The Morning After
Good morning, America. Or, depending on where you sat on the ledger Tuesday night, November 3. 2026, “morning.”
I’ll say it up front: I’m a moderate to conservative person. I like low taxes, small government, and doctors making decisions instead of committees. So waking up today was a lot like walking into the ER at 3 am and finding the waiting room full. Democrats flipped both the House and the Senate. For my side, this wasn’t a loss. It was a bloodbath with a side of humiliation.
The pundits will spend the next month explaining why. Inflation, wars, candidate quality, Mercury in retrograde. I’d like to offer one small, very personal case study in how to lose the reasonable middle: my application to the CDC’s Advisory Committee on Immunization Practices.
Why I Applied (Spoiler: It Wasn’t for the Parking)
This past year I looked at the roster of ACIP, the committee that decides which vaccines American kids get and which ones insurance covers, and noticed something odd. The panel making recommendations for every child in the country had exactly one general pediatrician on it. One. The people who actually give the shots, answer the 9 pm phone calls, and sit with the parent whose baby has a fever and a bulging soft spot, had a single seat at the table. That’s like designing a car with one person who has ever driven.
So I applied. Here was my pitch, more or less:
30 years as a practicing pediatrician.
Lead investigator on multiple clinical studies, including vaccines, infant formula, medications, and medical devices. Real trials, with real protocols, real data, and real IRBs who did not care for my humor.
Led a physician organization of more than 700 doctors across every specialty, and another of more than 200 pediatricians. If you think herding cats is hard, try herding 700 doctors toward one decision before lunch.
Was I a lock? Of course not. I applied fully expecting to be turned down. I’m a realist. I’ve been on enough committees to know they often prefer people who already agree with the committee.
The Sound of Silence
What I didn’t expect was nothing. No “Thank you for your application.” No “We’ve received your materials.” No form letter typed by an intern, or Bot. Not even the classic “We’ll keep your CV on file,” which everyone knows means “We printed it and used it to level a wobbly table.”
Every pharmacy rewards program on earth sends me more email than the federal vaccine committee did. My dentist confirms appointments three times. My car’s warranty people have been trying to reach me for years. The CDC? Crickets. And not the fun kind.
This silence was especially impressive because the committee wasn’t, and still isn’t, fully staffed. In fact, a federal judge in March blocked the appointments of Secretary Kennedy’s picks and invalidated their changes to the childhood schedule, finding that the new members appeared to lack the vaccine expertise the committee’s own charter requires. Then, just last week, HHS put out a fresh call for nominations. So we have a committee that legally needs qualified vaccine experts, has empty chairs, and apparently can’t find a stamp.
To be fair, I was warned. Someone with connections inside the White House told me that without a member of Congress recommending me, my application had very little chance of being taken seriously. Getting that recommendation, they said, would most likely mean making a substantial donation to a strategically chosen congressman. So there you have it: three decades of clinical research apparently counts for less than a well timed check. Turns out I should have been learning to read a campaign finance report.
I’m starting to think my application was flagged for having the words “lead investigator” and “vaccine” in the same sentence. Studying vaccines rigorously seems to be the one qualification that makes you ineligible to recommend them.
A Pattern, Not a Glitch
I could be wrong here, and I’ll own that. But from where I sit, the selection process didn’t look like a search for the best minds. It looked like a search for the right minds, meaning the ones who wouldn’t contradict views that were already settled before the first meeting.
I was encouraged by colleagues to write this, and the timing feels right. Another committee member recently walked away after a very short tenure, reportedly with similar concerns about how open the committee really is to opposing views. When even the people picked for the job are heading for the exits, it’s fair to ask whether the problem is the applicants or the bouncer.
And here’s what really bothers me as a scientist. As far as I can tell, the committee hasn’t released the data behind its recommended changes to the vaccine schedule. Not a dataset, not a systematic review, not a back of the napkin calculation. In my world, if I changed a study protocol without showing my data, the IRB would shut me down before my coffee cooled. When you change what happens to millions of kids, “trust us” is not a methodology.
Show Me the Data. I Mean It.
Let me be crystal clear, because this is the part that matters most. If the committee has data that supports its recommendations, show it to us. I, and most reasonable pediatricians I know, would absolutely consider it. We would read it, argue about it over bad hospital coffee, and if it holds up, we would change what we tell our patients. That’s not a threat. That’s literally how medicine works. We changed our minds about putting babies to sleep on their stomachs, about aspirin for kids, and about dozens of other things, because someone showed us better evidence. Pediatricians aren’t loyal to a schedule. We’re loyal to children. Bring the evidence, and you’ll find us a lot more open minded than any committee that won’t answer its mail.
What Last Night Has to Do With Your Kid’s Shots
So what does an election bloodbath have to do with a vaccine committee? More than you’d think.
Moderates like me (and there are a lot of us) don’t want to be told what to think by either side. We want to be shown. When a process shuts out experienced, data driven people simply because they might ask a hard question, it tells the middle there’s no room for us. Eventually, the middle shows up at the ballot box and says so. Loudly.
For the record, I’m not bitter. Mostly. If the folks at ACIP are reading this, my application is still out there, probably under that wobbly table. I’m still available. I still read the data. And I still return my emails. Even the rejections.
This blog is for educational purposes only and is not a substitute for individualized medical advice. Please talk with your child’s pediatrician about vaccines and any questions about your child’s health.
Sources:
AP News, Democrats win the US House and Senate: https://apnews.com/article/midterm-election-house-senate-democrats-republicans-trump-f126e12e05b579a327b98481c0ae2226
The Hill, Winners and losers of the 2026 midterms: https://thehill.com/homenews/campaign/6196833-democrats-win-house-senate/
The Hill, HHS begins recruiting new vaccine advisers: https://thehill.com/?p=6182848Federal Register, Solicitation of Nominations for Appointment to ACIP (Oct. 30, 2026): http://federalregister.gov/d/2026-22185CDC,
ACIP Charter: https://www.cdc.gov/acip/about/acip-charter.html