NASA invited the Artemis II crew to describe the first hours of their flight, and they did so with the calm, clinical clarity of people strapped to an angry cathedral. The consensus: it’s like being gently shoved into a new religion by a thunderstorm.

“Lift-off felt like a skyscraper deciding it’s had enough of zoning laws,” said one crewmember, delicately understating the part where the ground quits and the sky starts charging rent. The rocket did not roar so much as file a noise complaint against itself at Mach Everything.

The first minutes were a speedrun of adulthood. You shed your baggage, your neighborhood, and the concept of up, then inherit a mortgage-sized checklist and a view that makes your high school guidance counselor look small. Earth becomes a screensaver you forgot you own.

“Zero-g hits like the world finally agreeing to stop being clingy,” said another, as loose pens, unmoored snacks, and a rogue sigh achieved orbit. The crew’s hair learned trigonometry, their stomachs learned jazz, and their training learned whether it was kidding.

Somewhere between throttle-down and enlightenment, the pilot reached for a Velcro-ready astronaut pen to initial the thirty-seventh box labeled ‘OK,’ which is NASA for ‘We sure hope so.’ The pen hovered like a cautious bee deciding which flower is least public.

They spoke of thrusters with the tone people use for toddlers who have found the sugar. The capsule twitched, swayed, and then settled into a perfect line, as if space had finally received the memo that it was under audit.

Houston’s voice flowed through the loop like a yoga instructor narrating a bank heist. “Orion, we copy nominal,” said Mission Control, which translates to, “The dragon we lit is currently respecting the furniture.” The crew nodded at the ceiling, a diplomatic gesture to directionlessness.

The onboard computer offered helpful pop-ups. “It looks like you’re trying to rendezvous with the Moon,” it suggested cheerily. “Would you like help formatting your existential dread?” Everyone pressed Accept, because Clippy has had a glow-up and now pilots starships.

Coffee happened next, because civilization is a beverage. The crew deployed a freeze-dried espresso kit like a tiny cathedral to focus, and the smell alone recalibrated the horizon. One sip later, they were fluent in orbital mechanics and apologies to future historians.

They took a moment for art, too. A window selfie, Earth photobombing like a supportive ex, the Moon a distant RSVP. “We’re not just explorers,” someone said, “we’re influencers who forgot to pack gravity.” Likes poured in from continents and at least three confused satellites.

The schedule remained feral. Suit checks. Thruster puffs. The ceremonial unfurling of the Space Trash Bag, which has the tragic confidence of a plastic bag on a windy day. Every task waltzed with a timer that never blinked.

Asked for a summary of those hours, they laughed the laugh of people who have met the underside of awe. “It’s a blur,” they said, “like trying to read a poem during a polite earthquake.” Then they added, with the discipline of pros, that the diagram makes it look tidy. Reality refused, but Velcro tried anyway—and for once, Velcro won.