We're not up here visiting space, we're up here living in space.

Hear the voice of Anne McClain, astronaut and pioneer, who declared: “We’re not up here visiting space, we’re up here living in space.” These words, though spoken of orbit and stars, are not merely about astronauts in their stations. They are a testimony to the difference between the fleeting glance of a traveler and the rooted presence of one who makes a new world his home. To visit is to remain a stranger; to live is to belong, to endure, and to shape the place around you with your very existence.

The origin of this truth lies in the transformation of human spaceflight itself. In the early days, men like Yuri Gagarin or Neil Armstrong were indeed visitors—brief sojourners who touched the heavens and then returned quickly to earth. But with the rise of the International Space Station, humanity crossed a threshold. No longer were astronauts merely guests in orbit; they became settlers, inhabitants of a frontier. They slept, worked, ate, dreamed, and grew accustomed to a life beyond the pull of gravity. McClain’s words mark this shift: man is no longer a visitor to the stars, but a dweller among them.

The deeper meaning is heroic. For to live in space requires more than courage—it demands endurance, discipline, and acceptance of hardship. The tourist may marvel at the view, but the inhabitant must learn how to grow food, repair systems, fight sickness, and adapt his very body to a hostile realm. This is no longer spectacle, but survival. In this way, McClain’s declaration mirrors the journeys of ancient settlers, who crossed oceans not to sightsee, but to build new lives in strange lands. They too ceased to be visitors and became dwellers, rooted in soil that was once foreign but soon became home.

Consider the Pilgrims who sailed on the Mayflower. They could have been mere voyagers, touching a new coast and departing again. But instead, they chose to live, to plant, to endure winters of hunger and loss, until the wilderness was transformed into a dwelling place. Their sacrifice and persistence echo McClain’s point: that greatness is not found in fleeting journeys, but in the labor of settlement. So too does humanity’s future in the stars depend not upon visits, but upon the courage to remain.

McClain’s words also carry a universal teaching. For in every life, there are places we may only visit—moments, tasks, or relationships we approach as outsiders, half-hearted and temporary. And there are places we choose to truly live—to invest ourselves fully, to endure the hardships, and to find meaning in permanence. To “live” is to commit; to “visit” is to escape. Her words remind us to ask ourselves: are we visitors in our own lives, or are we inhabitants of our destiny?

The lesson is clear: do not live as a visitor, passing lightly over the surface of existence. Choose instead to inhabit your life fully, to root yourself in purpose, to embrace even the difficulties as part of dwelling. For the visitor seeks only comfort, but the one who lives learns resilience, belonging, and transformation. Life itself is like the space station—fragile, difficult, but radiant with meaning when inhabited with courage.

Practical actions flow from this wisdom. In your work, do not approach as a guest, but as a builder, leaving it stronger than when you entered. In your relationships, do not merely pass through, but dwell with patience, loyalty, and depth. In your dreams, do not hover at the surface, but commit, endure, and make them part of your daily life. In all things, cease to be a visitor and become one who truly lives.

Thus, Anne McClain’s words must be remembered as both a proclamation of humanity’s new age in the stars and a parable for all who walk the earth: “We are not up here visiting space, we are up here living in space.” May we take this spirit into our own lives, learning to dwell, to endure, and to belong, wherever destiny has placed us. For it is not in fleeting visits, but in steadfast living, that greatness is born.