who looked above at that same set of stars. It is to witness time unfolding.

Here today, I’d like to talk to you about the weight of what you are signing up for. And I’d like to start by making sure you all understand the significance

I can see how this moment parallels across different careers. This whole section of this chapter reminds me of when they showed the future teachers the columbine shooting videos.

She was happy, in some ways, to know that her body would decompose. That she would give back to the Earth all she had taken from it.

Bravery is being unafraid of something other people are afraid of. Courage is being afraid, but strong enough to do it anyway.”

“Neither of us are particularly brave right now,” Vanessa said. “But both of us are going to be courageous.”

Joan so loved the beauty in this world: showing people the stars, spotting the fuzzy glimmer of the Orion Nebula with just her eyes, the rare moments when auroras are visible even in the southern states because of intense geomagnetic storms, trying one more time to really nail Rachmaninoff’s Prelude in C-sharp Minor, rereading The Awakening, listening to Joni Mitchell and Kate Bush, drawing for so long, so late into the night that her palm cramped, running so far that she forgot to think, taking Frances for ice cream and watching how long she deliberated over which flavor to choose, the smell of Frances’s hair… That was the stuff that made life worth living. And she worried Barbara didn’t see that.

“Well, we are the stars,” Joan said. “And the stars are us. Every atom in our bodies was once out there. Was once a part of them. To look at the night sky is to look at parts of who you once were, who you may one day be.”

“I think I just wanted to feel something other than sad,” Vanessa said. Joan did not look away. “Did it work?” Vanessa inhaled. “Yes, that’s the problem. If you find a way to make yourself absolutely terrified, there’s no room for any other feeling.”

Joan did not believe there were gods up there, but she did believe that God was there. Was everywhere. The wonder of the night sky was as good a place to connect with it as the smell of a grapefruit or the warmth of a pocket of sun.

But there was something about Frances that made Joan believe she was better—held more goodness—than anyone she had ever met.

Harper.

Jimmy had been told from a young age that fear and failing and trying and wanting and openness and kindness and sincerity made him weak. And because he had believed it, he’d learned to suppress all of those things. And when he saw those traits in others, he hated them because he hated himself.

Because the world had decided that to be soft was to be weak, even though in Joan’s experience being soft and flexible was always more durable than being hard and brittle. Admitting you were afraid always took more guts than pretending you weren’t. Being willing to make a mistake got you further than never trying. The world had decided that to be fallible was weak. But we are all fallible. The strong ones are the ones who accept it.

“No one at NASA is thinking, ‘Let’s see how women do it.’ They’re thinking, ‘Maybe we should give them a chance to prove they are just like us.’ ”

“It’s 1981, and I’m done pretending sexist jokes are funny just so men will give me a chance at something I’m probably better at than they are.”

Gravity is underrated. It gives us something to fight against.