Last week, I stood at the Embassy of Japan in Washington, D.C. talking to researchers about something most of them were never really trained to do: Raise money. That sounds strange when you say it out loud. We spend years teaching researchers how to understand disease, design studies, analyze data, publish papers, and defend their science. Then, increasingly, we turn around and say:

We have gotten very comfortable asking one question about almost everything: What is the return on investment? In business, that is usually a reasonable question. In medical research, it can become a limiting one. Some of the most important scientific work does not begin with a product, a treatment, or a clear path to revenue. It begins with a question about how something works, why a biological process behaves the way it does, or what researchers still do not understa

When people think about philanthropy, they often think about the moment a grant is awarded. The announcement is made. The funding is secured. Photos are taken. Everyone celebrates. Then what? That question doesn't get nearly enough attention. In biomedical research, a grant is rarely the finish line. More often, it's the starting point. Discoveries don't happen on a predictable schedule, and meaningful scientific progress almost never fits neatly into a two- or three-ye

When people hear about a cancer research breakthrough, the story often sounds simple. A discovery is announced. A new therapy shows promise. A headline declares progress. But what most people don’t see behind cancer research breakthroughs is the long, demanding path that leads to that moment. Scientific progress rarely arrives in a single dramatic leap. It comes through years of incremental work, careful experimentation, and persistence from researchers who are trying to a