The Universe, Undone: What the Big Bang, String Theory, and the Dust Bowl Teach Us About Belonging

The universe began not with a deafening blast, but with a quiet kind of opening. Picture a single, bright seed swelling in the dark, space itself stretching outward. In that first moment—the Big Bang—there was no sound, only the widening of possibility. Everything we know, from galaxies to grass, came from this simple act of unfolding.

Most science books talk about energy and matter, equations and numbers. But there’s a different way to look at it: the story of how everything became connected. At its core, the universe started with relationship.

Physicists call one version of this connection “entanglement.” In the world of quantum physics, if two particles touch, they become linked. Move one, and the other reacts—even across a galaxy. It sounds strange, but it’s real. The universe, from its first spark, was never just separate parts. It was a web. What touches one strand is felt by all the others.

Some scientists go even further. They think the space between things—the distance from me to you, or from Earth to a faraway star—exists because of these threads of connection. The world isn’t made of lonely bits, but of ties that bind.

String theory paints this idea with new colors. It says everything, even you and me, is made of tiny, vibrating strings. Some stretch out. Some form perfect loops—ring roots, curving back on themselves, holding things together in silent strength. These loops, scientists believe, might be why we feel gravity at all, why the planets stay in their orbits, why we don’t float off into space.

But you don’t need to understand physics to see how connection works in the real world.

Picture the Great Plains, a hundred years ago. The land was covered with tall grasses, their fine roots weaving tight beneath the soil. Those roots held the earth together—quiet, hidden, but strong. Then came the plows. Farmers tore up the grass to plant wheat. The roots were ripped out, and the soil lost its grip. When drought came, the wind carried the dirt away, turning day to night with swirling dust. This was the Dust Bowl.

The suffering didn’t stop at the farm fence. Crops failed, families lost homes, and banks in far-off cities collapsed. A farm foreclosure in Kansas could spark a suicide in New York. The lesson was simple: the fine roots mattered. Break enough connections, and the whole system falls apart.

We face the same pattern today. When families are separated at borders, it’s not just about policy or law. It’s about cutting the threads that hold people together. The pain isn’t private; it ripples through whole communities—trauma, loss, confusion. And let’s be honest: undocumented families aren’t outsiders. They are part of our root system. They plant crops, care for children, keep towns alive. To deny this is to pretend the roots aren’t part of the tree.

We like to believe we can control things by separating them—by drawing lines, passing laws, or isolating problems. But life isn’t a collection of boxes. It’s a living field of connections. Pull up too many roots, and nothing holds.

Still, the story doesn’t end with loss. In string theory, those closed loops—the ring roots—remind us that what is broken can be joined again. Grass can be replanted. Families can heal. Old stories, languages, and traditions can return, growing stronger at the broken places. The world, whether we’re talking about galaxies or neighborhoods, is always trying to reconnect.

Physics, for all its complexity, teaches us something deeply human: nothing exists alone. We are made from the same threads that bind galaxies, soil, and families. The universe didn’t begin with separation, but with belonging.

If the Dust Bowl taught us anything, it’s this: ignore the fine roots, and you risk losing everything, quietly, before you even notice. Sometimes collapse comes not with a bang, but in silence—when we forget what once held us together.

Yet, where even a few roots remain, hope does too. The universe didn’t just unfold once. It keeps unfolding, every time we nurture a connection, mend a rift, or let something lost take root again.

So maybe the real lesson from the beginning of everything is this: connection is not a weakness, but our greatest strength. What we do with that truth is up to us.