Lately, it feels like the ground is shifting under our feet. As a school nurse and public health advocate, there are days when it is hard to recognize the country children are growing up in—and harder still to explain how adults with power could choose this path for them.
Just this week alone, decisions have landed that cut straight through the heart of child health and public trust. HHS abruptly terminated seven federal grants to the American Academy of Pediatrics—funding that supported work on SIDS, rural access to care, adolescent mental health, birth defects, early autism identification, and fetal alcohol spectrum disorder prevention—citing a sudden “realignment of priorities.”
At the same time, the administration is preparing to overhaul the childhood vaccine schedule, promising “fewer shots” and alignment with countries like Denmark, while denying the decades of evidence that built our current protections. This will lead to more confusion, more vulnerability, and a quiet acceptance of preventable harm.
Layer onto that the defunding of the Corporation for Public Broadcasting, with planned federal support for PBS and NPR slashed by more than a billion dollars. Public media has been the backbone of health communication in crisis after crisis. Turning off that lifeline is not fiscal responsibility; it is a deliberate silencing at the very moment families need clear, trusted information the most.
None of this is theoretical. The abject abuse of presidential power is actively dismantling the foundations of our fragile democracy—in full public view. So if you are feeling grief, rage, or a kind of moral whiplash, you are not overreacting; you are paying attention. Programs that took decades to build are being treated as disposable or even as targets for retaliation when they dare to defend evidence and children.
Here is what helps me in the middle of this: remembering where our power still lives.
It lives in the way we witness what is happening and refuse to stay quiet. It lives in the relationships we build: the trust of a parent who asks, “What do you think?”, the student who comes back because they know we will listen, and the colleagues who find courage because they are not standing alone.
It lives in the moments we say, “No, this is not acceptable for children,” whether the issue is vaccines, gutted gun violence prevention programs, or cuts to the social services our students rely on; every clear “no” draws a line that someone else can stand on. It lives in our ability to connect the dots out loud—to say, “This grant cut, this schedule change, this funding loss are part of the same pattern,” so others can see that none of it is random and all of it is a choice.
And it lives in our persistence: showing up day after day, documenting what we see, writing and speaking even when it feels like no one is listening—until, suddenly, someone is. That is the cumulative power we still hold, even in moments that are designed to make us feel powerless.
Most of all, we are not required to be neutral about preventable harm. Public health ethics are clear: avoiding partisan allegiance is not the same as staying silent while children and communities are put at risk. Naming harm is not partisan. Defending evidence is not ideological. Protecting public health—especially the health of children and the communities that raise them is at the core of our professional ethics.
If this moment feels like a low point, that is because you understand what is at stake. The question is what we do with that understanding.
In the coming days, I will continue writing, as I have for the past nine years: telling the truth from the school health office, naming the unwelcome barrage of news that put children at risk, and inviting others to join forces instead of giving up. Children deserve adults who refuse to look away.
Stay relentless with me.
