For scientists, lovers of wildness, LGBTQ+, people of marginalized communities, and about half of all Americans, 2025 has been off to an extremely stressful start at the hands of the current political administration and its close allies with no repose in sight. Let me digress for a moment:

A still winter day is hard to come by on the eastern edge of Lake Michigan; there is almost always a northwest wind organizing the surface into waves and penetrating winter jackets like an arrow, its fletching buried in goose down. For the most part, this never-ending motion is welcomed: it creates the dynamic landscape I see when I picture winter in my head—the ice sheet extending into the surf, creating ridges where snow buntings hide themselves, ice ‘pancakes’ that form in the rolling waters that bash against the ice, and of course the lake effect snow. That said, there is something extraordinary about the rare days when it is calm and the sun is out (West Michigan has famously cloudy winters). On these days, I would bring my spotting scope to the end of Grand Haven’s north pier to watch the waterfowl that remain distant from the shore, many of which are rare to see inland. There are spectacular birds to be seen in this fashion (such as the occasional eider or Harlequin Duck), but I am especially drawn to the Red-throated Loons.

Compared to most birds, I hold Red-throated Loons in special regard because of their elegance, unrelenting beauty, consistency, a bit of jealousy on my own part (who wouldn’t want to be an expert diver and flier?). There is just something about them. Now, not every still winter day on the shores brings sightings of Red-throated Loons, but they’re out there. Sometimes, the only sign of them is a distant silhouette—a long neck and upturned bill against the shimmering water, pointing—maybe even hinting—towards the heavens. It’s an interesting morphological feature, this upturned bill—it’s a connection point between the lake and the sky. The unifier; the upshot of their dynamic form. Most of the loon’s body is submerged, floating low in the freshwater, not to be lifted by the salt crystals of the sea. The head remains above the surface until they dive, burying themselves in waves, leaving their aqueous mission to my imagination. I often think of how easy it would be to have such a life, a life drilled in consistent and cyclical repetition—a migratory schedule that brings me back to the same waters, through the same sky, over and over again. To fly deeply across the horizon, nearly suffocating in flocks of Long-tailed Ducks. Yet, this is not the reality for me.

Currently, we are in the midst of an unprecedented time of uncertainty in our country—I don’t think you need me to tell you that. I rarely get involved with sharing political thoughts or messaging on social media or blindly to the public, rather, I save these sorts of conversations for my friends and willing strangers. I try to stay involved and educated in other ways, but like many others, I have reached a breaking point. This is an act of civil disobedience. As a scientist who is nearing the conclusion of my doctorate, I am frightened and astounded by the state of science and free speech under the Trump administration. This is an anxiety-inducing time to be jumping into a career in academia. Trump is inarguably driving this country to a state of government censorship. Since taking office in January, he had upended government-funded research by laying off thousands of government researchers, cutting government science budgets, and freezing funding. Although we’ve now enjoyed the small victory when courts blocked the National Science Foundation’s (NSF) freeze on grant disbursements that left many of my colleagues without salaries, it has not been long-lived. NSF grant review panels still remain paused, creating a major roadblock for new research for the foreseeable future. If these panels remain paused, I and many others will likely be forced to leave academia before we really even get started.

To add insult to injury, it was recently announced that the National Institute of Health (NIH) is planning to revoke awarded grants that fund research on anything related to diversity, equity, inclusion, gender, and sexual identity (i.e. anything deemed ‘woke’). Studies that have been deliberated upon and decided by the scientific community as relevant and necessary are having their funding stripped because of political ideology—that doesn’t sound like free speech to me. Under the current administration, if one wishes to engage in science in the U.S., they must tip-toe around far-right ideologies and the fragile masculinity of our leaders. This is undoubtedly narrowing the perspectives of science in this country by making it more difficult than it already was for people who don’t identify as cis-hetero white men to feel welcomed in the community. It remains as necessary as ever as scientists to encourage and lift up diverse members of society to engage in science, creating an environment where they can gain footing and feel welcomed—these are people who have a plethora of experiences and wisdom to draw from that is tied to their identity. It is abhorrent and disgraceful to have them stricken from science.

Science, like nature, isn’t comprised of acts done in isolation—it is an ecosystem, and we must treat it as such. I think of the long-term ecological experiments at Cedar Creek in Minnesota: funded by the NSF, this tract of 168 9mx9m plots have been manipulated with various combinations of plant species to determine the impact of biodiversity on productivity, resilience, and a myriad of other services. Overwhelmingly, the plots with the highest biodiversity have the highest rates of productivity and resilience, meaning more diverse ecosystems can function and survive better than their non-diverse counterparts. I think you see where I am going with this—I believe human organizations and institutions function in a similar manner: science is the most productive and resilient when it is diverse, inclusive, and equitable. Thinking back to my time on the shores of Lake Michigan, I used to appreciate the Red-throated Loon for its apparent isolation—but now I realize that these loons do not exist alone. In fact, they are a pillar of the ecosystem: a great connector between the Arctic and the Midwest—their energetic equations combined through water and sky, carried on the back of a loon.

Trees and a stream in the Gila National Wilderness, the first federally designated wilderness

I wish I were able to end here, but the Trump administration is also attacking my beliefs from another front: wilderness. Similar to his last stint in office, Trump is taking aim at the National Forest system. This time, however, he has signed an executive order to fast-track timber production by leveraging a committee nicknamed the “God Squad” to ignore the protections placed on endangered wildlife in order to extract resources. This “God Squad” has only been used attempted twice before: for the dam construction on the Platte River in critically endangered whooping crane habitat, and for logging in Spotted Owl habitat. The dam was placed on the Platte, but a settlement required post-dam ecosystem improvement and crane conservation work; the logging request was withdrawn at the threat of lawsuits.

On top of this, budget cuts have forced the U.S. Forest Service to lay off 10% of its workforce—these are people who are extremely dedicated to the land, people who have families and rely on this work for a living. These are the people of the thin forest-green line protecting our shared natural resources. Many good people that I know have lost their jobs, leaving fewer hands for wildlife prevention, forest restoration, public safety, and environmental education. In all, this marks a significant shift in federal priorities concerning science and conservation. The U.S. has been a leader in conservation and has a deep history underlying the philosophical and ethical stances we take for our landscape. We are throwing it all away so the rich may get richer. Like you, I am waiting for the upshot.

These days I am constantly wishing that I could ignore all of this and sit on the north pier to search for those Red-throated Loons—glassing the horizon, scanning for those upturned bills, and forgetting about everything else going on—but it is not possible. Not right now. Standing on the edge of a Great Lake offers a prevalent reminder: dramatic pressure and uncertainty can bring about beauty in the long run. It wasn’t very long ago in geologic time that massive ice sheets barred down the face of the continent; they ground bedrock to sand and gouged out major segments of the landscape—but what remained (and what was created) of the land are my absolute favorite places in the world: the Lakes where the loons roam. The water in the Great Lakes is derived from glacial melt and held in the scars of the continent—it only took time and resistance. The continent was pushing back against the glaciers—it was soft in places it needed to be soft and was rigid where it could be; there are even places in the Upper Midwest that avoided glaciation completely (see Wisconsin’s driftless region). Throughout all the turmoil, the Red-throated Loons had to adapt, establishing new migratory routes and new homelands—they met the challenge and persevered.

I can’t help but think that this administration is like a period of glaciation (not just because all the leaders are slow and white, ha), but because they are actively gouging the scientific and environmental landscape of this country, although certainly not at a glacial pace. This is where I draw more inspiration from the loons: we need to adjust and persist. We need to exist in our spaces vigorously, wailing to be heard. I also am taking guidance from the continental landscape itself—resistance can bring change. Be soft where you need to be, stay solid where you can. Resistance will bring change, and beautiful change at that.

Red-throated Loons and the War on Science, Wilderness

Dogs, Pigeons, and the Philosophical Notion of Self