Prompt: “Write about a time when you experienced failure…”

My affinity for science activism began as many promising relationships often do: with a corny joke.

During my first year of high school, I decided to enter an international science essay competition. I also decided that I should give my essay some “personality,” which, unfortunately, constituted an attempt to poke fun at the historical ambiguity of the word “planet.” Looking back at the essay now, it is painfully obvious that the comment was cringe-worthy, but to my 14-year-old self, describing Earth as “one of eight planets (or nine if you count Pluto)” was destined to make the judges laugh.

I first learned about the competition through my subscription to Scientific American. As I flipped through the advertisement section to get to the actual articles, one page caught my eye.

“NEW COSMIC FRONTIERS Student Essay Competition: An International Essay Competition On the Nature of our Universe and its Habitats.”

I froze with excitement and stared at the page in disbelief. The Scientific American gods, I thought, had bestowed upon me the opportunity of a lifetime.

I started researching almost immediately. My family was moving at the time, so I tucked myself away in one of the empty, unfamiliar closets of my new house, tirelessly reading articles as the moving crew carried boxes and furniture inside. The focal point of my essay ultimately became the development of magnetic field detection techniques for Earthlike planet candidates. It spanned nine pages, which was undoubtedly the longest piece of writing I had ever produced, and when I finally pressed “submit,” I was filled with an overwhelming sense of pride. All I had left to do was wait.

Day after day, I checked my email, refreshed the page, and checked again, desperate for news of success. When months passed and no email came, my sense of accomplishment at having entered the contest quickly turned to gut-wrenching embarrassment. The winning essays were published on the contest website, and I realized how unremarkable mine must have looked in comparison, despite my initial confidence. I banished the essay to the depths of my hopelessly disorganized computer.

In the wake of my disappointment, I stumbled upon a YouTube video about the history of NASA funding and the legacy of the Space Race. My level of excitement over the course of the video rose almost as quickly as the crescendos of the Cinematic Orchestra music in the background. Here was a video, featuring famous scientists and their arguments for increased science funding, that some fabulously dedicated person had collected and set to music. It was an organized compilation of almost everything I believed in with regard to my passion for science. It was, as far as I was concerned, absolute genius.

The description under the video said that it was produced by a grassroots social media campaign called Penny4NASA. I followed the link to the Penny4NASA website and emailed the head of the organization, still riding on emotional empowerment from the video. In what I’m sure was a lengthy message, I said that I was interested in volunteering with the organization and wanted to help out in any way I could. Again, all I had left to do was wait.

As days turned into weeks, I thought back to the essay competition that I had lost and tried so desperately to forget, creating waves of doubt that permeated my mind: I was in over my head last time, so what would make this time any different? Would an established organization run by adults even consider letting me volunteer when I was only in high school?

Refresh, check, nothing.

Refresh, check, nothing.

Refresh, check, still nothing.

Refresh, check, 1 new message—from Penny4NASA.org.

After months of waiting, I finally got my chance to be a part of something bigger. My email had finally arrived.