Billionaire Space Rides and a Broken World

On space tourism, staggering wealth, and the deep absurdity of our times

Image by Ellienore Bradley on Unplash

On April 14th, 2025, Jeff Bezos’ spaceship, Blue Origin, launched another one of its private flights. This time, the news was buzzing about it being the first all-female crew—six women, including his fiancée and Katy Perry. They went to space for a few minutes, floated in zero gravity, then came back down to Earth. The headlines called it historic. A celebration of progress. Another “win” for humanity.

But as I watched the coverage days later, I didn’t feel inspired. I didn’t feel proud. I didn’t feel anything close to what the polished headlines or excited news presenters suggested I should. Instead, I felt a quiet ache settle in my chest—familiar, but heavier than usual. I couldn’t help but think: is this really where we are?

It’s not jealousy. I don’t want to go to space. That’s not what this is about. It’s about the sheer absurdity of how we’ve come to define success, celebration, and progress in a world that feels more fractured by the day. The idea that billionaires can fund space trips for fun, for photo ops, for the sake of novelty, while so many people on Earth are just trying to get through the day—that disconnect gets harder to swallow every time I see it.

We’re constantly being told that this is progress. That this kind of thing is something to be proud of. We’re supposed to see these spaceflights as markers of human achievement, as moments that unite us. But they don’t unite us. They highlight how divided everything really is. Because when I look at that kind of money being spent on five minutes of floating above Earth, I can’t help but think about how many people don’t even have clean drinking water, or access to basic healthcare, or a safe place to sleep.

What’s strange is how normal it’s all starting to feel. The wealth gap has become so wide, so surreal, that we’ve almost stopped reacting to it. People who have more money than they could spend in a hundred lifetimes are turning life into a game, while the rest of us are expected to clap from the sidelines. It’s bizarre. It’s painful. And yet it’s so baked into our culture that if you question it, you’re seen as bitter or envious or naive.

But I don’t think it’s naive to ask whether this is the world we really want to be building. I don’t think it’s wrong to wonder why we’re celebrating a system where a handful of people get to play with the planet while so many are still trying to survive on it. There’s a deep weirdness to it all, and the more I sit with it, the more uncomfortable it becomes.

There’s something especially cruel about being told to feel grateful just to witness this kind of spectacle. As if it’s a gift. As if we should be honoured to watch people float above us while we deal with systems down here that are breaking people every single day. Housing. Healthcare. Education. Mental health. The cost of food. These are real, everyday struggles for millions of people. And somehow, those stories never get the headlines or the awe or the applause.

I know there will be people who say I’m overthinking it. That it’s just a fun story. That it’s harmless. But I don’t think it’s harmless. Because everything about it reflects the values we’ve allowed to rise to the top—where extravagance is framed as inspiration, and survival is left up to luck and resilience.

We live in a time where billionaires are treated like heroes for launching themselves or their guests into space, while people working two jobs still can’t afford rent. Where we’re told innovation is about rockets, not about rebuilding what’s broken down here. Where luxury is mistaken for vision. Where we applaud wealth, even when it comes at the cost of basic humanity.

And the most surreal part is that we’ve adapted to it. We’ve learned to carry the weight of this brokenness quietly. To keep going. To smile when we’re told to be grateful. To watch the news and pretend that nothing about it feels deeply off.

But I won’t pretend today.

Because the truth is, I’m not cheering. I’m not inspired. I’m not moved by billionaires sending celebrities to space. I’m exhausted by a world that keeps celebrating the people who have taken the most, while offering so little to those who need the most care. I’m tired of pretending that this is progress. I’m tired of being told that this is exciting. It’s not. It’s dystopian. It’s hollow. And it says more about the values we’ve lost than the future we’re building.

So no—I’m not cheering.

I’m not inspired. I’m not impressed. I’m not willing to call this progress when it feels more like a symptom of how far we’ve drifted from each other.

I’m just here, eyes open, heart heavy, wondering how much more we’ll accept in the name of “success” before we finally start asking better questions.

I write Quietly Becoming for those who crave honest, raw reflections on growth, boundaries, and mental well-being. If you found this helpful, join the subscriber community for exclusive deep dives, personal insights, and practical tools to support your own journey.

With love, Salwa