People often console themselves by saying that when a loved one—be it a partner, a family member, or a friend—passes away, their soul has become a star in the night sky. According to anthropologists, since Homo sapiens first appeared on Earth and began walking upright around 50,000 years ago, more than 108 billion people have lived and died. Interestingly, our galaxy, the Milky Way, contains just over 100 billion stars. By coincidence, it is almost as if the number of stars filling our galaxy matches the number of souls who have lived and passed on Earth over tens of thousands of years.

Of course, this is merely a remarkable coincidence. The 100 billion stars filling the Milky Way are the result of an immense cosmic history spanning 10 billion years. In contrast, the history of Homo sapiens—which began much later—has caught up by leaps and bounds within just tens of thousands of years. At this rate, in the distant future, the number of people who have lived on this pale blue dot may surpass the number of stars in our galaxy. Sadly, however, the rate at which new stars are born in the Milky Way is far too slow to commemorate all those we lose.

The Korean name for our galaxy, Urieunha, quite literally means “the galaxy where we live.” It is a surprisingly simple, comforting name for a term officially used by astronomers. Today, we understand well that we are confined within a vast galaxy, yet it is only relatively recently that humanity has come to accept this fact. Just a century ago, we could not even properly map the Milky Way, let alone grasp the enormity of the universe beyond it. Strictly speaking, even now, we do not have a complete, accurate map of our own galaxy. There is something profoundly humbling about not fully understanding even the map of our own cosmic home—it reveals the immeasurable vastness of the universe.

One of the most common and amusing questions I receive when I introduce myself as an astronomer is: “If you could travel into space, what scenery would you most want to see?” The universe is filled with breathtaking sights. Jupiter’s colossal red storm—large enough to swallow three Earths—swirls endlessly. Saturn’s delicate rings reflect sunlight through countless fragments of ice. The colorful remnants of a supernova explosion, scattered across space millions of years ago, glow like cosmic clouds. There are so many wonders in the universe that my brief lifespan feels almost unfair. Still, if I were given the ability to travel freely anywhere in space, there is one sight I would most want to see: the Milky Way itself, viewed from far beyond its boundaries. I believe it is a view that humanity will never, ever witness.

No matter how much scientific and technological progress we achieve, it seems unlikely that we will ever send a probe far enough to escape the Milky Way. The galaxy alone has a diameter of about 100,000 light-years. The farthest human-made object from Earth, Voyager 1, was launched in September 1977, only managing to pass beyond Neptune’s orbit after 13 years of travel, in 1990. With its power slowly fading, Voyager 1 captured one final image from about 6 billion kilometers away—a family portrait of Earth and the other planets of the solar system. In that photograph, Earth appeared as a tiny speck, a single pixel—earning the poetic nickname “the pale blue dot.”

Voyager 1 continues its journey outward even now, but it has not fully escaped the Sun’s gravitational influence. It will take another 300 years just to reach the inner boundary of the Oort Cloud, where distant comets reside. From a galactic perspective, humanity has not even taken a single step beyond its own front yard.

So, can we truly imagine a future where humanity sends probes millions of light-years away, beyond the Milky Way itself? Just as Voyager 1 gifted us with a profound new perspective by capturing Earth as a pale blue dot, could a probe one day send back a true portrait of our galaxy from afar?

As someone who loves astronomy and studies the advancement of science, I find such a future impossible in reality. It seems we will never be able to view the true form of the Milky Way from the outside. That is why, if I were ever given the chance to travel freely through space, I would choose to go somewhere far enough to see our galaxy from a distance—even if only for a moment. I would want to see with my own eyes how closely humanity’s rough sketches of the Milky Way resemble its true form.

In some ways, being an astronomer feels rather unfortunate. Astronomers speak as though they understand the universe, yet they have never actually left Earth. Ethologists studying animals go into jungles. Geologists climb mountains.

Meteorologists rise into the sky in planes and hot-air balloons. But such is not the case for astronomers. They remain firmly grounded, their feet never leaving Earth, even as they describe the 13.8 billion years of history of the universe. We write complex equations and tell elaborate stories about places we have never visited. At times, it feels almost pitiful—struggling from within our confinement on Earth to piece together the grand narrative of this beautiful cosmos. In the end, we are peculiar beings: astronomers who study a galaxy whose true face we will never see.