Look up tonight.

No, really. Step outside, away from the city glow if you can, and look up. Sometime between dinner and sleep, you might have a chance to see something that will fundamentally alter your perspective on what it means to be human in the 21st century. It will look like a single, brilliant star, brighter than any other, moving with silent, impossible speed across the velvet darkness. It won't blink like a plane. It will just… glide. A determined, graceful arc of pure light.

What you are seeing is the International Space Station. And while you can find an `international space station tracker` online to pinpoint the exact moment of its flyover, I want you to think about what you’re really seeing.

You are not just seeing a satellite. You are not just seeing a piece of hardware. You are watching a home, a laboratory, and the single greatest symbol of human collaboration ever built, soaring at 17,500 miles per hour. For nearly 25 years—a quarter of a century—humanity has not been confined to this planet. Every minute of every day, someone has been up there, living and working in the void. When I pause and truly let that sink in, I honestly just feel this profound sense of awe. It’s the kind of achievement that reminds me why I got into this field in the first place.

This week, here in Central Texas, we get two magnificent chances to witness it. Tuesday’s pass will be a lovely three-minute glimpse low on the horizon. But Wednesday is the main event. For a full six minutes, the ISS will sail directly overhead, a 90-degree pass from horizon to horizon. With clear skies expected, it will be a perfect, unmissable spectacle.

But what I really want to talk about isn't just that we can see the `international space station from earth`, but what it represents as it enters the twilight of its incredible life.

From Laboratory to Launchpad: The True Legacy of the ISS

Humanity’s University in the Sky

We often hear headlines like “NASA Will Crash The International Space Station in 2030.” It sounds like a failure, an ending. I see it differently. The ISS isn’t crashing; it’s graduating. For 25 years, it has been our university in low-Earth orbit, teaching us the fundamental lessons we absolutely had to learn before we could even dream of going further. Its deorbit in 2030 isn't a funeral; it's a commencement ceremony for the human species.

Think about the curriculum. The first course was simply “How to Live in Space.” It sounds basic, but it’s brutally complex. In microgravity, the human body rebels. Fluids shift, affecting your eyes and brain; bones and muscles begin to waste away. The ISS was where we mastered the basics, from learning how to drink water without it floating away to developing exercise regimens that keep astronauts healthy for long-duration missions.

Then came the advanced coursework in self-sufficiency. If we’re going to Mars, we can’t just call for a cosmic pizza delivery. We have to be self-sustaining. Aboard the ISS, we’ve learned to do just that. Astronauts have grown over 50 species of plants, from leafy greens to the famous chile peppers harvested in 2021. They’ve developed life support systems that now recycle 98% of all water onboard—this uses a process of filtering and purification that is frankly astounding, a level of efficiency we need for any multi-year journey into deep space.

And then there’s the industrial arts department. Researchers have perfected 3D printing in orbit, making tools and replacement parts on demand. Imagine needing a specific wrench on the way to Mars and instead of it being a mission-critical failure you just print one from recycled plastic waste—this capability isn't some far-off dream, it's a technology being proven right now, 250 miles above our heads, and it completely changes the calculus of deep space logistics. Just this year, the ESA even 3D-printed the first metal part in space. This is a paradigm shift.

Every one of the 4,000-plus experiments conducted up there, from sequencing DNA in orbit to developing better cancer-fighting drugs, has been a lesson. The ISS has been our training ground, our laboratory, our sandbox for the future. It’s the equivalent of the Wright Brothers’ workshop at Kitty Hawk. That first Flyer wasn't meant to cross the Atlantic; it was meant to prove that flight was possible. The ISS wasn't built to take us to Mars; it was built to teach us how to get there.

And now, class is almost dismissed. The plan is to guide the station into a controlled reentry in 2030 over a remote patch of the Pacific Ocean—in simpler terms, they’re going to carefully and safely sink it in the ocean’s most isolated spot. It’s a bittersweet but necessary step. The hardware is aging, and the mission is evolving.

This is where we must pause and consider our responsibility. The ISS was a beacon of international cooperation, primarily between the US, Russia, Europe, Japan, and Canada. Even when things were tense on the ground, we worked together up there. As we move into an era of commercial space stations—with NASA already seeding companies to build the next generation of orbital platforms—we have to ensure that spirit of shared discovery continues. Space must remain a frontier for all of humanity, not just a playground for competing nations or corporations.

The graduation is already happening. Technologies tested on the station flew on the Artemis I mission around the Moon. Health protocols developed over two decades are being adapted for the Artemis II crew. The knowledge is being passed down. The university has done its job.

So when you step outside this week, don’t just see a bright dot. See the legacy. See the 25 years of continuous human presence off-world. See the floating laboratory that taught us how to grow food in a vacuum, recycle our own water, and print our own tools. See the stepping stone to the Moon and Mars.

You are watching the grand, final victory lap of one of humanity's greatest achievements. Go watch it. Applaud it. And get ready for what comes next.

Our Launchpad is Now Humanity Itself

For a generation, we looked up at the ISS as the pinnacle of our reach, a single, fragile outpost in the heavens. But its greatest legacy is that it transformed itself from a destination into a foundation. It taught us how to live in space not as visitors, but as residents. The next leap won’t be from the ground to a station; it will be from low-Earth orbit to everywhere else. We are no longer learning to leave the cradle. We have already left.

Reference article source：

• Two Chances to See the International Space Station
• International Space Station: Launching NASA and Humanity into Deep Space
• NASA Will Crash The International Space Station in 2030. Here's What Comes Next.