Rick Tumlinson is the founder of SpaceFund, a venture capital firm investing in space startups. He also founded the Space Frontier Foundation, Earthlight Foundation, and New Worlds Institute and was a founding board member of the X Prize Foundation. He contributed the following piece — an edited essay from his upcoming book “Why Space: The Purpose of People,” to be published in the spring of 2025 — to Space.com’s Expert Voices section.
My daughter is about to turn 12. To her, I am an ancient being; to me, she is an unfolding experiment, a constant reminder that growth is a process — one neither we nor humanity itself are born fully into. Watching her navigate the stages of childhood offers striking parallels to humanity’s relationship with our environment and our aspirations.
From our earliest days, growth is defined by exploration. Children engage with the world through play — testing, trying, and discarding what doesn’t work. Each new experience is thrilling yet fleeting, as curiosity propels them forward. This process leaves behind a trail of discarded toys and half-finished experiments, evidence of progress.
Over time, play becomes purpose. The transience of childhood gives way to a permanence that defines adulthood. Tools replace toys. Games evolve into pursuits that sustain. A child grows into a creator, builder, or teacher, ready to guide the next generation.
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Humanity mirrors this cycle. From agricultural tools to industrial machines, from cradles to skyscrapers, our species has grown by learning, discarding, and rebuilding. Yet, like a child, we are still in our infancy regarding our place in the cosmos.
Some liken Earth to our cradle. In a way, it is. We are parentless in the cosmic sense, left to figure out survival without guidance. Mother Earth has sustained us but hasn’t given us a manual. We’ve learned through trial and error, often at significant cost — pushing her limits and nearly breaking our home.
We’ve explored with wide-eyed wonder and naive recklessness, venturing to the Moon and toddling across its surface, only to abandon it when the novelty faded. We’ve built elaborate “toys” like space stations, proclaimed seriousness, and then walked away when funding dried up. All the while, we’ve treated Earth as an inexhaustible resource, leaving scars in our wake.
But childhood doesn’t last forever. Humanity is reaching the threshold of adulthood. It is time to grow up and go out — beyond the cradle and into the cosmos.
Adulthood demands permanence and responsibility. It means shifting from transient whims to lasting systems. It requires us to stop asking, “What’s next to entertain us?” and start asking, “What’s next to sustain us?” Or, as my dad Sarge used to say: “Clean your room, and then go get a job!”
Transitioning from government-funded missions and billionaire-led projects to a thriving space economy will require more than ambition. It will require industries, markets, and real jobs that sustain the frontier and fuel its growth. Just as early settlers on Earth learned to create wealth from what looked at first like nothing while making do with what they had, we must adopt a frontier mindset for space.
This transformation is already underway. Reusable rockets — what I call rocket ships as, like ships, we do not throw them away after each use — are ushering in a new era. Access to this new High Frontier is becoming cheaper and more frequent. As this continues, everything we send must be built to endure. The throwaway culture that defined our early ventures into space cannot survive in an environment where waste is a death sentence.
The same principles must apply to our habitats. Maturity means planning and building life for the long term.
Our early steps into space were littered with waste — disposable technologies, single-use rockets, and discarded dreams. We cannot afford such wastefulness in the unforgiving environments we aim to inhabit. Moving from a play stage to a stay stage demands robust, reliable, and reusable systems. Permanence, not obsolescence, must be our guiding principle.
Space stations and planetary outposts must be designed to last, their components recycled and repurposed. For example, the notion of intentionally destroying something as complex as a space station — burning it up in Earth’s atmosphere — will one day be seen as primitively short-sighted.
The “expendable” space program is unsustainable. That outdated model must give way to one driven by resourcefulness. Every wire, every ounce of material, every molecule of air must be precious. Recycling, repurposing, and reusing are not optional; they are the foundation of life beyond Earth.
This maturity must extend to our treatment of Earth. There is no greater environmentalist than someone living in space, rebreathing their own air and re-drinking their own fluids. The lessons we learn in space — valuing every resource — must guide how we care for our MotherWorld.
Our transition from childhood to adulthood in space will not be seamless. Adolescence, with its conflicts and contradictions, lies ahead. But each decision we make will reflect our maturity — or lack thereof. And each mistake will demand that we learn and grow, or continue making the mess of things we did in our childhood, except on a far larger scale. Will we embrace the permanence and resourcefulness needed to thrive or cling to the wasteful habits of our youth?
By the time my daughter is old enough to choose her path, I hope she will be part of a society that has learned to value not just the resources of Earth but those of the cosmos. A society that has moved beyond its cradle, matured in its methods, and embraced its role as a steward of life.
Humanity’s greatest strength has always been its capacity to grow, learn, and change. Now is our moment to prove it.
It’s time to grow up — and to go out.
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