In the bad old days, the evening sky was empty—barring stars, myths, and the occasional weather balloon mistaken for a UFO. Today, however, the heavens are a jammed space highway of man-made satellites. There are over 10,500 operational satellites orbiting the globe as of late 2025, another 3,000 or so deceased ones floating through the cosmos as stationary space trash. What began as a Cold War experiment is now an orbital economy, a gossamer web of imperceptible infrastructure which interconnects, watches, and occasionally spies on each corner of the world.
Most satellites belong to one of a small number of distinct families. There are the communications satellites that provide us with our global telephone calls, internet access, and TV news. Then there are the Earth-watching satellites, used for everything from hurricane predictions to tracking deforestation in the Amazon. Navigation satellites—the most celebrated of which is the GPS constellation—allow planes to land, boats to sail, and drivers to find the nearest coffee bar. And, of course, there are the science and military satellites, going about their research or sneakily spying a few hundred miles above.
The number of orbits is growing at a blistering rate. Companies like SpaceX's Starlink, Amazon's Project Kuiper, and OneWeb have launched thousands of satellites in a matter of a few years, blanket the world in internet cover. Starlink alone has over 60% of all active satellites, unparalleled private space control. The goal, theoretically, is to include the unconnected in the network—a lofty promise of world equality. But critics worry that such regulation privatizes the sky, making the shared cosmos into corporate territory.
The cost of space access has fallen exponentially, thanks largely to reusable rockets and economies of scale. What was once the domain of superpowers is now within reach of universities, start-ups, and even schools. CubeSats—tiny, shoebox-sized satellites—are opening up space exploration to everyone, allowing scientists to install micro-labs in space for tracking climates, biological research, and even art. Decentralization of space activity repeats the early promise of the internet: enormous, imaginative, and a bit disorganized.
But all of this progress comes at a price. The low Earth orbit (LEO) space, home to virtually all satellites, is increasingly becoming a dangerous traffic jam. Every new satellite typically increases the risk of collision, generating clouds of debris that can damage other satellites—a chain reaction known as the Kessler Syndrome. One major collision might trigger a chain reaction, rendering some orbital areas useless for decades. Astronomy agencies are scrambling to develop trash-sweeping technology before the sky is a solid landfill.
And then there's light pollution. Astronomers have sounded the alarm that giant constellations like Starlink are ruining long-exposure shots of the night sky. Once-pristine images of distant galaxies now streak with luminous trails of transit satellites. For most scientists, this is more than a bother—it's an indication that human expansion, even to space, rarely happens without unintended side effects.
Yet, satellites are also Earth's nervous system. They monitor the planet's temperature, carbon output, and heartbeat of ecosystems. Without them, we risk losing our finest and widest perspective on global warming. They are our space eyes—witnesses to thawing polar ice caps, secret mining, forest fires, and conflicts. Each weather report, each cross-Atlantic flight, each sea rescue is dependent on their quiet watch.
Governments and corporations are already positioning for the next rules of orbital traffic. Who gets to launch, own, and deorbit satellites? How do we optimize safety and responsibility in a world with no borders? Treaties drafted in the 1960s aren't enough to deal with 21st-century realities. The sky, once considered limitless, is revealing its boundaries—not in mileage, but in regulation.
Satellites are, in a sense, the mirrors of civilization: brilliant indices of progress, yet also of hubris. They are our desire to see and be seen, to connect and control. The next decade will decide if we deploy orbit as a commons to protect or a marketplace to exploit. For the time being, when you gaze upwards at the stars at night, recall—among those twinkling lights are the quiet guards we've created, orbiting round the clock, whispering information back to us, charting both our brilliance and our waste.