Atmosphere by Taylor Jenkins Reid is a heart-wrenching space love story exploring identity, legacy, and longing aboard a 1980s NASA mission, to be published in June 2025 by Ballantine Books (Penguin Random House). Known for bestsellers like Daisy Jones & The Six and The Seven Husbands of Evelyn Hugo, Reid’s latest entry is a bold departure—a space thriller deeply interwoven with a romantic narrative and a reflection on identity.
Taylor Jenkins Reid discusses her latest novel in the lasts interview by the TIME Magazine, Atmosphere, a space thriller and romantic drama set in 1980s NASA. The article explores her rise as a publishing powerhouse and the evolution of her writing career, identity, and influence in the literary world. It highlights that
- Reid’s books have sold over 21 million copies in 42 languages.
- Atmosphere is already set for a film adaptation and marks her first foray into thriller territory.
- She is part of a rare class of authors who are also brands, alongside names like Colleen Hoover and Emily Henry.
- Her earlier books didn’t initially succeed, but word of mouth and TikTok (BookTok) propelled titles like Evelyn Hugo to viral fame.
- Reid is candid about facing literary criticism, embracing the label “Candy Land Franzen” to describe her easy-to-read, emotionally rich storytelling.
- She opens up about her bisexual identity, which informs Atmosphere and deepens its romantic subplot.
- Her writing is defined by strong, flawed, vividly rendered female protagonists who wrestle with identity, fame, and social pressure.
Table of Contents
Background of Atmosphere
Atmosphere is Taylor Jenkins Reid’s ninth novel and her first thriller, blending high-stakes space disaster with a deeply emotional love story. The narrative follows Joan Goodwin, an astrophysicist who joins NASA’s space shuttle program during the early 1980s. There, she meets Vanessa Ford, a woman who challenges Joan’s sense of identity and self-understanding.
Key aspects of the novel’s background:
- Inspired by Titanic-style emotional weight, Reid aimed to write a “dramatic love story” set against a cosmic backdrop.
- She conducted thorough research, including interviews with retired NASA flight director Paul Dye and studies of Apollo 13 documentation and Andy Weir’s sci-fi writing.
- The novel is also a personal reflection: Reid calls it an exploration of “a room in her identity”—her bisexuality.
- The story pairs technical realism with intense emotional stakes, asking how profound a connection can grow between two people, one in space and one on Earth.
The upcoming film adaptation, directed by Anna Boden and Ryan Fleck (Captain Marvel), promises to carry Reid’s cinematic writing style to the big screen, according to the TIME.
Reid’s genre-bending new work is a high-stakes love story set against the backdrop of 1980s NASA, tapping into the resurgence of retro-futurism and Cold War-era curiosity in pop culture. With sharp research, emotional intensity, and cinematic pacing, Atmosphere deftly combines historical fiction, romantic drama, and scientific realism. According to Reid, the book began when she “walked outside, looked up at the night sky, and saw Venus”—an observation that inspired her to create the character Joan Goodwin, an ambitious astronomer (Author’s Letter, p. 1).
Plot Summary of Atmosphere by Taylor Jenkins Reid
From the opening pages of Atmosphere, Taylor Jenkins Reid launches the reader into a world charged with both oxygen tanks and emotional tension. The story orbits around Joan Goodwin, a former astronaut turned CAPCOM—NASA’s acronym for Capsule Communicator, the only person in Mission Control authorized to speak directly with astronauts aboard a shuttle. The year is 1984, and Joan is grounded in more ways than one—back on Earth after her own mission into space, but also caught in emotional free-fall.
“Joan Goodwin gets to the Johnson Space Center well before nine,” Reid writes, setting a humid Houston morning as the backdrop for Joan’s return to the daily routine of NASA operations. Joan’s job is to guide the Navigator shuttle’s third flight, STS-LR9, from the ground—a role she deeply values not because it offers glamour but because it binds her to something bigger than herself. “Being an astronaut is not just about getting up there. It is about being a member of the team that gets the crew up there,” she reminds herself.
And yet, the novel is not just about rockets and re-entry. It is, at heart, a story of emotional gravity—how we fall into people’s orbits, how we drift, and how the smallest tether can pull us back. For Joan, those tethers are Frances, her daughter, and Vanessa Ford, a woman whose presence slowly disrupts every known law of Joan’s internal physics.
A Past Traced in Star Dust
Reid’s narrative structure is kaleidoscopic. She splinters time across decades, allowing us to see Joan not only in her poised, professional present but also in the tentative, emotionally unsure young woman she was in the early 1980s. Summer 1980 is a key marker—the chapter titled simply “Seven Years Earlier” begins to illuminate how Joan’s relationship with NASA was never just about space exploration. It was about identity, purpose, and finding something—someone—that made her feel visible.
It’s during this earlier time that Joan first encounters Vanessa, another aspiring astronaut. Vanessa is sharp-edged, magnetic, deeply guarded. “Vanessa did that sometimes, Joan had noticed. As if she could escape somewhere Joan could not see,” the narrator observes during one of their earliest emotional exchanges. There is something simmering between them that neither can quite define, let alone admit, especially not within the hypermasculine world of 1980s NASA.
Love in Zero Gravity
As their professional paths align and re-align, what begins as collegial admiration evolves into a slow-burn, high-stakes romance—the kind of bond that remains unsaid for long stretches but speaks through glances, hesitations, and decisions.
In one powerful, intimate scene, after a mission postponement leads to a shared afternoon, Joan nervously invites Vanessa to pick up her daughter Frances with her. Vanessa panics. She is terrified of the innocence children represent—terrified, perhaps, of being truly seen. “What if I say something stupid and Frances doesn’t like me?” Vanessa stammers. “And then you don’t like me because she doesn’t like me?”
Reid doesn’t offer tidy answers. Instead, she revels in uncertainty. When Joan asks Vanessa what childish joy she still connects to, the answer is heartbreaking in its honesty. Vanessa says, “Gone! Ground down to dust and blown away with the wind and now it’s one with the clouds, by way of your God.” And yet she laughs after saying it. There is love in the exchange, masked with sarcasm, deflected with humor, but raw and real beneath the surface.
Celestial Catastrophe
Just when readers begin to believe that Reid will let this remain a quiet romance, she disrupts the orbit—both figuratively and literally. A disaster strikes aboard the Navigator shuttle, and Joan finds herself CAPCOM not just to a crew—but to Vanessa herself. The woman she loves is now relying on her for survival.
The emotional tension is unbearable. The shuttle has sustained external damage; the hatch won’t fully seal. Vanessa, communicating from space, must decide whether to attempt a potentially fatal reentry or take a chance on a backup plan with no guarantee of success.
Joan’s voice—normally cool, controlled—is suddenly charged with personal stakes: “Navigator, that is correct,” she says when Vanessa realizes they may miss the deorbit window. The next question pierces through both protocol and personal panic: “Can Griff and Lydia make it another rev?” Vanessa asks, and the silence in Mission Control is louder than rocket fuel.
Joan cannot speak. Not yet. And when she finally does, what she says is everything and nothing all at once: “We need to update you about the crew.” Her inability to answer the direct question—“Is it Griff or Lydia?”—speaks volumes. One of them is already gone.
Humanity, from Orbit
What elevates Atmosphere from a procedural space thriller into something luminous is Reid’s capacity to tie the cosmic back to the personal. In one of the most philosophical and lyrical moments of the novel, Joan and fellow astronaut Harrison gaze down at Earth from orbit. “It’s a midsize planet orbiting a midsize star in a galaxy of a hundred billion stars,” Harrison says. “Hard to believe any one person has any significance.” Joan disagrees.
“When Joan looked back at the Earth, she was overwhelmed with her own life’s meaning—and the fact that the only meaning it could have was the meaning she gave it”. It is an answer to nihilism, a whisper against despair. Reid gives her protagonist the clarity to recognize that people—individual, flawed, beloved people—are the only anchors that matter.
Joan’s gaze lingers on Earth’s “thin blue, hazy circle.” The atmosphere, nearly invisible from space, becomes symbolic: fragile, life-sustaining, easily overlooked, and absolutely vital. “It was the very thing keeping everyone she loved alive,” Joan reflects. It’s the metaphor at the heart of the book: we may be drifting in an endless universe, but there is always a layer—delicate but real—that keeps us from breaking apart.
Gravity, Grief, and the Heart That Orbits
If Part 1 of Atmosphere unfurled like a slow, confident launch—where relationships and roles were mapped out against the endless sky—Part 2 enters the burn zone. The pressure intensifies, loss sears, and Taylor Jenkins Reid reminds us that while space is cold, what happens inside a human heart burns hotter than any star.
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The Shattering Event
Disaster always starts in silence.
When Griff is struck by debris from a malfunctioning satellite deployment, the impact is described with surgical clarity. “She turns to see a gash below the waist ring in his suit. Within seconds, the exposure will kill him” . Vanessa Ford, trained, seasoned, and composed, does not freeze. Instead, she presses her gloved hand to Griff’s suit, physically holding in his life. Her voice doesn’t break—but the reader’s does.
Inside the shuttle, things are far worse. A cabin leak, sudden and unseen, causes a catastrophic depressurization. One by one, we lose them: Lydia, Hank, and finally, Commander Steve Hagen. Mission Control hears nothing but static. Joan—listening from Houston—is helpless. The final words from Vanessa shatter the illusion of safety and stability:
“Houston,” she says. “I think I am the only one left.”
That moment is when Atmosphere becomes not just a love story or a space drama—it becomes a requiem. A lament. A prayer for what we do to live, to explore, and to love in impossible places.
Vanessa’s Interior Atmosphere
Reid doesn’t flinch from the psychological fallout. Vanessa’s grief is as technical as it is spiritual. Trapped in the shuttle, orbiting Earth, she is both pilot and witness, rescuer and survivor. Alone, except for Griff—who remains unconscious, tethered to life by tubes, patches, and Joan’s calm voice from the ground—Vanessa becomes a floating contradiction: both lost and anchored, both broken and essential.
Her isolation isn’t just physical. Vanessa is a woman who has always hidden behind competence. Reid lets us peer through her silence to the wounded girl underneath. We learn how her childhood, shaped by a father who died young and a mother who withheld comfort, trained her in survival but left her unprepared for vulnerability. “She learned how to be excellent. She never learned how to be held,” Joan later thinks .
And that’s what Atmosphere is trying to say: you can orbit Earth, but you can’t outrun what’s inside you.
Joan and Frances: The Earthbound Connection
Meanwhile, Joan is also unraveling.
The death of her colleagues is not just a professional trauma—it’s personal. Griff was a friend. Lydia was a competitor she respected. Steve Hagen was a leader. But more than any of that, Vanessa is still up there—and Joan is still in love with her.
At the same time, Joan’s emotional core—her daughter, Frances—is back on Earth. And she doesn’t understand why her mother is distant, distracted, or haunted. When Frances says, “You weren’t even listening,” it slices with more force than any orbital debris .
Reid doesn’t paint Joan as heroic in a conventional sense. She’s brilliant, yes. Stoic under pressure, absolutely. But she’s also vulnerable, unsure, and most importantly, afraid—afraid of being loved, afraid of losing Vanessa, afraid of failing as a mother. And these fears, tethered as tightly to her as any EVA suit, don’t vanish even when Vanessa safely returns to Earth.
The Return
Vanessa’s reentry is not triumphant.
She descends not as a hero but as a survivor. Joan watches from the landing strip, heart racing, knowing that everything hinges on whether Vanessa walks out of that capsule alive.
And when Vanessa does—limping, blinking, still half in the stars—it’s Joan she looks for. But the reunion is not cinematic. There are no tears and embraces. Just eyes. Just breath. Just one hand, outstretched, brushed against another. And in that gesture, a future is possible.
Yet that future remains uncertain.
Vanessa struggles with PTSD. “She couldn’t sleep with the lights off anymore,” Reid writes. “Every silence sounded like space” . She and Joan don’t fall into bed. They fall into conversation. Long, aching, real conversations where neither woman pretends anymore. Vanessa, in a rare confession, tells Joan: “I was afraid to be seen. But now I think I want to be known.”
The Quiet Coda
In the final chapters, Reid slows everything down. The plot no longer concerns NASA missions or survival logistics. It concerns dinners, school pick-ups, therapy sessions, and soft music playing from radios. Life, after crisis.
Joan paints again. Vanessa learns how to sleep. Frances smiles more. And slowly, one molecule at a time, an atmosphere forms around them—not the Earth’s, but one they’ve created, fragile and real.
In the final pages, Joan speaks to Frances while pointing to the night sky:
“That triangle—Altair, Deneb, and Vega—do you see it?”
“Yes.”
“It always points south. If you’re ever lost, you’ll know which way to go.”
She is no longer only teaching her daughter astronomy. She is teaching her to find direction—even in darkness.
Setting
The novel unfolds primarily at NASA’s Johnson Space Center in Houston, during the early 1980s shuttle program. It also stretches into orbit aboard the space shuttle Navigator, creating an immersive dual setting—one grounded in bureaucracy and discipline, the other suspended in the awe and peril of space. The setting amplifies the book’s tension: “The human body—intelligent as it is—was formed in response to the atmosphere of Earth” (p. 23).
Analysis
a. Characters
Joan Goodwin is the novel’s resilient, introspective protagonist. As an accomplished astronomer turned astronaut, her internal journey is as arresting as her outer-space missions. She is both a mentor and an outsider, driven yet humble—”the only one who calls me Franny,” she says affectionately to her niece (p. 118). Joan is haunted by duty, sacrifice, and the constant pressure to prove herself in a male-dominated institution. Her emotional vulnerability, especially in her quiet romance with Vanessa Ford, adds depth to her scientific brilliance.
Vanessa Ford, an aeronautical engineer, is Joan’s counterpart—brilliant, private, and immensely disciplined. Their bond is nuanced and slow-burning, offering one of the most heartfelt queer romances in contemporary fiction. The emotional crescendo of Vanessa saying, “I want to go somewhere so few people have ever gone… and I want them to name me” (p. 137) distills her ambition and longing for legacy.
Secondary characters like Griff, Lydia, and Steve Hagen flesh out the astronaut crew with humor, tragedy, and intense camaraderie. Their personalities enrich the group dynamics and intensify the emotional stakes when tragedy strikes during the spacewalk.
b. Writing Style and Structure
Reid uses a dual timeline structure and section breaks defined by mission logs and key dates (e.g., December 29, 1984), which lend the novel a quasi-documentary realism. Her prose is deceptively simple yet emotionally charged: “Joan can feel the sweat collecting along her hairline as she walks across the campus to the Mission Control building. She knows it’s the heat. But she also knows that’s not all it is” (p. 17).
There’s an elegant rhythm in the dialogue, tight pacing, and a cinematic quality in Reid’s descriptions—making the story ripe for film adaptation. The alternating chapters between past and present highlight both the technicality of the space program and the fragile humanity of those involved.
c. Themes and Symbolism
The novel is a meditation on human fragility, legacy, and identity. Joan’s gold astronaut pin becomes a symbol of achievement, but also of burden. Reid writes, “Evidence that she was one of the chosen few humans who have ever left this planet” (p. 22), capturing the spiritual weight of her accomplishment.
The vacuum of space doubles as a metaphor for emotional isolation and the silence between hearts. Vanessa’s moment outside the shuttle—”a void unlike anything she’s ever seen” (p. 31)—reflects both literal danger and emotional distance.
The theme of women in science also pulses through the narrative. Joan battles institutional sexism, recalling how the original FLATs program was abandoned when NASA refused to endorse female astronauts (p. 105). Her quiet persistence is a tribute to real-life pioneers.
d. Genre-Specific Elements
As a space thriller, the novel nails its technical realism—from mission protocol to payload latches—while never losing sight of emotional truth. The tension-filled sequence where Griff’s suit is punctured (“Within seconds, the exposure will kill him” – p. 35) is chillingly accurate and heart-pounding.
Yet Atmosphere is just as much a romantic novel. The relationship between Joan and Vanessa, filled with silences, sidelong glances, and long conversations at Frenchie’s bar, is tender and true. Reid’s mastery lies in showing rather than telling: their chemistry builds through subtle cues and restrained longing.
Recommendation: For fans of sci-fi realism, slow-burn queer romance, and literary character dramas, this book is essential.
Evaluation
Strengths
The novel’s greatest strength lies in its emotional range. Reid writes with intimacy and detail, drawing from meticulous NASA research and heartfelt character development. The tension of the mission failure is edge-of-your-seat drama, and the love story is vulnerable, queer, and beautifully restrained. Scenes like Vanessa stepping into the void of space for the first time—”She lets go of the ship and moves through the hatch… Her legs feel steady as she wades into the darkness” (p. 30)—are utterly transporting.
Weaknesses
One potential critique lies in the compressed ending. After a well-paced and suspenseful buildup, the emotional fallout of the climactic tragedy feels somewhat rushed, leaving certain character arcs less fully resolved. Additionally, readers expecting a traditional sci-fi thriller may be surprised by the heavy emotional focus and interpersonal drama.
Impact
Emotionally, Atmosphere lingers. Its exploration of female ambition, grief, and legacy resonates in both historical and contemporary contexts. Reid’s blending of factual science with poetic introspection offers a rare balance—one that captures the inner universe as powerfully as the outer one.
Comparison with Similar Works
If The Martian by Andy Weir represents NASA fiction with technical depth and The Seven Husbands of Evelyn Hugo exemplifies character-rich drama, Atmosphere falls in between—a novel that thrills and aches in equal measure. Fans of Hidden Figures or Contact by Carl Sagan will find familiar gravity here, both in tone and theme.
Reception and Criticism
While formal reviews remain under embargo until publication, early buzz from advanced readers, Bookstagrammers, and Goodreads users points to a critical success. As Reid herself notes, she wanted to write a love story “that takes place on a shuttle two hundred miles above the Earth’s atmosphere”—and it delivers exactly that with grace, grit, and gravitas.
Adaptation
A film adaptation is already in development, directed by Anna Boden and Ryan Fleck (Captain Marvel), with Reid contributing to the screenplay. With its dual focus on procedural realism and raw emotion, Atmosphere seems destined for screen success. Expect a cross between Gravity, Apollo 13, and Portrait of a Lady on Fire.
Valuable Information
- Reid’s inspiration came from stargazing with her daughter, a moment she recounts as transformative (Author’s Letter, p. 1).
- The novel incorporates real NASA protocol, including EVA suit mechanics, decompression procedures, and CAPCOM responsibilities.
- This is Reid’s first book to openly explore bisexual identity, giving the story a personal resonance.
Personal Insight & Contemporary Relevance
Reading Atmosphere as a 21st-century audience offers more than escapism—it provides a timely reflection on the pursuit of purpose, especially among women in STEM. Joan’s internal conflict—balancing career, identity, and emotional fulfillment—mirrors the experiences of many professionals navigating competitive spaces today. Her journey isn’t just about going to space; it’s about claiming her place in a system that was never designed for her.
The book resonates with modern discussions around imposter syndrome, queer representation, and intersectional feminism. Joan and Vanessa’s relationship, tender yet charged with restraint, breaks free from sensationalism and offers a nuanced depiction of love under pressure. Their story reminds us that emotional intimacy and professional ambition are not mutually exclusive.
In educational contexts, Atmosphere is a powerful tool for exploring gender equity in STEM, the psychological complexity of space travel, and the ethical dimensions of heroism. It invites students to think critically about representation, historical silencing of women in science, and the power of perseverance.
Reid’s portrayal of legacy—both scientific and emotional—remains her quiet triumph. As Joan reflects on the stars that “will not change within our lifetime” (Author’s Letter, p. 1), readers are reminded of the enduring constellations within us all: love, loss, wonder, and the need to leave something behind.
Conclusion
Atmosphere by Taylor Jenkins Reid is more than a novel—it’s an emotional odyssey that marries the intensity of space exploration with the tenderness of human connection. Reid’s ability to blend meticulous realism with layered emotional stakes makes this one of her most masterful works yet. From Joan’s quiet defiance in the face of systemic exclusion to Vanessa’s longing for recognition, the story pulses with authenticity.
For readers who crave a NASA fiction novel infused with romantic vulnerability and existential wonder, Atmosphere is not just recommended—it’s required. It belongs on the shelves of fans of The Right Stuff, Little Fires Everywhere, and Daisy Jones & The Six alike.
In a time when we often look to the stars for answers, Reid reminds us that some of the most profound mysteries lie within. Atmosphere proves that reaching for the cosmos is, at its core, a deeply human endeavor.
Atmosphere is not just a novel about women in space. It is about how people hold each other together in orbit, in grief, in fear, and in love. The shuttle may be the setting, but the story is about the space between us—the thin layer of atmosphere that allows us to breathe together.
It’s a story that says you can survive the vacuum of space, but you’ll only thrive inside the warmth of connection.
