COVID-19 is the nail in the coffin for the anti-vaccine movement

I’m an anti-anti-vaxxer, and I’m proud of it.

My 9-year-old daughter is fully vaccinated. I never had any concerns that vaccines would “give” her autism. Why? Well, as anti-vax moms like to brag, I did my research. Starting from her birth in 2011, she got her shots on schedule, as recommended by experts. (I chose to ignore self-styled experts on the Internet who watch too many YouTube videos.)

This was more difficult than it sounds, as any mom reading this will tell you. When I gave birth in 2011, the anti-vaccine movement still had an air of nobility around it. The founders were parents who insisted their autistic children were happy, healthy infants until they got the shot. Which shot was a point of debate. Actress Jenny McCarthy called the MMR vaccine the “autism shot." She blamed the mercury-containing preservative thimerosal for her son Evan’s neurological problems. But then it turned out that thimerosal was removed from vaccines in 1999, four years before Evan was born. McCarthy, as well as other anti-vax leaders, was suffering from confirmation bias. She had come to a conclusion and scoured her memories for supporting evidence, not the other way around.

Still, these parents had a sympathetic motive for their irrational claims. They were desperate for answers about how their child became autistic. How could this happen?

We still don’t know exactly why autism diagnoses shot through the roof in the 2000s. But unfounded hysteria scared many moms away from vaccinating their kids. Researchers spent a decade reassuring the public that vaccines were not linked to autism. (The one doctor who had made that claim, Andrew Wakefield, had his license revoked.)

It didn’t matter. By the time I had my daughter, a much larger anti-vax movement with not-so-sympathetic motives was on the march. It put down roots in white, upper-middle-class communities. It was no doubt an elitist movement--but it was also a regressive and sexist movement. The new anti-vaxxers posited that maybe Mom should just stay home and cook organic meals. Then the kids would be so healthy, they wouldn’t need those silly vaccines.

This movement was a sign of the times. Experts like Jonathan Haidt, who has a PhD in social psychology, call the 2000s the decade of “intensive parenting." It was no longer enough to make sure your kids were safe and secure as they navigated age-appropriate challenges. No, in the decade of intensive mothering, Good Moms went above and beyond. "Baby-wearing” became a thing, as did extended breastfeeding. In 2012, TIME Magazine put a bare-breasted mom on its cover, her nipple in the mouth of a child who looked old enough for kindergarten. Gerber's baby food was out. (Preservatives! Artificial food coloring!) Pureeing your own organic baby food was in. If you balked at doing any of this, complete strangers felt entitled to question your commitment to your kids.

Of course, under the all-natural intensive mothering regimen, vaccines were out. The anti-vax movement told us to toss aside those peer-reviewed studies in favor of our “Mommy Instincts.” And Mommy Instincts always seemed to intuit that vaccines were poisonous. Details weren't important. Vaccines were full of unspecified “toxins” that would irreversibly damage our children. Being really, really concerned about potential threats to your child was a form of virtue-signaling. Expressing deep fear about imaginary dangers wasn’t neuroticism—it was a hallmark of virtuous motherhood.

I was twenty-six years old, and my pregnancy was unplanned. I had a rough go of it, mentally and physically. By the time the vaccine appointments came around, I was tired. I wasn't in the mood for performative nonsense. Therefore, I had no desire to grill my daughter’s pediatrician about formaldehyde in vaccines. (Which is, by the way, is a tiny fraction of the natural formaldehyde circulating in our bodies.) I faced real fears during pregnancy and childbirth. I wasn’t going to feign hysteria about imaginary ones.

When the doctor asked if I had any concerns about the shots, I quickly responded, “not really, no." She looked at me with surprise. I explained that I actually had done some research. Therefore, I knew some facts--like that the amount of aluminum in vaccines is minuscule. (And it's nothing compared to the amount we consume in fruits, vegetables—even organic teas.) Instead of praising me for educating myself, the doctor seemed concerned about my lack of concern.

Did I feel judged? Yes. Did I even, if only for a moment, wonder if I was a bad mom? Of course. But I also realized I was living, literally, on the border of two worlds. My neighborhood in Toledo, Ohio straddled the best and worst parts of the city. If I exited my apartment complex and went south, I was in poverty-stricken gang territory. If I drove north and west, I entered Toledo’s most exclusive suburbs. Poor people in Toledo struggled to keep their kids fed and housed. Organic baby food and all-natural mothering were expensive luxuries for rich people. And so was the anti-vaccine movement. I didn't care if it made me look like a better mom--I wanted no part of it.

Fast forward almost ten years. There’s not much to celebrate about the end of the Coronavirus pandemic. 500,000 Americans are still gone, and our economy is in the tank. But the success of the COVID-19 vaccine has vindicated pro-vaccine mothers. Public health officials openly criticize the immaturity and self-centeredness of people who can get the vaccine, but won’t. These people, about 25% of the population depending on who you ask, are preventing America from reaching herd immunity. Their opposition isn’t healthy skepticism. They’re simply holding America hostage to their conspiracy theories and scaremongering.

Luckily for me, in 2021, “trusting the science” is back in style. Pro-vax moms are finally getting the credit we deserve. I’m vaccinated, and if the CDC recommends it, you can bet my 9-year-old will be, too.