Science Is Essential

Why is this regime destroying it?

Dear Friends,

I’m having a sickening sense of déjà vu, flashing back to the early days of the pandemic.

Remember when Covid-19 case counts still seemed isolated and low, but infectious disease doctors and researchers were urgently trying to explain the concept of exponential growth to the public and policymakers? They warned us that the virus was already everywhere, even if we couldn’t see it—and that it would inevitably get much worse.

Where are those prophets of science now? Vilified, and likely fired or defunded by a vindictive regime laying waste to public health—and to science more broadly. And yet, despite the scale of the destruction and its long-term implications, I fear that the public, the press, and even science’s natural allies—including Democratic Party leaders—fail to grasp just how c this moment is, or how much worse it’s likely to become.

This isn’t to minimize the current coverage or awareness. “Science under assault” has become one more talking point in the litany of outrages recited by those resisting this authoritarian regime. And certain flashpoints—like Robert Kennedy Jr.’s disastrous ignorance or a raging measles outbreak—do break into the news cycle, as we saw with his testimony before Congress yesterday.

But when I talk to scientists across disciplines—and as I reflect on my own role in science communication—I worry that the full scale of what’s unfolding isn’t fully resonating. That’s why I’ll keep writing about it here.

My father, a scientist at Harvard—and therefore on the front lines of this regime’s war on reason and higher education—recently said something that struck me deeply and should have been more central to my thinking. He asked, with real anguish, “What can we do?” And added that scientists were never trained, never prepared, to be actors in mass resistance.

For decades, investment in science was such an obvious benefit to the United States and its people that it was one of the few areas of consistent bipartisan agreement. And the biggest bulwark against anti-science rhetoric was the federal government and its impressive network of agencies promoting science, health, and exploration—from the NSF to the NIH, and the CDC to USAID. These institutions were staffed with thousands of brilliant people who worked tirelessly to promote knowledge and lessen human suffering.

To be sure, there were problems with how science was funded, how grants were reviewed, and how priorities were set. A healthy, inclusive spirit of reform would have been welcomed by many scientists—especially those earlier in their careers. But you don’t fix a leaky roof by burning the house down. Especially if you never plan to rebuild.

You could make the case that no entity in human history has done more to further our understanding of life and the universe than the U.S. federal government. I’d argue that nothing else even comes close. When you consider the breakthroughs in technology, medicine, and space exploration, the scale of that contribution is hard to fathom—and foundational to our prosperity and security.

A friend recently shared a video from the retirement ceremony of Gerry Fink, the acclaimed scientist who led the Whitehead Institute at MIT. In his remarks, Fink reminded the audience of a crucial but often forgotten piece of history: the “covenant” forged between the federal government and research universities in the wake of World War II.

Spearheaded by Vannevar Bush—President Roosevelt’s science advisor and the architect of postwar science policy—this agreement helped launch the modern American scientific enterprise. “Scientific progress,” Bush wrote in his landmark 1945 report Science, The Endless Frontier, “is essential to national security and economic growth.” It was a revolutionary idea: that the government should fund basic research, and that universities should become its engine.

The results were staggering. Fink noted that before 1960, the number of American Nobel Prize winners in medicine was roughly on par with countries like France and Germany. After 1960, that changed dramatically. He showed a slide that made the point plainly.

The United States’s massive public investment in science produced extraordinary returns—in health, innovation, and knowledge. We often speak with reverence about our great universities, but Fink gently pushed back on that framing. “We shouldn't talk about MIT or Harvard scientists,” he said. “We should talk about NIH scientists, because that’s where the support comes from.” Even the COVID vaccine, he noted, is often mislabeled. “We shouldn’t say Moderna vaccine. We should say the NIH vaccine—because they wouldn’t be there without all the basic science that made it possible.”

That historic covenant, Fink warned, has now been broken. The NIH can no longer be counted on to uphold its side of the partnership.

I’ve been thinking a lot about how different public opinion might be if more people understood that. What if the life-saving drugs we take, the technology-packed phones in our pockets, the maps that guide us, the weather apps we rely on—all came stamped with a thank-you and an American flag? Just like the old NASA rockets that took us to the moon. There was no doubt—and no lack of pride—about who was responsible for backing our space program.

Now, tragically, the United States federal government has become one of the greatest destructive forces against truth and progress. It’s like a lighthouse that once guided vessels safely into port, now taken over by saboteurs who have reprogrammed its beam to wreck our ship of state against the rocky shoals of cruelty and ignorance.

But even that vantage point may be too narrow. The costs we see now—steep as they are—will pale in comparison to the consequences we’ve only just set in motion. It’s not just the grants that have been canceled, but the ones that will never be written. Not just the scientists losing their jobs, but the brilliant young minds who will never enter the field. Not just the discoveries that are lost—but the ones we’ll never even know we missed.

One of the most enduring public misconceptions about science is the belief that it’s driven by lone geniuses. At the Science Communication Lab, we work to dispel that myth. Science is a culture of wondering—a community endeavor, shaped by imperfect people asking questions, building on each other’s insights, and sharing knowledge openly. Through this collaborative, iterative process—tempered by review and grounded in curiosity—we’ve managed to tease out some of nature’s deepest mysteries.

But ultimately, science is also an act of humility. It begins with the recognition of how little we truly know. It is a yearning to cross distant horizons. It is a quintessentially human instinct—to try to make sense of our surroundings.

Amidst the destruction and despair, I also see an opportunity. It’s what drives my work, and the work of my colleagues. We need to reset the public’s relationship with science. We need to share its wonder and its joy. We need to explain why it matters. And we need to welcome people of all backgrounds to feel the pride we all should share in what this nation has accomplished through collective investment in curiosity and care.

I don’t believe that what this regime is doing to science is popular. And I think it would be even less so if people better understood what science is—and just how much is being threatened. 

I’ll be writing more about this in the coming weeks, including updates on some of the exciting new projects we’re developing at the Science Communication Lab.

This is work I love. And it feels more essential than ever. 

Note: Like so many others, the Science Communication Lab is facing an uncertain future due to cuts at the NIH and NSF—funding sources that once made our work possible. If you believe in the power of science storytelling and want to help us keep building, please consider making a tax-deductible donation here: