Rocket in your Pocket: Jealousy Among the Stars as Second Criminal Case Involving NASA Astronauts Lands

In the vast, unforgiving theater of space exploration, where heroes are forged in fire and isolation, the human heart remains a fragile engine—prone to overheating, misfiring, and exploding under pressure. Two women, both NASA astronauts, both trailblazers who touched the stars, found their orbits shattered not by cosmic debris, but by the gravity of jealousy. Their stories, separated by nearly two decades, echo like distress signals across the void: reminders that even those who conquer the heavens can't always escape the turmoil of love, loss, and betrayal on Earth.

The Diaper Drive: Lisa Nowak's Descent (2007)

Lisa Nowak was the epitome of American grit—a Navy test pilot, mother of three, and one of the first women to operate the Space Shuttle's robotic arm during the STS-121 mission in 2006. At 37, she had stared down the black expanse of space from low Earth orbit, her gloved hands guiding the shuttle's mechanical limbs with the precision of a surgeon. But back on solid ground, her world was unraveling. Her marriage to Richard Nowak, a fellow Navy officer, was crumbling under the weight of long deployments and unspoken resentments. Into that void stepped Bill Oefelein, a rugged Navy pilot and fellow astronaut with a easy smile and a divorce under his belt.

Their affair ignited during a brutal survival training exercise in the frozen wilds of Canada in 2005. Huddled against subzero winds, sharing body heat and secrets, Lisa and Bill became lovers—passionate, illicit, a forbidden flame in NASA's tightly controlled universe. She was still married; he was her escape. But by early 2007, as Lisa's career teetered (rumors swirled that she might not fly again), Bill's affections shifted. He began exchanging steamy emails with Colleen Shipman, a sharp-witted Air Force captain and engineer at Kennedy Space Center. Colleen, 29 and unburdened by Lisa's baggage, represented a fresh start—a clean orbit free of complications.

Jealousy didn't creep into Lisa's heart; it detonated. She hacked into Bill's apartment, rifling through his emails like a digital scavenger hunt, confirming her worst fears: he was smitten, planning a future with Colleen. Days blurred into a haze of obsessive calls—up to 50 a day to Bill, pleading, accusing, unraveling. In her mind, this wasn't madness; it was mission control, a calculated strike to reclaim what was hers. On February 4, 2007, Lisa plotted her assault with the meticulous detail of a spacewalk checklist. She packed a duffel: a steel mallet, a BB pistol loaded with pellets, 4 feet of clear industrial trash bags (for restraint, she later confessed), black gloves, a wig, a red baseball cap, and an old box of her twin daughters' diapers—maximum absorbency garments, the kind she'd worn during long shuttle simulations. No pit stops; this was a 900-mile red-eye from Houston to Orlando International Airport, where Colleen's shuttle would land the next morning.

The drive was a fever dream. Lisa pounded caffeine, blasted through the night, pulling over only to change into a fresh diaper when biology demanded it. "It was practical," she'd tell detectives later, her voice flat as if explaining orbital mechanics. Dawn broke over Florida as she spotted Colleen in the airport parking garage, keys in hand, heading for her car. Disguised in her wig and cap, Lisa approached, pepper spray at the ready. "We need to talk," she hissed, dousing Colleen in the face before the younger woman could scream. Colleen fought back, slamming her car door on Lisa's arm, honking the horn until security swarmed. Found with her arsenal in the trunk, Lisa Nowak—the astronaut who had danced with the stars—was arrested in a crumpled heap, her flight suit traded for an orange jumpsuit.

The media frenzy was merciless: "Diaper Astronaut," "Space Love Triangle," headlines screaming of obsession and betrayal. Lisa pleaded not guilty by reason of insanity, but in 2009, she struck a deal: guilty to burglary and misdemeanor battery. Demoted, fired from NASA, forced into Navy retirement, she vanished into obscurity, her dreams of Mars reduced to court-mandated therapy. Bill Oefelein was grounded too, his astronaut wings clipped for "poor judgment." Colleen, scarred but resilient, moved on, her brush with cosmic drama a footnote in a life of quiet competence. Jealousy had pulled Lisa from the stars, leaving only a trail of tabloid stardust.

The Orbital Accusation: Anne McClain's Shadow War (2019)

Twelve years later, another female astronaut would learn that love, too, could fracture under zero gravity. Anne McClain was a force of nature: West Point valedictorian, Iraq War combat veteran, Army colonel, and the second openly gay astronaut in NASA's ranks. Selected in 2013, she had logged over 200 days in space by 2019, her boots firmly planted on the International Space Station (ISS) as part of Expedition 58. From 250 miles up, Anne marveled at auroras and conducted experiments that pushed humanity's frontiers. But on Earth, her personal mission was imploding.

Anne had married summer Worden in 2014, a fellow former Air Force intelligence officer with a steely gaze and a shared love for high-stakes puzzles. Their union was a milestone—NASA's first same-sex astronaut marriage—and they welcomed a son via IVF and surrogacy in 2018, a tiny miracle named after the stars they both chased. But paradise cracked. By late 2018, as Anne rocketed to the ISS for her six-month stint, their relationship soured into toxicity. Arguments over custody, finances, and futures escalated into a full divorce filing. summer, left holding the fort in Texas with their toddler, felt abandoned—adrift in the wake of Anne's orbital glow.

Enter the bank account: a joint Wells Fargo checking account opened in April 2018, meant for shared expenses like their son's daycare. Anne had access since 2015, credentials baked into their marital trust. From the ISS, using NASA's secure network, she logged in sporadically—checking balances, transferring funds for bills, a digital tether to home. It was routine, sanctioned even; astronauts often managed Earthly affairs from space. But in January 2019, as divorce papers flew, summer changed the passwords, severing the link. Paranoia festered. Convinced Anne was spying—perhaps plotting financial sabotage in their custody war—Summer took drastic measures. She filed complaints with the FBI and NASA's Inspector General, alleging Anne had "hacked" the account without permission, guessing passwords like some cyber-stalking ex. "She's monitoring me from space," summer claimed, painting Anne as a jealous overlord using orbital tech to invade her privacy.

The accusation hit like a micrometeorite. NASA launched an investigation, the FBI followed, and Anne—still floating above the planet—faced headlines branding her "the hacking astronaut." It was a betrayal sharper than any spacewalk mishap; her wife, her partner in cosmic ambition, had weaponized their shared life against her. Anne defended herself publicly: "I had full access... this is a divorce turned ugly." The probe cleared her—the login was legit, no crime committed—but the damage lingered. Pulled from flight status, Anne poured her energy into advocacy, becoming a voice for LGBTQ+ inclusion in STEM. Yet the sting of jealousy reversed—Summer's fear manifesting as accusation—left scars, a reminder that even in the vacuum of space, grudges have weight.

Echoes in the Expanse

In Houston's Johnson Space Center, where mission control hums like a heartbeat, whispers of these tales still circulate. Lisa and Anne, bound by badges and broken hearts, represent the dual orbits of triumph and tragedy. Lisa's jealousy drove her across continents in a haze of delusion; Anne's was inflicted upon her, a ground-bound sabotage from the one who should have been her anchor. Both stories underscore the isolation of the astronaut life: the glory of gazing at Earth from afar, contrasted with the petty wars that rage below. Jealousy, that ancient asteroid, doesn't discriminate by rank or realm—it collides with equal force, whether in a shuttle cockpit or a custody courtroom.

Today, as Artemis missions beckon women back to the Moon, these nutty footnotes serve as cautionary constellations. Lisa Nowak fades into quiet reinvention, perhaps writing memoirs in anonymity. Anne McClain soars on, commanding the 19th NASA Extreme Environment Mission Operations (NEEMO) in 2023, her resilience a beacon. And summer Worden? On November 14, 2025, she stood in a Houston federal courtroom, pleading guilty to making false statements to investigators. Facing up to five years, her act of jealous fabrication—a desperate bid to tarnish Anne's star—unraveled under scrutiny. Sentencing looms in February 2026, but the real verdict was rendered long ago: in the cold logic of space, truth always reenters the atmosphere.

In the end, these women remind us that astronauts aren't superheroes—they're human, their jealousies as vast and volatile as the universe they explore. And sometimes, the most dangerous black holes are the ones we carry inside.