I Was Poor and Faced 11 Rejections—Then My Dream Came True

Growing up as a farmworker presented a unique set of challenges that shaped me and my siblings' childhoods in profound ways. Our family's annual migration from southern to central and northern California, followed by a return to Mexico for three months, defined our lives on an annual basis.

It meant constant change, adapting to new environments, and leaving behind friends and connections we had made. One pivotal moment came when my second-grade teacher advised my father to stay in one place, hoping for more stability in our education. This well-intentioned advice, while valuable for our schooling, posed a new set of challenges.

Staying in one place meant fewer job opportunities during the harsh winter months, which translated to greater financial hardship for our family. Balancing the need for stability in our education with the financial pressures of our seasonal work was a constant juggling act, making our journey as a farmworker family both challenging and rewarding.

We lived in low-income neighborhoods, where dreams of becoming an astronaut seemed as distant as the stars themselves. Growing up, I was surrounded by the loving support of my family, but financial constraints often tempered my aspirations. But my parents instilled in me a deep belief in the power of education and hard work.

From a young age, I displayed an appetite for learning, which allowed me to excel academically. My experiences ranged from leadership roles in student organizations to internships at prestigious research institutions. These opportunities allowed me to build a strong foundation, combining theoretical knowledge with practical skills—a blend that would serve me well in the years to come.

It was during these formative years that my desire to become an astronaut took root. I read books on space exploration, watched every documentary available, and felt a deep sense of connection to the stars above.

The sheer enormity of the universe fascinated me, and the idea of being part of a select few who could venture beyond our planet was a dream that consumed my thoughts day and night.

I faced rejection not once, not twice, but a staggering eleven times. Each rejection felt like a blow to my aspirations, testing my determination.

The feeling of inadequacy weighed heavily on my shoulders. I questioned my abilities, my purpose, and even the feasibility of my lifelong dream. Rejection can be a formidable adversary, eroding confidence.

But in the depths of those moments, I found the strength to persevere, often with the help and encouragement of loved ones. In my early years, it was my parents who provided this encouragement and in my adult years, it was my loving wife.

The term "imposter syndrome" took on a whole new dimension when I finally achieved my dream and became an astronaut. Even as I wore the blue uniform and underwent rigorous training, a nagging voice in the back of my mind questioned whether I truly belonged among these remarkable individuals.

It's a peculiar sensation—standing on the precipice of your aspirations and yet grappling with a persistent feeling of inadequacy.

But with time, I came to understand that this feeling was not unique to me, that even the most accomplished individuals wrestle with it, and it was a testament to my drive for continuous growth.

Then came the day when the phone call I had been waiting for materialized into reality—I had been accepted into the astronaut program. The flood of emotions that accompanied that news was indescribable.

The years of hard work, resilience, and persistence had culminated in this moment of validation. Stepping into the shoes of an astronaut was a surreal experience.

My day-to-day life as an astronaut was balanced between rigorous training, technical preparation, and maintaining physical and mental fitness. The monotony of routine is broken by the thrill of simulations, where we rehearse scenarios ranging from the routine to the life-threatening.

The pinnacle of my journey was the moment I floated in microgravity aboard the Space Shuttle Discovery. The weightlessness was more than a physical sensation—it symbolized the culmination of my aspirations, the triumph over doubt, and the fulfillment of the dream I'd had since childhood.

As I did my best Superman impersonation to get myself from the flight deck to the mid-deck I stopped to gaze out of the window and enjoy my first view from space. The Earth was blue, white and brown with a spherical body suspended in the velvety darkness.

During this short but precious moment of enjoying the view, I came away with two important takeaways. First, the view of our Earth and noticing its thin atmosphere was a poignant reminder of the fragility and interconnectedness of our world.

Second, flying over the North American continent I was able to clearly identify Canada, the United States and Mexico.

But what impressed me the most was my inability to identify where Canada ended and the United States began, where the United States ended and Mexico began. I quickly realized that borders are a human-created concept designed to separate us and how sad because from my unique perspective, we are all one race, the human race.

How I so wished our world leaders would get this same opportunity to marvel at the beauty and fragility of our planet. I assure you if this were to be the case, our world would be a much better, peaceful, and environmentally friendly place.

Spending thirteen days aboard the International Space Station was an odyssey of wonder, learning, and reflection. The scientific experiments, the camaraderie with fellow astronauts, and the quiet moments of introspection all combined to create an experience that defies adequate description. It was a time of profound growth.

Having flown only once, the mere thought of leaving NASA seemed absurd. But the Shuttle fleet was soon to be retired and the Soyuz was the only way to travel to space for the foreseeable future.

Going to Russia to train for a Soyuz flight did not faze me as I had traveled over 20 times to the Russian Siberian countryside during my five years working at the Department of Energy's Nuclear Nonproliferation program.

I would have loved to return to space a second and even third time. However, the amount of travel to Russia to train for just one mission was significant.

We have five kids whose ages during this time period ranged from six to 15 years. After careful thought and prayer, I decided to leave NASA and dedicate myself to being home to help raise our kids.

Fast forward to today, I have seen my girls graduate college, my oldest boy finish his PhD in aeronautics and astronautics at Purdue, and my youngest boy is starting his third year in mechanical engineering. This alone gives me the peace of mind that I made the right decision.

Today, I consult in aerospace engineering, give motivational talks, write books, and own and manage a vineyard. It seems as if I am coming full circle in life as there is truth to the saying that you can take the kid from the farm but not the farm from the kid.

Being one that is always wanting to learn, I was not satisfied with growing grapes and selling them to wineries. I was intrigued enough with the wine-making process that I decided to make my own varietal of wines and thus, Tierra Luna Cellars was born.

My journey from a low-income neighborhood to the expanse of space has been an embodiment of perseverance, self-discovery, and the unwavering pursuit of a dream.

Reaching for the stars is not just a catchy phrase; it's a reminder that dreams are attainable, even when the odds seem insurmountable.

My story is a testament to the human spirit's capacity to overcome adversity and to turn dreams into reality, one star at a time. Tenacity truly is a superpower that each one of us can acquire.

José Hernandez is a governor-appointed University of California Regent and President and Chief Executive Officer at Tierra Luna Engineering, LLC, an aerospace consulting company. Hernandez's story has been adapted into a film, A Million Miles Away, available on Prime Video.

All views expressed in this article are the author's own.

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