🚗📶 Driving an all electric car is like driving a cell phone. The software drives the experience. The windshield is lined with sensors. And I’m always minding the battery. Range is the new signal strength.

Heat, Silence, and Risk in the Artemis II Landing

Watching Artemis II brought home the sheer complexity and danger of rocket science. This is no Star Trek. Humanity has a long way to go before it is ready for the stars, even at the level of engineering.

There is something humbling in that realization. A real mission strips away the mythology we have built around space travel. It is not smooth or inevitable. It is loud, fragile, and unforgiving. The capsule returns wrapped in fire, heat shields taking the full violence of re-entry, parachutes blooming at precisely the right moment or not at all. For a critical stretch of descent, there is nothing to see or hear. Only an animation stands in for reality, a quiet admission of how thin our visibility remains at the edge of survival.

By contrast, Star Trek imagines a future where the engineering has receded from view. The ship hums. The systems work. The drama is human. That vision assumes we have already solved thousands of problems we are only beginning to understand.

Even a mission to Mars, far closer than those imagined frontiers, exposes how wide that gap remains. Months in deep space, no quick return, exposure to radiation, closed life-support systems that cannot fail. Every small uncertainty on a lunar mission becomes a compounded risk on a Martian one. What feels like progress today still sits at the edge of feasibility.

Rocket science remains a discipline of margins. Every component matters. Every failure cascades. We stack controlled explosions beneath human lives and call it progress. It works, but only just. When it fails, it reminds us how little tolerance nature has for error.

And, in a more troubling register, we have learned to deliver rockets with far greater reliability when the destination is terrestrial, guided with precision to fixed targets, striking infrastructure and coordinates with a consistency that our space missions still struggle to achieve.

The deeper gap is cultural. A future like this would require sustained global cooperation over decades, shared standards rather than competing systems, trust in institutions that outlast political cycles, and patience for slow, cumulative progress. These are not conditions we reliably achieve, even on Earth. Behind the smiling images of a US-led return to the Moon sits a world still shaped by conflict, including US-led war in Iran, where resources might otherwise advance education, engineering, and communication.

We are not ready yet. Not just in propulsion or materials science, but in how we choose to live and work together as a species.

Rethinking Strength in a Post-Global Order

Since Donald Trump began speaking openly about Canada as a potential “51st state,” a phrase has begun circulating more widely in Canadian discussions of technology: digital sovereignty. The term often arises when considering the growing dependence on cloud infrastructure and digital platforms owned by large American technology companies such as Microsoft and Google.

At first glance, the concern seems straightforward. If a country’s digital infrastructure is owned or controlled elsewhere, then its independence may be compromised. Many organizations and institutions understandably want reassurance that their information remains under Canadian control.

Technology vendors are quick to offer that reassurance. Microsoft, for example, operates Canadian data centres and promotes data residency as evidence that Canadian information remains safely within Canadian borders. Yet the company also acknowledges an uncomfortable reality. As a U.S. corporation, it remains subject to American law. If the U.S. government demanded access to certain data, the company could be compelled to provide it, regardless of where the servers physically sit.

Encryption can mitigate risk, but even that is not a complete guarantee. Control over key management, platform architecture, and operational access can still introduce dependencies. And residency itself is only part of the picture. Increasingly the deeper dependency lies in compute. Data may sit in Canada, but the systems that analyze it, particularly AI models, are often developed, trained, and controlled elsewhere. The intelligence applied to the data may remain outside the country even when the data does not.

These realities have helped fuel the growing language of data sovereignty. Yet the phrase itself can feel somewhat overblown.

Mark Carney made a related observation at Davos. Canada is not a “first power.” It does not dominate the global technological order in the way the United States or China might aspire to do. That reality does not imply weakness. It simply describes the scale at which Canada operates.

Consider Carney’s announcement of Telesat Lightspeed, often framed as Canada’s $7-billion rival to Starlink. The language of sovereignty suggests a head-to-head contest for technological dominance. But that is not really the point. Lightspeed will not replace Starlink globally, nor does it need to. Its value lies elsewhere. It strengthens Canada’s capabilities, improves resilience, and ensures that critical infrastructure is not wholly dependent on foreign systems.

That is not digital sovereignty. It is something more modest and perhaps more realistic.

I would call it digital autonomy.

Sovereignty implies ultimate authority, usually tied to the nation-state. Autonomy, by contrast, exists at many levels. An individual can maintain autonomy over personal data. Communities can build and operate their own digital infrastructure. Companies can reduce dependence on external platforms. Nations can cultivate strategic capacity in critical technologies. None of these actors possesses total sovereignty, but each can strengthen its ability to act independently.

Seen this way, digital resilience emerges not from absolute control but from distributed autonomy. Political institutions, commercial organizations, geographic infrastructure, local communities, and individuals all contribute to the system’s stability. The goal is not domination but balance: reducing fragile dependencies while accepting that modern networks are inherently interconnected.

There is also a certain humility in this perspective. Canada does not need to control the global digital order in order to function well within it. What matters is the capacity to operate, adapt, and endure within a system shaped by larger powers.

Digital autonomy recognizes the world as it is: interconnected, asymmetrical, and dynamic. Rather than promising sovereignty we cannot fully possess, it focuses on the practical work of building resilience across the many layers of our digital lives.