Colette Delawalla was still in her pajamas when fury overtook caution. Nineteen days into Donald Trump's second term, the 30-year-old doctoral candidate at Emory University watched her planned career as a clinical psychologist collide with the country's new direction. The administration had just announced $4 billion in cuts to medical and scientific research, ordered government scientists to stop speaking publicly, and begun purging grants that touched on gender studies and diversity.
The scientific establishment's muted response infuriated her. On a Saturday afternoon in her Atlanta apartment, she posted on Bluesky: "Can't believe I'm typing this but... FUCK IT IM PLANNING A STAND UP FOR SCIENCE PROTEST IN DC." Her hands were shaking. Her only political credential was a vote and one Black Lives Matter march.
The post went viral. Within 72 hours, she was fielding calls from the New York Times. Within a month, Delawalla and four other early-career scientists had organized marches in more than 30 U.S. cities on March 7 without backing from a single major scientific organization.
But momentum, it turned out, had an expiration date.
When the crowds dispersed and researchers returned to their labs, the funding cuts remained. So did the purges on forbidden research topics. Delawalla faced an uncomfortable truth: protests fade, but policy doesn't. Her spontaneous movement had nowhere to go.
"The challenge comes after an initial wave of activity that doesn't lead to the change you had hoped for," said Hahrie Han, a political science professor at Johns Hopkins and author of "Prisms of the People." "How does an organization make sense of loss?"
Stand Up for Science nearly didn't survive that reckoning. Three of the five lead organizers split off, including Emma Courtney, who felt the group was too focused on protest rather than persuasion. Burnout ravaged the volunteer ranks. The organization seemed to be running on fumes and good intentions.
Then Delawalla made a choice that would reshape the movement. She stepped away from her dissertation work and went all-in on building an actual political machine.
She recruited Stephen King, a 68-year-old veteran organizer who had built campaigns for environmental and social justice causes. King brought Vincent Vertuccio, a 22-year-old Long Island operative tattooed with the words "Organizing Works." Together, they taught Delawalla how to navigate Capitol Hill, craft messaging, and deploy the mechanics of electoral politics.
The transformation was swift and visible. Four months after a stumbling first meeting with a congressional Democrat, where she essentially said "Trump and science being bad is very bad," Delawalla was prepping eight hours for meetings and delivering focused testimony. Over one year, she conducted 200 congressional meetings.
By fall, the organization was running a 150,000-signature petition campaign to impeach Robert F. Kennedy Jr. In December, Stand Up for Science made its first electoral play, pouring resources into a Tennessee House race. The Democrat lost by nearly 9 points in a district Trump had won by more than 20, but the bet signaled where Delawalla's focus had shifted.
The numbers tell the story of a movement that learned fast. Stand Up for Science grew from Delawalla and a handful of volunteers to 22 paid staff and more than 2,000 registered volunteers. In its first full year, the organization raised $1.2 million and secured backing from more than 65 Nobel laureates. In March, it held demonstrations in more than 50 cities, drawing 2,000 people at the National Mall.
Now comes the bigger bet. This Friday, Delawalla plans to launch the Science Victory Fund, a Super PAC aimed at backing pro-science candidates in 2026.
The cost of this trajectory is steep. Delawalla plans to finish her dissertation this summer, but she has abandoned any hope of an academic research career. The realization came with what she called "a lot of grief." Being a scientist was central to her identity. But she concluded that protecting the work of thousands of other researchers was now where she belonged.
"I happened to stumble upon a skill set I can use to keep those people discovering," she said. "It's where I belong in this moment."
Author James Rodriguez: "A clinical psychologist turned political organizer is not the face most people expected to lead the fight against science cuts, but Delawalla's path from Bluesky rage-post to Super PAC founder shows what anger plus hustle can actually accomplish."
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