OK. Here’s my thing today.
This is not my lane.
This was my spouse’s lane.
Three years ago, if you had asked me about extraterrestrials, I would have handed the microphone to EsoterX and gone back to writing about trauma, attachment, and why people overshare in elevators.

But lately? The universe is nudging.

Former president Barack Obama casually tossed off in a podcast that aliens are “real,” then clarified he meant statistically that the universe is so vast that life elsewhere is plausible, even if he saw no evidence of visits while in office.

Which is exactly the kind of statement that makes rational people nod thoughtfully
and irrational people start Googling bunker blueprints.

And then there’s the other thing. The constant political murmurs about “disclosure,” executive orders, secret files, and the lingering American belief that somewhere in Nevada there’s a filing cabinet labeled ALIENS! DO NOT OPEN UNTIL AFTER ELECTION DAY!

Psychologically speaking, alien fascination is one of humanity’s most revealing tells.

We do not like being alone.
We really do not like being insignificant.

Aliens solve both problems in one neat existential package.

They mean we’re not alone.
They mean we’re interesting enough to visit. They mean we might even be the weird cousin in a galactic family reunion.

And honestly, if you’ve ever been awake in Manhattan at 2 a.m., you already believe in alien life forms.
I’ve seen creatures emerge from the subway that did not evolve on Earth.

The deeper question isn’t Are we alone? It’s How not alone are we?

Because history is littered with moments where people were certain something unseen was out there:

• Ancient sky gods
• Medieval omens
• Cold War UFO sightings
• Modern congressional hearings about “unidentified aerial phenomena”

The language changes. The mystery doesn’t.

And grief (and here’s where I can’t help myself) makes you especially porous to mystery.

When someone you love dies, the universe stops feeling tidy. Reality loosens its tie. Suddenly the idea that there are unseen layers to existence doesn’t feel ridiculous. It feels possible.

My spouse would have loved this moment. Loved the ambiguity.
Loved the way science, politics, folklore, and late-night Reddit threads are all suddenly sharing a table.

If they were writing today, I imagine they’d say something like:

> “The question isn’t whether aliens exist.
> The question is whether we’re ready to admit how little we understand about our own reality.”

Which, frankly, applies just as well to therapy as it does to extraterrestrials.

So do I think we’re alone?

No.
But not in the way conspiracy theorists think.

We’re not alone because humans have always been storytellers.
And somewhere between the stars, the subconscious, and the bureaucratic black hole of government reports, we keep looking for proof that the universe is bigger than our fears.

And maybe that’s the real alien life form:

Hope.