I Don't Know How to Explain to You That Ignoring Science Isn't Just a Personal Choice

We must reclaim a more honest understanding of freedom—one that includes accountability

Kayla Chadwick’s 2017 HuffPost article I Don't Know How To Explain To You That You Should Care About Other People tackled a frustrating truth: for many people, the political divide isn’t about taxes or regulations, it’s about whether we should care about strangers at all. She wasn’t trying to win a policy debate. She was naming the quiet horror of watching people defend policies that harm others simply because those others aren't them.

That message continues to resonate with me, especially now. In a moment when science and public health are increasingly politicized, I find myself returning to Chadwick’s core point: we should care about other people. And when we ignore science—particularly the kind that protects public and community health—we’re often doing the opposite.

Somewhere along the road of American public discourse, we took a sharp turn from collective responsibility into an ideological cul-de-sac called "choice." It’s the kind of freedom that insists no one can tell you what to do—even when what you’re doing (or not doing) harms others. And now, under the Trump administration’s revived assault on science, that version of autonomy is being actively institutionalized.

One of the most visible expressions of individual autonomy in recent years is the "My Autonomy, My Health, My Choice" (MAHA) movement. Emerging in response to what supporters view as government and public health overreach—particularly during the COVID-19 pandemic—MAHA promotes the idea that individuals are best positioned to make decisions about their own health and medical care, including for their families. Supporters often turn to peer networks and social media for information, expressing distrust in government agencies, scientific institutions, and expert opinion.

It’s important to acknowledge that many people drawn to MAHA have experienced real harm. They may have watched loved ones suffer at the hands of a medical system they couldn’t access or that ignored or mistreated them. They may have been failed by institutions that promised protection but delivered neglect. That kind of betrayal breeds skepticism—and it makes blind faith in science or government feel not just naive, but dangerous.

This context is crucial when examining how the MAHA movement frames public health decisions—such as vaccinations—as purely personal choices. You should decide what’s best for your child, they argue. You should be able to say no to vaccines if you want. And of course, people do have the right to decline medical interventions. But those decisions don’t exist in a vacuum. That framing may feel empowering—until a preventable disease resurfaces. During the measles outbreak in Texas earlier this year, the decision of some not to vaccinate had consequences for others: infants too young to receive the vaccine, immunocompromised children who couldn’t be vaccinated, and public school students whose families wanted vaccination to be the norm.

Personal freedom, in these cases, becomes a lever not just for autonomy, but for harm.

The Trump administration has historically amplified, and continues to amplify, this logic under the guise of protecting individual rights while dismantling the federal science infrastructure that helps us act collectively. Take the rollback of EPA clean air regulations. In 2020, Trump’s EPA finalized a rule that ignored the recommendations of its own scientific advisors and loosened particulate pollution standards—despite decades of research linking particulate exposure to premature death, heart disease, and asthma. The standards were revisited under the Biden administration, but the Trump administration plans to open the standards back up for revision again. The logic? States should have the flexibility to set their own standards. Companies should face fewer burdens. It’s about choice.

But whose choice? And whose lungs pay for it?

Or consider the administration’s undermining of pandemic preparedness by dismantling the National Security Council's global health unit in 2018 and repeatedly sidelining CDC scientists during COVID-19. The message was clear: federal oversight was the enemy of freedom. Yet in the absence of clear, science-based federal guidance, individual states flailed. Hospitals were overwhelmed, and hundreds of thousands of Americans died. The erosion of trust in science wasn’t accidental—it was policy.

In each of these cases, personal freedom is pitched against collective safety. But public health—and science more broadly—doesn’t work that way. We don’t have the luxury of pretending our choices stop at the edge of our property line. Still, even amid that justified distrust, we need a shared understanding that science—though imperfect—is our most reliable method for understanding the natural world and protecting human health. The challenge is not to blindly defend every institution, but to restore trust by making those institutions accountable, inclusive, and responsive to the people they serve.

Of course, not all personal health decisions carry the same public consequences. Reproductive autonomy, for example, remains a deeply personal right that public health supports—one that should be protected rather than politicized.

And these risks do not fall equally. When scientific guidance is ignored or dismantled, it is often the most marginalized communities, low-income families, communities of color, people with disabilities—who bear the brunt. These groups are more likely to live near sources of pollution, have limited access to quality healthcare, or work in environments where exposure to illness is unavoidable. The decision to disregard science isn’t just a personal gamble; it’s a burden disproportionately placed on those with the least power to opt out.

This is where the precautionary principle comes in. When decisions carry a risk of serious or irreversible harm to others, and scientific consensus points to a likely danger, we act to prevent harm, even if every variable isn’t fully understood. That principle has guided everything from ozone regulations to asbestos bans. But increasingly, it’s being replaced with a kind of curated ignorance that masquerades as liberty.

We must reclaim a more honest understanding of freedom—one that includes accountability. Autonomy doesn’t mean opting out of evidence. It doesn’t mean eroding the scientific institutions meant to protect us all. And it doesn’t mean that one person’s choice should come at the cost of another’s life.

If we want to live in a society that values both freedom and science, we must reconnect personal decision-making with collective responsibility. That means defending the federal agencies under attack. It means pushing back against policies that ignore evidence. And it means refusing to pretend that science is just another opinion.

Because at the end of the day, it’s not about whether you can make your own choices. It’s about whether you’re willing to live with what those choices do to someone else.

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