At home, I have a wooden plaque on my wall that lists all the national parks I’ve been to. Next to it, there’s a bag of small painted trees meant to represent the ones I’ve yet to visit. Only eight of them have been placed in their divots on the plaque— 55 of them remain, untouched. Years ago, my best friend and I decided to make a deal for ourselves. By 30, we are to have visited 30 national parks.

Now, I have my Olympic National Park brochure stuck to the cinder block wall in my dorm. It’s ripping at the folds, where I’ve opened and closed it hundreds of times. My trip to Washington was one of my favorites above all, and I could see myself spending my life there.

I’d read The Monkey Wrench Gang a few weeks before my family visited, and since then I’d dreamed of making a notable difference in the environment. Spending a week in the mountains solidified everything— I wanted to live my life in the forest, doing research and all that I love. Now, I feel forced to slim down my ambitions. My future in biology feels grim and disheartening.

According to Outside magazine, there have been over 750 charted firings of national park workers. Parks are closing, and I’m watching the places I grew up with crumble down. Without my visits to mountain ranges and vast ecosystems, I wouldn’t be so passionate about environmentalism today.

The Trump administration has targeted science in ways that feel irreversible. There have been funding cuts that are detrimental to research and public health. I am safe behind the walls of academic buildings now, but it’s surreal to watch scientists lose what they love. Already, I feel like I’m grieving the future I thought I’d have in biology.

In college, I am disconnected from the chaos of my future job industry. Nothing has directly affected me yet, aside from some losses in internship opportunities. I report on environmental issues when it is possible, and stay connected with people that I know can help me. Regardless, there is a feeling of helplessness that lingers. I have bound myself to my passions, though, and I refuse to give them up, despite everything.

I’ve read devastating testimonies of federal workers that lost the jobs that brought light to their eyes. I’ve read countless articles about ecosystems at risk and species in danger. I know that, no matter what, biology in America will be different from now on. Truly, it seems like there is not much else I can do but grieve.

I can’t help but look back at the goals I made for myself, which, I can admit, were impractical from the start. I wanted to hit every national park by the time I was old. I wanted to work a summer as a park ranger. I wanted to hike the entire Pacific Crest Trail. Now, workers won’t be able to clear trails. There will be fallen trees and conditions that will take away any chance I had. These dreams seem ridiculous to some, but they fueled me.

I am privileged to be a college student and have access to resources that aid me. I have supportive professors and parents, and an education that will provide me with grounds to make an impact. Still, I think it is important to acknowledge the empty feeling undergrads have in their stomachs. It is terrifying to watch our life trajectories change before us, with very little control.

Realistically, the “grief” I describe isn’t the heart drop that one would feel after a big loss. It isn’t the same as if I’d lost the job I love, or mourned a death. It is an aching feeling of uncertainty. I hope that the distress we feel will power great change, and will reveal the drive we have to make things right. I am not a biologist yet, but I will be. When I am, regardless of push back, I will not let an unjust system drive me away.