Science is under attack.
I'm writing this from my flat in Tirana, where the November air carries the scent of roasted chestnuts through my open window. It's late, and I'm still thinking about an editorial I read from Science magazine that's been rattling around in my head for days. The piece talked about 2025 as one of the most difficult years for American science—a year of grant terminations, immigration restrictions, and calculated political strikes against research funding. I'm thousands of miles away from Washington, but the tremors reach here too.
You see, when American science suffers, the ripple effects touch all of us who care about scientific progress.
The Personal Cost of Political Theater
I moved from Rimini to Tirana not because Albania has better research facilities (it doesn't), but because sometimes you need a fresh start. Running Free Astroscience from a wheelchair teaches you something about barriers—the physical ones people see, and the invisible ones that keep knowledge from reaching those who need it most.
The editorial pointed out something unsettling: only 42% of Americans now support higher education, almost perfectly matching the percentage who hold college degrees. Think about that for a moment. Half the country doesn't see value in something that scientists treat as sacred ground.
That statistic hit me like a cold wind.
When Education Becomes a Wedge
Here's what the piece forced me to confront: we in the science community have been telling a single story for too long. The story goes like this—kid from a small town works hard, gets into a prestigious university, leaves home, becomes successful. Local papers celebrate it. Parents beam with pride.
But what about the kid who wants to stay home and open a bakery? What about the one who's brilliant with engines but freezes up during standardized tests? Have we been quietly suggesting their paths are worth less?
The editorial from Science argued that higher education made a mistake by assuming college should be everyone's goal. I felt that argument lodge itself somewhere uncomfortable in my chest, right next to my defensive instincts.
The Real Fight Isn't About Grants
When politicians slash research funding, they're not really targeting the science. They're striking at an entire system that half the country feels excluded from. The editorial noted that confidence in scientists remains higher than trust in journalists, business leaders, or elected officials—which means the attack isn't about scientists being untrustworthy.
It's about resentment.
People who never benefited from a Pell Grant don't feel invested in protecting institutions that never opened doors for them. When you're struggling to pay rent and you see universities with billion-dollar endowments, the optics aren't great. I get it, even though it pains me to admit it.
This is where I need to be honest with you: as someone who's dedicated my life to making science accessible through Free Astroscience, I've sometimes assumed that if I just explained things clearly enough, people would care. But caring isn't just about understanding—it's about feeling included in the conversation.
What We Owe the Teachers
The editorial ended with a call I want to echo: recognize the educators. The ones who show up every day, despite shrinking budgets and a culture war that treats them like pawns. The professors who spend hours crafting lectures that light fires in students' minds—work that gets no headlines, no glory, no Nobel Prize consideration.
I think about my own teachers. Professor Mariani, who taught me physics in Rimini and never once made me feel like my wheelchair meant I'd have a smaller life. She didn't just teach me equations; she taught me that curiosity doesn't require mobility.
The Science editorial emphasized that future scientific breakthroughs can't happen without great teaching today. That's not just true in America—it's true here in Tirana, in Rimini, everywhere humans dare to ask "why?" and "what if?"
Looking Forward From My Window
So what's the path forward? Philosopher Danielle Allen (mentioned in the editorial) suggests higher education needs a new compact with the public. I'd add this: scientists need to get comfortable with the uncomfortable truth that we've built walls we didn't mean to build.
Not physical ones like the steps I can't climb, but cultural ones just as real.
We need to celebrate multiple forms of excellence. We need to admit that a four-year degree isn't the only path to a meaningful life. We need to stop postponing reforms because they're difficult or because admitting fault feels like defeat.
From my desk here in Albania, watching the lights of Tirana flicker on as evening settles, I'm thinking about what it means to run a science and cultural group. The "cultural" part isn't decorative—it's the whole point. Science divorced from culture becomes sterile, exclusive, and eventually, unloved.
The Work Continues
This has been a rough year for science, no question. The Trump administration's cuts sent a clear message that research isn't politically valuable right now. That stings. I've simplified these complex policy issues here because you don't need a political science degree to understand the human cost of what's happening.
But I'm not giving up, and neither should you.
Tonight, I'm going to keep writing. Keep explaining why the stars matter, why understanding our universe matters, why curiosity itself matters. I'll keep doing it from this wheelchair, from this city that isn't my birthplace, from this position that sometimes feels impossibly small when facing down governmental indifference.
Because here's what I know: every scientist who didn't become a scientist started as a kid who asked a question and got a good answer from someone who cared. If we lose those educators—if we let them burn out, underpaid and undervalued—we don't just lose this generation of research.
We lose the next one too.
And that's a future I refuse to accept.
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