This time last year, Jay Bhattacharya’s main claim to fame was, in essence, a hot take on COVID. In 2020, Bhattacharya, then a health economist at Stanford University without specialized training in infectious disease, co-authored the Great Barrington Declaration, an open letter that downplayed the risk of COVID and called for most of society to reopen before the arrival of vaccines.
The flu situation in the United States right now is, in a word, bad. Infections have skyrocketed in recent weeks, filling hospitals nearly to capacity; viral levels are “high” or “very high” in most of the country. In late December, New York reported the most flu cases the state had ever recorded in a single week.
Of all the diseases that the U.S. government announced today that it will no longer recommend vaccines against, rotavirus is by no means the deadliest. Not all children develop substantial symptoms; most of those who do experience a few days of fever, vomiting, and diarrhea, and then get better.
For all of the political chaos that American science endured in 2025, aspects of this country’s research enterprise made it through somewhat … okay. The Trump administration terminated billions of dollars in research grants; judges intervened to help reinstate thousands of those contracts. The administration threatened to cut funding to a number of universities; several have struck deals that preserved that money.
Two and a half years ago, Ashish Jha was the White House’s COVID-19 response coordinator, a job that meant getting as much of the country as possible on board with the federal government’s approach to public health. For much of this summer, he’s been doing the opposite of that.
As Robert F. Kennedy Jr.
Practicing science in the United States has become more politically fraught in the past seven months than it has ever been in this country’s history. As the Trump administration has fired vaccine advisers, terminated research grants in droves, denied the existence of gender, and accused federal scientists of corruption while publicly denigrating their work, the nation’s leaders have shown that they believe American science should be done only on their terms.
Four and a half years ago, fresh off the success of Operation Warp Speed, mRNA vaccines were widely considered—as President Donald Trump said in December 2020—a “medical miracle.” Last week, the United States government decidedly reversed that stance when Secretary of Health and Human Services Robert F. Kennedy Jr. canceled nearly half a billion dollars’ worth of grants and contracts for mRNA-vaccine research.
Last week, the National Institutes of Health finally got some good news. A Senate subcommittee voted, with support from both parties, to increase the agency’s $48 billion budget—a direct rebuke to the Trump administration’s proposed budget, which would have slashed the agency’s funding some 40 percent.
For all of the eons that animal life has existed on Earth, the sun has been there too. And for all of those eons, animal life has had only one solution for intense exposure to the sun: evolution. Some creatures have thick, dark skin that’s resistant to UV harm; others sprout fur, scales, or feathers that block the sun’s rays. Many fish, reptiles, amphibians, and birds may produce a compound that protects their cells against the sun’s damaging effects.
Until last week, the future of vaccination for human papillomavirus, or HPV, in the United States seemed clear.
For several years, a growing body of evidence has suggested that just a single dose of the vaccine may be as effective as two are, offering decades of protection against the virus, which is estimated to cause roughly 700,000 cases of cancer each year.
When Robert F. Kennedy Jr. accepted his new position as health secretary, he made a big show of distancing himself from his past life. “News reports have claimed that I am anti-vaccine or anti-industry,” Kennedy, who has for decades promoted the debunked notion that vaccines cause autism and has baselessly sown doubt over the ability of the U.S. government to vet shots, said at his confirmation hearing in January. “I am neither. I am pro-safety.
Updated at 3:38 p.m. ET on May 31, 2025
Solving HIV vaccination—a puzzle that scientists have been tackling for decades without success—could be like cracking the code to a safe. The key, they now think, may be delivering a series of different shots in a specific sequence, iteratively training the body to produce a strong, broad immune response that will endure against the fast-mutating virus, ideally for a lifetime.
Long before he joined the FDA to run the center that regulates vaccines, Vinay Prasad argued against COVID shots for kids. Among his many criticisms of the United States’ approach to combatting the disease, Prasad has insisted that pediatric vaccines have few benefits for kids—and has maintained that the FDA should never have authorized COVID boosters for them, that the CDC should never have recommended those shots, and that “it is malpractice for a doctor to recommend the booster to children.
Robert F. Kennedy Jr.’s anti-vaccine activism is not what you’d call subtle. For decades, he has questioned the safety and effectiveness of various childhood vaccines, insisting that some of them cause autism, lying about their ingredients, and dismissing troves of evidence that counter his views. However much he might deny it, Kennedy is “an old-school anti-vaxxer,” Dorit Reiss, an expert in vaccine law at UC Law San Francisco, told me.
Matthew J. Memoli has had an exceptionally good year.
At the beginning of January, Memoli was a relatively little-known flu researcher running a small lab at the National Institute for Allergy and Infectious Diseases (NIAID) at the National Institutes of Health.
If the United States learned any lesson from HIV, it should have been that negligence can be a death sentence. In the early 1980s, the virus’s ravages were treated as “something that happens over there, only to those people,” Juan Michael Porter II, a health journalist and an HIV activist, told me. But the more the virus and the people it most affected were ignored, the worse the epidemic got.
By design, clinical trials ask their participants to take on risk. To develop new vaccines, drugs, or therapies, scientists first have to ask volunteers to try out those interventions, with no guarantee that they’ll work or be free of side effects. To minimize harm, researchers promise to care for and monitor participants through a trial’s end, long enough to collect the data necessary to determine if a therapy is effective and at what cost.
For most of the past century, the United States’ track record on infectious disease has been quite good. Thanks to major investments in public health, diseases such as smallpox, polio, yellow fever, malaria, measles, rubella, mumps, diphtheria, and tuberculosis have either been obliterated or become vanishingly rare. America “led the charge,” Aniruddha Hazra, an infectious-disease physician at UChicago Medicine, told me.
On the afternoon of Friday, February 7, as staff members were getting ready to leave the headquarters of the National Institutes of Health, just outside Washington, D.C., officials in the Office of Extramural Research received an unexpected memo. It came from the Department of Health and Human Services, which oversees the NIH, and arrived with clear instructions: Post this announcement on your website immediately.
Updated at 5:53 p.m. on January 31, 2025
Last night, scientists began to hear cryptic and foreboding warnings from colleagues: Go to the CDC website, and download your data now. They were all telling one another the same thing: Data on the website were about to disappear, or be altered, to comply with the Trump administration’s ongoing attempt to scrub federal agencies of any mention of gender, DEI, and accessibility. “I was up until 2 a.m.
Put on the spot, a lot of Americans might hesitate over the difference between Medicaid and Medicare. People who aren’t affected by one of these programs, which together enroll about 150 million people in the U.S., don’t generally have a need to be well versed in their intricacies, and the two programs sound quite similar.
Becoming a public-health expert means learning how to envision humanity’s worst-case scenarios for infectious disease. For decades, though, no one in the U.S. has had to consider the full danger of some of history’s most devastating pathogens. Widespread vaccination has eliminated several diseases—among them, measles, polio, and rubella—from the country, and helped keep more than a dozen others under control.
For more than 60 years, vaccination in the United States has been largely shaped by an obscure committee tasked with advising the federal government. In almost every case, the nation’s leaders have accepted in full the group’s advice on who should get vaccines and when. Experts I asked could recall only two exceptions.
At the start of Elizabeth Hobson’s career as an ecologist, she knew to stick to one rule: Never anthropomorphize the animals you study.
For plenty of people, assigning human characteristics to another living creature feels natural enough that we do it as a matter of course. But to many scientists who study animal behavior, anthropomorphism is a cardinal sin, and suggesting that a researcher has tiptoed in that direction is tantamount to saying they’ve resorted to uninformed speculation.
Every year, beginning around the end of March, my household starts planning a massacre. Our targets are our home’s clothes moths: My spouse and I lay pheromone-laced traps in the closets, living room, and bedrooms; we—and our two cats—go on alert for any stray speckle of brown on a cream-colored wall. The moment we spy an insect, we’ll do whatever we can to crush it. After killing dozens upon dozens, my husband and I can now snatch moths straight out of the air.
Of all the creatures stricken with this new and terrible H5N1 flu—the foxes, the bears, the eagles, ducks, chickens, and many other birds—dairy cattle are some of the most intimate with us. In the United States, more than 9 million milk cows live on farms, where people muck their manure, help birth their calves, tend their sick, and milk them daily.
At the start of the spring of 2015, Jeffrey, a three-year-old meerkat, was happily eating, tussling with his brothers, and surveying zoo patrons from his usual perch, his forepaws gathered and his black-tipped snout aloft. But one day in April, his caretakers discovered him in his enclosure, so weak that he could barely lift his head. By the time he was brought to Eric Baitchman, the head vet at Massachusetts’s Stone Zoo, Jeffrey was losing consciousness.
Shortly before I started college, I finally wised up to the fact that fluency in my parents’ native language of Mandarin Chinese might be an asset. But after nearly two decades of revolting against my parents’ desperate attempts to keep me in Chinese school, I figured I was toast. Surely, by then, my brain and vocal tract had aged out of the window in which they could easily learn to discern and produce tones.
Earlier today, The New York Times broke some startling news about a presidential candidate. According to a 2012 deposition, Robert F. Kennedy Jr. once suffered from, in his own words, “a worm that got into my brain and ate a portion of it and then died.” The vague yet alarming description could apply to any number of parasitic ailments, among them angiostrongyliasis, baylisascariasis, toxocariasis, strongyloidiasis, and trichinosis.
When Kathleen Walker-Meikle, a historian at the University of Basel, in Switzerland, ponders the Middle Ages, her mind tends to drift not to religious conquest or Viking raids, but to squirrels. Tawny-backed, white-bellied, tufted-eared red squirrels, to be exact. For hundreds of years, society’s elites stitched red-squirrel pelts into luxurious floor-length capes and made the animals pets, cradling them in their lap and commissioning gold collars festooned with pearls.