Some people think that when you've flown in space, your greatest adventure is behind you. They imagine that after you've looked down at the whole planet, watched sunrises and sunsets every 90 minutes, and felt the sheer, exhilarating silence of orbit, nothing else can compare. And in some ways, that's true. Nothing quite matches the feeling of floating in a tiny tin can a quarter of a million miles from home, with the entire Earth in your window.
But I’ve discovered something since coming back. My greatest adventure isn't behind me at all. It's happening right now, in the quiet conversations, the loud school assemblies, and the one-on-one mentoring sessions that fill my life. My most important mission isn’t to the stars anymore. It’s to the classrooms and communities right here on Earth, to inspire the next generation.
I became an astronaut because I was relentlessly curious. As a kid, I was always asking "why?" and "how?" Why does a ball curve when you throw it? How does a plane stay in the air? How do we build something that can break free of gravity's pull? That curiosity led me down a path of science, technology, engineering, and mathematics—what we now call STEM. But for a long time, the path wasn't clear. It felt like a mountain with no map.
That's why my work today is so important to me. I've been given a unique platform, a chance to be a guide for others who are just starting that climb. I see my role not as a hero or a celebrity, but as a bridge—a way to connect the wonder of space exploration with the practical, achievable steps it takes to get there.
One of the first things I try to do in my astronaut outreach is to break down the myth of the "genius." When kids and even adults think of scientists and engineers, they often picture a brilliant, eccentric person who was born with a certain kind of brain. It's a stereotype that discourages so many people from even trying. I'm here to tell you that’s not true. I wasn't born a genius. I failed tests. I struggled with complex equations. I had to practice things over and over again until they finally clicked. The qualities that got me to space were not innate brilliance, but perseverance, curiosity, and a willingness to learn from my mistakes.
I tell them about the first time I built a simple circuit board in an engineering class, and it didn’t work. I tried and tried, and it just wouldn't light up. It was frustrating, and for a moment, I wanted to give up. But my professor told me something that has stuck with me ever since: "Failure is just information." He helped me see that every time I failed, I learned something about what not to do. It was a crucial lesson, and it’s one I try to pass on to every young person I meet. In science careers, failure isn’t a dead end; it's a data point. It’s part of the process of discovery.
My mission in these talks is to make STEM education feel real and relatable. We don’t just talk about rocket science. We talk about the science of their own lives. We talk about how the engineering principles they learn in a LEGO robotics club are the same ones we use to build a rover for Mars. We discuss how the code they write for a video game is the same kind of logic we use to run experiments in orbit. I try to show them that STEM is everywhere—in the apps on their phones, the shoes on their feet, and the bridge they cross to get to school. It's not an abstract, intimidating subject; it's a set of tools for understanding and shaping the world around them.
The most rewarding part of this work is the mentorship. It's easy to give a big, inspiring speech to a thousand kids in an auditorium. It's another thing entirely to sit down with a single student who is struggling, or who has a wild idea that they're afraid to share. I've had the privilege of mentoring a few young people, and it's in those moments that the real magic happens. There was one girl, let's call her Sarah, who was brilliant with computers but was convinced she wasn't "smart enough" for a career in technology. We talked for weeks, and I shared my own stories of self-doubt. I encouraged her to apply for a coding camp, and when she got in, the confidence in her voice was a thousand times more rewarding than any successful mission I had ever flown. That's the power of one person investing in another.
My own mentorship didn't come from a formal program. It came from a series of people in my life—teachers, professors, and even a senior engineer I worked for—who saw my potential even when I couldn't see it myself. They gave me a little push, a piece of advice, or simply the permission to ask a question that I thought was stupid. My STEM mentorship now is my way of paying that forward, of being that person for a new generation.
The future of space exploration depends on this work. The astronauts of tomorrow are in elementary school today. They are in high school, asking their teachers difficult questions about black holes and gene editing. We need all of them. We need the girls and boys who are good at math, the artists who are brilliant at design, the musicians who understand the physics of sound, and the writers who can communicate complex ideas clearly. The future of exploration won't be built by one type of person. It will be built by a global team, as diverse as humanity itself, with skills ranging from robotics to medicine, from geology to psychology. My mission is to make sure every one of those potential team members feels seen, encouraged, and empowered.
I've had kids ask me some of the most profound questions. One little girl once asked me, "What does space smell like?" It's a question I love, because it's so simple and so human. It reminds me that beyond the science and the engineering, the true heart of our journey into the cosmos is our shared human curiosity. And it’s that curiosity that I hope to ignite in every person I meet.
My time in space was an honour. But the most meaningful part of my journey isn’t what I did up there; it’s the work I am doing now, down here. It's about planting seeds of curiosity and watching them grow into a passion. It’s about building a bridge from a child's small classroom to the vast, limitless frontier of the universe. The future of humanity is written not in the stars, but in the minds of the next generation. And my greatest mission is to help them find the tools they need to write it.