Diary Entry – March 12, 2035
It’s been five years since I arrived on Mars, and every day feels like a new frontier in the pursuit of survival. I often remind myself of the importance of what we’ve accomplished here, but the challenges are grim, and they never let up.
The first and most obvious obstacle is the isolation. There’s a certain kind of responsibility that comes with being on a planet where human life is completely dependent on technology. The place we live in is our shelter—our only protection from the deadly atmosphere and freezing temperatures outside. Sometimes I look out over the Martian plains and feel the overwhelming silence. I can’t help but wonder how long we can hold on for, how long the systems will keep running smoothly.
The most worrying challenge right now is the growing issue with our water supply. We’ve been depending on underground ice and using atmospheric extractors to get water, but the latest readings show a decrease in efficiency. It’s a constant race against time—fixing the leaks, recalibrating the extractors, ensuring nothing freezes up. Yesterday, we had to conduct an emergency repair on one of the life-support systems. There’s a fragile balance between making sure our environment stays habitable and pushing the boundaries of what this technology can do. One malfunction, and everything could collapse.
And then, of course, there’s the psychological toll. The strain of being cut off from Earth for months at a time gains on us in ways we don’t always talk about. There’s always that looming question: What if something happens and we can’t get back? What if communication fails, or if the supply ships don’t make it? I sometimes catch myself questioning whether the risks outweigh the rewards. The reality of life on Mars isn’t as glamorous as I’d imagined before the mission. But then I think about the reason we’re here—the pursuit of knowledge, the dream of expanding humanity beyond Earth—and it pulls me back from the edge of despair.
We’ve developed tight-knit bonds here, though. The other scientists, engineers, and medical personnel—they’re my family. We laugh together, we support each other, and we endure. We have to. There’s no one else.
How do I keep going? Simple. It’s the small victories. Fixing a broken circuit, seeing the crops in the hydroponic garden flourish, watching the first Martian sunrise of the year. It’s the moment when you realize that each day survived, each problem solved, brings us one step closer to building a permanent home here. The work is grueling, and the risks are real, but the sense of purpose drives me forward.
There are days when I wish I could feel the warmth of Earth’s sun on my skin, hear the sound of rain, and breathe air without the buzzing sounds of life-support systems in the background. But for now, Mars is my home. And I will make sure it remains one for generations to come.
— Dr. Lena Carter, Mars Colony Scientist