First Dad rejected me the same year a crazy old wizard said on the big screen, “That’s no moon; it’s a space station.” I’d like to think the old man was speaking to the future of the 2 year old boy watching completely quiet (or so my mom claimed). Decades later, a space station did indeed dominate my worldview, but after 50 years, the foreboding object that would stretch all my capabilities and test all my vulnerabilities was the Moon. Unlike the movie, my goal was not to blow up either.
That movie ignited a dream - flying through the stars in my very own rustbucket, visiting worlds far beyond our own. My mom fostered that dream. She was 20 when Neil Armstrong took those first steps in Lunar dust. She would buy me every space toy she could afford. She bought me posters of astronauts that would stay up until long after I left home.
While my mom embraced me, First Dad said I was too much, disappeared one day, and then had a relationship with a woman who had 2 other kids. It takes a long time to understand that First Dad’s lack of readiness to be a father was not a reflection on me.
Second Dad came along when Luke learned that Darth Vader was his father. I wasn’t old or aware enough to know the dark side that my new dad carried in him. The first thing Second Dad told me was that I wasn’t tough enough. Maybe he wanted the toughness of getting into a schoolyard fight on the first day of 4th grade at a new school, but he would never really tell me.
I switched schools because Second Dad said there were too many black people at the public school across the street. It would take a decade and a lot of arguments about whether Randall Cunningham was a good enough quarterback to win a Super Bowl before I understood what his comment really meant. But this isn’t about his racism or struggle, though decades later he would admit he was wrong. This is about the little boy he would control in his efforts to prevent the son from turning into the father.
His first lessons were about studying. He’d make me memorize passages in textbooks and recite them back to him. Missing a word meant doing it over again. I learned to pay attention to what I read. Decades later and I’m renowned by coworkers for recalling the details and interconnectedness of Orion design decisions that were made years prior. Things get imprinted when I’m intensely focused.
Second Dad’s next lesson was to compete, but his desires weren’t enough to overcome my uncoordinated awkward flailing. To his chagrin, I racked up the sports failures - basketball, soccer, tennis, and baseball. I was cut from each except baseball, although my coach would’ve probably liked to cut me. I was the worst player by far. I made contact twice all year and spent most of my time picking grass in left field. He refused to give me a trophy after the team won in the playoffs. I had missed the game and gone to his house to claim my prize at Second Dad’s urging. I later told Second Dad that coach wasn’t home; not that he answered the door and told me to get lost. I knew I wasn’t good enough.
Three years later, mom got a new job, we moved, and I was off off to a new school and new shame. Second Dad was drinking again as he wrestled with moving farther from his family. On the first day of seventh grade, I wore the requisite Catholic school tie. I took it off with glee when the teacher told me I could. But Second Dad isn’t having that, yells at me when I arrive home without the tie on, and demands I wear it the next day.
The next day, teacher told me I can take off the tie again. I do, but I put it back on during the walk home. Second Dad can tell. He’s angry. He threatened to pin the tie to my neck if I took it off the next day. I wore the tie the next day, teacher called me out again, and I told her and the entire class I can’t take it off. I remember the teacher paused at that. Regardless of what she was thinking, among the other students this marked me as a weird outsider, not good enough to be loved at home, too different to be loved at school.
The next lesson from Second Dad was to follow orders, do it right the first time, or have to do it again. He gave me a brush, a bar of soap, and a bucket. Scrub the linoleum floor and if it wasn’t good enough, if he found a spot in the corner, do it again. This applied to doing dishes, vacuuming, cleaning the stairs, stacking firewood, cleaning the bathrooms, taking out the trash, or emptying the litter boxes. All chores fell to me; he was a combat wounded veteran forced into medical retirement and mom was always working. I was his to command. I worked hard, learned to get the job done right the first time, and avoid his anger.
Fast forward to freshman year of high school. On the very first day, my history teacher looks at my name on the roster and says, “Ah, we have a Jabba the Hutt in the class.” The name would stick. A few desks behind me, I hear someone mutter, “and he looks like him too.”
Living with 5-7 cats, Second Dad who smoked 3 packs a day, and constant sinus issues combined with shame about who I was and, well, you don’t attract many friends that way, let alone girlfriends. High school went as it does with kids forming cliques. We’ve already established that I wasn’t an athlete, but I still had room for the smartest kids in the school to reject me too. Junior year history, the teacher ran a 6-week trivia contest. The prize - points on your final grade. I was absent the day the class picked teams. The smartest kids put themselves in a team together. I was not one for them.
I was angry when I learned this and was not going to let them win. The Buddy Ryan in me wasn’t going down without a fight. We stormed out to an early lead while the smart kids complained we got easier questions. But if you’re working the refs, you know you’re already losing. It came down to the final week. The final question - name 5 Canadian provinces that don’t end in ‘A’. It was a repeat question. We got 4, but our 7-person team drew a blank. We got the question wrong.
The teacher still awarded us the overall win. I still think the teacher got it wrong and awarded us the win because he wanted to. Afterward, one of the girls on the team thanked me; the extra points helped her pass. Pride was a weird feeling.
Second Dad made sure that didn’t last long; humiliation was his specialty. I was 16 and hoping to gain the first shred of independence that comes with a license. Second Dad threw me behind the wheel of a car with no instruction whatsoever. If I was so smart, I should’ve been able to figure it out. I didn’t know the car moved without pressing on the gas. I panicked and wound up on a grass median. He laughed; I never asked him to teach me to drive. I would just tell my friends I didn’t need a license.
Second Dad’s final lesson, and last bid for control, was to be discipline. I was to go to the Air Force Academy. Military service would teach me discipline, get me in shape, and make me a man, just as it did for him. He volunteered for the US Army during the Vietnam War as restitution for being expelled from high school. Four years in the academy and six years of service would do me good. He bought me a sit-up bar and chin-up bar so I could practice for the physical requirements. But while he could direct me to exercise, he couldn’t make me submit the application. It was my biggest act of defiance. I refused to let him choose my path. I’d never seen him more angry. I was a disappointment.
When the time came for college, I just wanted to go somewhere far away. I only applied to schools out of state, except for Penn State which was obligatory to make my mom happy. I just wanted to go away. Those final months at home, I would walk for miles under the stars, just dreaming of being out there. I listened to a lot of Unforgiven and Nothing Else Matters that summer.
Late that spring, I went to a “teen encounter” weekend sponsored by my high school. I was leery of the brainwashed kids who came back from those wearing a cross tied around their neck with a black shoelace, but I just needed to spend time away from home. I went and listened to other kids talk about their struggles at school or home. Then, I took a risk; I shared my story. I wasn’t rejected. For the first time, I found acceptance and not humiliation. (Even though I also used that weekend to confess my love for my crush and she rejected that; still I left feeling good.) I wore that cross around my neck for the next year.
When it came time to pick a college, I made no visits. I didn’t bother asking to go anywhere. There was no point in resurfacing his anger at my rebellion. I was going to go to a school in Massachusetts or Georgia. Both were far enough away. I liked cold weather better, so I headed north. My parents didn’t take me to college; they took a trip to New Orleans.
College was new! No baggage, no history, and no one waiting to put me in my place. I found acceptance. I found friends. But they all still called me Jabba; the name had stuck. There, it came to be used with affection. In an all-boys floor of a brand new dorm on the edges of campus, I made friends I still have today. No one was there to tell me I wasn’t good enough; in fact, it would be 8 months before anyone on the floor could beat me at NHL 93.
Second Dad still exerted control; he kept all the money from the loans meant for student living expenses. He yelled at me for not sending him the $400 government check I received every month because he was permanently disabled. His wrath couldn’t force me to send him that check.
Then I did with that money exactly what he didn’t want me to do - pissed it away on beer and posters and every CD mail-away club I could join. I found drinking and pot smoking and even a girlfriend. I found a 2.1 GPA after two years. At the age of 10, I had started telling people I wanted to be an aerospace engineer, but the foundational engineering classes were boring. I skipped class regularly. I never did homework; Second Dad couldn’t rage about it if he didn’t know.
My low and failing grades would not be conducive to future success, so I decided to go for a co-op job after my second year. Not only would I make some money, but it would also keep me from going home. I applied and applied, interviewed time and again, but no one would hire me. My grades weren’t good enough; there was no evidence I would work hard.
There was one desperate company though, a dying 3D modeling software company that needed a customer service rep. I took the job and worked the phones at their help center. No one calls a help line with compliments. But I did well. I worked hard and picked things up quickly. I was personable and responsive; I responded quickly to customer frustration and worked diligently to resolve issues. I was familiar with that mode of operation. That company was happy to keep me on part time after my tour ended. My boss wrote a glowing recommendation letter.
To get that job, I had to get a driver’s license - a fraternity brother taught me. I learned to drive, but I had no money. Second Dad still kept all the money from the parent loans that didn’t go to the school. My first car I bought off a fraternity brother and crashed it within 2 weeks. I had no insurance.
Second car I bought for $400 cash. I had enough money to get the minimum insurance, but the head gasket on that one blew after a couple months. I spent the rest of my money on a Chevy Chevette which I couldn’t afford to insure. I drove it with a borrowed license plate until it burst into flames Thanksgiving week of 1996. I bought another $500 car with my next paycheck. This one burst into flames in less than a week. I had no luck. My 6 cars in 6 months story became a fraternity legend.
When I returned to classes full time, my grades improved. I was finally taking aerospace classes. Orbital mechanics was in my wheelhouse. Despite a below average 2.9 grade point average, I graduated with distinction. My major projects earned all As. Employers, though, didn’t really see it. I was the last of my friends to get a job, hired in as a government contractor to the US Navy to command satellites at a remote outpost on the coast of Maine.
Filling an 8-hour shift was a challenge when you only needed 30 minutes to command the satellite. Bored, I reverse engineered the orbit of that secret satellite based on available ephemeris data. I was politely asked to stop. I tagged along with the techs as they maintained satellite equipment. That was a union job. I was politely asked to stop.
No wonder I jumped at the chance to work for United Space Alliance as they staffed up to support the fledgling International Space Station. I would be an instructor for life support systems. My mom was proud; she called me everyday on her way home from work to hear about my day.
I won an employee of the month award in December 2002 for leadership for my work supporting the development of the Space Station Training Facility. I was awarded another the very next month, this time in the teamwork category, for my work revamping the training curriculum for ISS crews. I won a Silver snoopy for my work training ISS Expedition 14. All this was great, but in the halls of Mission Operations, instructors were second class, flight control was king, and the Flight Directors who led them were legends. I started to dream.
I didn’t know it at the time, but I wouldn’t be able to pass a flight controller physical for 4 years after that point. Several months prior, I had been wheeled out of the office on a stretcher, having suffered a debilitating episode of vertigo. Weeks after that incident, I was wheeled out of my apartment on a stretcher due to another episode that left me collapsed on the floor, texting my fiancée for help. Same EMT wheeled me out both times; he was also an ISS instructor. These spells of vertigo had started when I was in college, but I didn’t have health insurance or money to look into them.
I went through months of tests - CAT scans, MRIs, aural, and visual tests. Eventually, the doctors settled on a diagnosis of Ménière’s disease; it felt more like a collection of symptoms that fit a label than a concrete diagnosis. But hey, I had something in common with Alan Shepard. It also meant I wasn’t healthy enough to be a flight controller - can’t have console operators passing out on the job. I worked around the condition; my attention to detail, ability to get assignments done quickly, and not be daunted by the workload made my bosses willing to accept occasional week-long absences.
I became a Station Training Lead, helped define the minimum level of training an astronaut needed to safely live on ISS and the overall training needed for 6-person ISS crews. I got married, had a daughter, and buried my mom. Life was good and I was good enough. That Flight Director dream wouldn’t die, though; I just didn’t know how to make it happen.
Then I watched one of the sharpest, smartest women I’ve ever worked with go from Russian Training Integrator to Flight Director. That was a path that I might be able to replicate. In 2008, my episodic bouts of vertigo stopped occurring and after a lot of back and forth with Johnson Space Center doctors, I passed a physical with a waiver. I became a branch chief and picked up a side job as a CAPCOM, the voice link between Mission Control and ISS astronauts.
Around that time, Second Dad passed away. When I arrived in Philadelphia to take care of his things, I found them piled in the driveway of his girlfriend’s home. She then handed me a cat. The girlfriend wouldn’t let me look in her house for anything of his. The only thing I really miss is a hardbound book on the 1980 Philadelphia Phillies. The difficult relationship I had with him ended with me paying money out of pocket to have him buried in Arlington and telling his family about his courageous struggles with alcoholism while eulogizing him.
I had no one left to tell me I wasn’t good enough. The next interview cycle for the Flight Director office arrived. I knew the head of the office. He respected me, even recruited me for a previous position. I did well in the interview, but they received feedback from another lead that questioned whether I was committed enough to succeed. It was a death blow and crippling feedback worse than any I’d ever received in my career. I never got another interview. That dream was dead.
I needed a fresh start, decided I wanted to help the agency with its exploration goals. I knew I could do more. I moved to Orion and became the deputy lead of the Test and Verification team. After 3 months on that team, I started to wonder if I’d killed my career entirely.
My new lead didn’t trust me and wouldn’t give me anything to work on. I wasn’t allowed to send emails to other team members without including him on the note. I had gone from leading a team of over 80 civil servants and contractors, responsible for critical ISS operations to not being allowed to send an email. I thought about quitting.
Then late one January afternoon, the manager a level above me caught me in the hall. They needed someone to take over Orion Crew Systems Integration. I didn’t know what it was, but I said yes!
A week later, I was asked to head up an effort to help determine if we should paint the interior of the cabin white. Then, I championed a proposal to add some accelerometers to the crew seats. Over the next 4 years, I made dozens of decisions that helped finalize the design of the Orion cockpit. I’ve never loved a job more. The agency even gave me a medal for the work. I didn’t know the government gave medals for anything other than military service.
Soon after, my boss asked me to take on more. I said yes; I knew I could get the job done. I became the Systems Engineering & Integration Manager for Orion, starting on the job late in the final stages of preparation for Artemis I.
I also accepted the role of Human Rating lead for Orion and Artemis. In this role, I would write the final report that said it was reasonably safe to launch people on top of a giant gas tank and use a controlled explosion to hurl them beyond the protection of Earth’s atmosphere, send them out of contact with the Earth, slingshot home, and descend like a fiery meteor into the ocean. The only direction I received when accepting this role was that management wasn’t happy with how the whole process worked.
At one point, I was asked if I wanted to have that role re-asssigned to someone else. I said no, I was going to see this through. I wanted my name on that final report. I wanted to be the one to say that this spacecraft would keep our astronauts safe. Our ship may not look like much, but she had it where it counts.
Even with all of those responsibilities, I wanted one more role - I wanted to be a Mission Evaluation Room (MER) Manager for Artemis II. I wanted to be in the room helping the team in responding to anomalies, helping determine how those anomalies would impact the mission, and ultimately making sure the crew safely completed their mission. I wanted to be in the room when we flew through the stars.
Being a MER Manager also came with the responsibility of being an Orion Shift Lead during processing of the spacecraft and preparing it for launch, which meant regular trips to Kennedy Space Center to monitor progress during the final assembly of the spacecraft, help the team work through minor issues, or recognize when an issue needed more scrutiny from the experts on our team.
This was a role that would have me sort through the dirt, metal shavings, and random other items in the vacuum bin of one of our processing facilities, trying to locate a missing clip that we hoped was not lost somewhere inside the spacecraft. Since we supported 24 hours a day, I was also on shift when they tested the building fire alarm sound system for a full 3 hours on consecutive nights while we were trying to monitor the spacecraft.
The workload from these 4 roles was staggering. I worked more hours in 2025 than I had in any prior year of my 27 years at Johnson Space Center. It meant more off shift work, more travel, more everything. No one would question my dedication to the mission. I was going to get the job done, even if it broke me.
After I was selected as MER manager, the MER lead told me they had to fight to get me added. Why? Were they concerned I couldn’t do it? Did they not think I was good enough? Was I not committed enough? Doubts were easy to find.
All the other MER Managers had strong areas of technical expertise - guidance and navigation, propulsion systems, power systems, thermal control. I was just an integrator; I know a little about a lot. I’d been in these types of roles for almost two decades though, leading teams of people who each knew a lot about a little, connecting threads among them, and stitching together the full picture from everyone’s contributions.
Still, two weeks before the mission, I was nervous. I hadn’t done many sims, not nearly as many as some of my counterparts. I also didn’t have Artemis I experience. Due to the launch delay to April, a lunar flyby simulation was added to the schedule. I jumped at the opportunity to serve as the MER Manager. The major malfunction that drove the content of the sim was a failure of 1 of the 4 Orion batteries. We would have to execute a significant power down of the vehicle to make it through a 90 minute eclipse. Fail to do that and the spacecraft could trip offline, imperiling the crew.
We started shutting down spacecraft systems, reducing the power consumed while trying to maintain critical failure tolerance that would protect against losing the spacecraft. Then during the eclipse, the training team failed another vehicle battery. We had to drastically cut back on powered equipment or risk more failures of the power system that would threaten our ability to safely return.
But that didn’t happen. The team got the job done and I had led them. We handled the failures. The spacecraft was safely configured and recovering by the time the sim ended. I was ready.
I had thought that when Artemis II launched, that I would be incredibly nervous. We had four people’s lives in our hands. I was there when we lost Columbia; I knew the stakes. Orion would send astronauts farther out into space than any other humans had ever been. We were doing that with a spacecraft that had never carried people into space before. We were doing it with only the second spacecraft in human history designed and built to carry people beyond Earth orbit. The world would be watching.
As I sat there watching the rocket carrying our ship into the heavens, I knew that we had built in protections for the crew if things did go horribly wrong. The crew would still have a fighting chance even if things went poorly. I knew that if that happened I would be going on-console as soon as the spacecraft hit the water. I was the crew and vehicle recovery MER manager and I was ready to step in if the worst occurred.
The launch was picture perfect. The first burn after launch went smoothly. Then I stepped on for my first shift. Soon after, we had our first malfunction - the toilet didn’t start. I wasn’t worried though; our best experts were in the next room, on the phone with the company that made it, working through a plan to fix it. We used the most tried and true approach to troubleshooting there is - we turned it off and turned it back on again. While later the vent line would get clogged limiting the ability to use the toilet, the toilet itself was operating. We passed the first test.
I worked flight days 1 to 4. Each day was an exhausting challenge, as difficult as any pre-flight sim, as we learned how to fly the spacecraft. Anomalies popped up each day, but each one was dealt with. By the time I got to an off day on flight day 8, I was so exhausted that I slept for 9 full hours for the first time in more than I could remember.
On flight day 9, my next to last shift of the mission, we had an unexpected loss of communications. Program leads were nervous - what if we didn’t get it back? Management peppered us with questions. I wasn’t nervous or uptight. We were going to get comm back; we’d seen this failure two days prior. Even if we didn’t recover communications, crew had the information on board needed to get home. The ability for a spacecraft to return to Earth without communications is a requirement for human-rating; I knew what capabilities we had. We were going to get the crew safely back from the Moon. If we didn’t get comm back, they may not come down where we wanted, but our heroes were going to return unharmed.
Communications came back as I expected. The next day, that comm system streamed images of the Earth via the cameras on Orion’s solar arrays. The beautiful ball of blue and white that we live on would grow bigger in the image as the hours went by. I started my final shift as the spacecraft hit the water. The room was cheering, but I still had work to do. We had to help the crew work through issues with the communications system. We needed to make sure any potential hazards were communicated to our counterparts in the water.
We got the job done. I did my part. I used knowledge gained from 16 years of working on a space station to help finalize the design of the second spacecraft in human history to take people to the Moon and back to Earth. I used knowledge gained from 10 years working on that Orion spacecraft to execute the mission and helped complete the first mission to take human beings back to the Moon since 1972, a year before George Lucas wrote the first story treatment for Star Wars.
I was smart enough, dedicated enough, and hard-working enough. I put every ounce of effort I had into this mission and we succeeded.
I was good enough for the Moon.
