“Remember to take care of your mom and sister,” my dad murmured into my ear, voice strained with emotion. “You have to be a man for them now.”

Facing him outside the McCarran Airport passenger dropoff, the finality of the statement chilled me more than the twilight November air. I almost responded, “Why?” Why did I, a 14-year-old boy, need to “man up” for my mom and sister? Why did my dad’s ambitions require moving to Nanjing to become a professor? Why did he have to leave? Instead, I held my tongue and threw myself into his embrace. I already knew the answer.

My father’s no wordsmith, but his ideas about purpose and fulfillment are always conveyed with a poetic flourish. I asked him a few years prior why he was a scientist. He told me, “Someday I’ll be gone, but my name will live on, nestled under my theorems in hydrology textbooks. From Galileo to Einstein, our understanding of the world has been paved by great scientists, each one building upon the last. I’m part of that cycle now too. That’s why I’m a scientist.”

Despite his explanations, I never truly understood his dedication—how he could give up his life and family to research riverbank erosion. I began visualizing science as a great tree, with each branch home to a scientist. Einstein, Newton, and other greats claimed thick, foundational branches. My dad perched upon a branch as well, glowing with pride, the result of his boundless devotion. However, I didn’t see this tree of scientific accomplishment as a beacon of inspiration, but as the poison that planted its roots in my dad’s head, driving him to obsession and eventually whisking him away to China. This way, I could continue loving him as though he didn’t choose to leave.

Still, in the wake of my dad’s unyielding loyalty to his purpose, I searched for my own. I desperately explored math, then engineering, then finance, carefully steering clear of the wicked tree, but nothing offered the fulfillment I craved. I found meaning in washing dishes, mowing lawns, guiding my sister, and supporting my mom, achieving a bitter pride in filling the hole he left in my family. But it didn’t fill the hole within myself.

Then, I came face to face with precisely what I was avoiding. In my sophomore year summer, I read a paper describing a novel coconut-based supercapacitor, which would provide cheap, sustainable energy storage. This paper wasn’t written by a professor, though—it wasn’t even published. It was authored by my M&TSI roommate, who eagerly showed me his Word document draft. I was captivated by its content, but even more so by our ensuing discussion and his genuine, infectious love for research, untainted by vanity. Maybe there’s more to science than the tree.

I began reading more papers, and sparking hours of late night discourse about solar cells, carbon capture, and how to save our planet. Soon after, I began my own journey into materials research, advancing renewable energy and sustainable packaging materials.

Through materials research, I finally found purpose, not fueled by responsibility, but a passion for building a sustainable future. The bitterness that once left me empty, first directed towards my dad then towards science, turned into an understanding, respect, and love for both. I had become whole.

However, I’m still cautious. My fulfillment from science doesn’t stem from the tree—the allure of leaving a legacy—but the virtue and excitement in tackling the world’s most pressing challenges. Moreover, I’ve shared every step of my journey with my mom, dad, and sister, our conversations reminiscent of the excited whispers I shared with my roommate, in hopes they’ll see science bring us together, rather than drive us apart. Instead of dreaming about the view from atop the tree, I’ll continue to stand in its shade while picking its fruit, planting them into the seeds of a better world.