Near the end of January, a small social media account popped up on my feed – a science march. It was initially termed a "Scientist March on Washington," a general call for more evidence-based policy. I didn't think much of it and expected it to fizzle. Two days later, nearly a million people had signed up to support the effort. Quickly, the march morphed into Saturday's much-anticipated "March for Science," and the work began.

I was still deeply skeptical that marching could have any effect on policy, but I dove in nonetheless. After all, the march had the potential to be the largest science demonstration in history. I led the coordination of satellite marches popping up around the country and world. I expected 50; we're at nearly 550 marches worldwide, on every continent.

Those early days were chaotic as we tried to give the movement focus and structure. Late nights, rapid shifts in directions, a constant juggling of responsibilities – it was not easy to navigate. We made mistakes in a race to respond to the hunger for the march. We struggled with the weight of one event speaking for all of science – good and bad. All the while, I wrestled with why I was doing any of this.

Two weeks into planning, I was at a scientific conference in Boston talking about the explosion of interest in the march. Late one night, I was leaving a bar and a drunk man yelled at me, "Go back where you came from." It's an ugly phrase that too many people have heard. Usually, I respond with a bit of snark, but this time I just walked back to my hotel. Something had finally clicked for me.

A couple days later, I called up my father. I asked him about how he came to this country. It's a story I had heard before, but I needed the reminder. He grew up the second-oldest of seven in a tiny village in southern India. His dad was a civil servant. They weren't poor by India's standards, but all their money was used to keep the family afloat. My grandfather pushed him hard on education, as a means to a better life.

In 1961, after many attempts, the University of Cincinnati admitted him to a science program. His ticket was punched, but he couldn't afford the plane ticket. He had to get a grant from the Indian government to cover his airfare, but he made it.

His stipend at Cincinnati was the grand total of $115 per month, which is $6 more than any other university had offered. And even though that was barely enough money to survive, he persisted – because that science degree meant freedom and opportunity. A few years later, he got his Ph.D. and went into the private sector. He started a family, moving from Buffalo, New York, to Tulsa, Oklahoma, to Roanoke, Virginia, and finally to Western Pennsylvania. There, he founded a company that employed hundreds in the Rust Belt.

It wasn't an easy life, but a happy and prosperous one – all enabled by that university opening its doors to him. He's the greatest scientist I've ever known, because he's been there every day for me. My dad turns 80 this year. He's ill, and within the next few years, he won't be able to walk. But on April 22, we'll march for science together in San Francisco.