Modest Expectations Give Rise to Delight – Sky & Telescope

Fortunate are those who expect nothing, for they will never be disappointed. This paraphrase of Alexander Pope’s adage applies particularly well to astronomy.

As I lunched with other members of Portland’s Rose City Astronomers in early January, “expectation versus reality” was a primary topic of conversation. Nearly everyone had a story about trying to introduce the cosmos to an underwhelmed newcomer — like a newbie who anticipated seeing a massive and well-defined Ring Nebula through a telescope eyepiece instead of a small, indistinct blob.

Then there are the unrealistic expectations built up by technology and media. We have been conditioned by science fiction movies and professionally processed images from the Hubble and James Webb space telescopes for high drama and explosive color.

In 2025 we are historically privileged when it comes to spectacular deep-sky images, and our advantage only grows with each new space telescope. You can see colliding spiral galaxies with a quick visit to NASA’s Astronomy Photo of the Day, or take a peek at Jupiter’s bands or Saturn’s rings via an easy Google search.

The sights that were groundbreaking discoveries for Galileo can seem commonplace or even boring today. The phases of Venus? Seen it. Four measly Galilean moons? Yawn.

Sometimes inexperienced stargazers are already jaded by the time the get their turn at a volunteer’s telescope at a public star party. Maybe they don’t understand the hours spent stacking and post-processing astronomy images to bring out the colors and nuances that aren’t visible to the unaided eye. Maybe it’s impatience. But if you peer into that eyepiece with the anticipation of seeing full-color, up-close details of a faraway galaxy, who wouldn’t be disappointed by a hazy smear instead?

Even worse is the flood of AI-generated images on social media — like the ones placing a photo-realistic human eye at the center of the Helix Nebula — that can heighten unrealistic assumptions about the cosmos.

With such grand expectations, it’s tough to get excited about a smudgy view of the Orion Nebula through a 76mm reflector telescope in the backyard. It’s a shame, because there’s a danger of missing out on decades of discovery and delight if you let yourself get terminally discouraged by a preventable let-down.

More experienced amateur astronomers can fall into this trap, too. Expectations can get in the way of a good night of stargazing in other ways — like last May, when I delayed venturing out to a local park to view the aurora borealis for the first time because I was afraid of being disappointed. (It turns out, we arrived right on time and the show was anything but unsatisfying.) There are also the meticulous plans thwarted by weather, malfunctioning equipment, or any of a multitude of life’s inconveniences.

So what’s the remedy? At the RCA lunch, one lady exclaimed, “Lower your expectations, and then be surprised!” If only it were so easy to balance anticipation and wonder!

Perspective is what brings me back into equilibrium. When my Dwarf 3 telescope doesn’t produce the same crisp image of the Flame Nebula (NGC 2024) that my friend captured under similar conditions the night before, that’s far from a failure. I still get to study a fascinating emission nebula that looks like a cosmic tree growing tall and strong inside a fiery heart — something I only dreamed of seeing with my own equipment just a couple of years ago.

And if a fidgety alt-azimuth mount has me burning starlight while I’m struggling to star-hop to M50, I try to remember the larger context: The Heart-Shaped Cluster is nearly 2,900 light years away; the light I see tonight has been traveling across the vastness of space since the 9th century BC.

Or perspective can come as I trace the cluster’s host constellation, Monoceros, to grasp the open cluster’s place in the sky. I can even let my unaided eyes roam all of the dark sky above and remind myself that, although my feet are on the ground, my heart is in the stars. And that’s everything.

Maybe Pope’s adage could be reframed as: Fortunate is the amateur astronomer who keeps curiosity as their guide. If I lean into discovery instead of disappointment, there is no limit to the breadth of wonder under a wide-open sky. Who I am to impose my expectations on the cosmos? The stars endure regardless, and the sky invites me to appreciate what is there, rather than lament what I’d hoped to see. The real magic happens when you’re doing and seeing for yourself. If you can find a way to temper your expectations and make room for delight, the payoff is literally astronomical.