It’s a heightened concern for the estimated who are U.S. citizens or legal permanent residents, as new work requirements kick in for the federal-state healthcare program that serves low-income and disabled Americans.

Starting next year in most states, many adults enrolled in Medicaid will have to prove they work, are enrolled in college or vocational courses, volunteer, or do unpaid work for at least .

Advocates say this could pose a significant challenge to Medicaid-eligible farmworkers, who frequently work more than 80 hours a month during harvest season but less in other months. What’s more, outside the harvest season, many workers take on informal jobs in construction, landscaping, or home repair for which they don’t receive formal paychecks that would prove their continuing Medicaid eligibility. Still, they can establish eligibility if they prove their average monthly income over six months is equivalent to at least 80 hours of work at the federal minimum wage.

“Having a work requirement — having to create more paperwork and more proof — is certainly extremely challenging for farmworkers and others who are low-income and who may especially have seasonal jobs, not year-round, and do have periods” when there is no work available, said Alexis Guild, vice president of strategy and programs at .

New Requirements, Additional Hurdles

Agriculture is a , and Americans to put food on their tables. Nearly 60% of those workers are U.S. citizens or green-card holders, according to the . The remaining 40% lack legal status or are otherwise ineligible for Medicaid.

Even among farmworkers with citizenship or legal status, the uninsured rate is three times that of the general population, and most farmworkers with insurance are Medicaid beneficiaries, although participation rates vary by state. According to a , 71%-79% of eligible farmworker households report participation in Medicaid.

The new Medicaid work requirements were a key provision of the One Big Beautiful Bill Act signed last July by President Donald Trump. Under the federal law, and the District of Columbia must implement the requirements by Jan. 1. A few states have the work rule early.

The 80-hour rule applies in states that expanded Medicaid, a process that began in 2014 and was tied to the Affordable Care Act. Following the initial expansions, agricultural workers with legal documentation became to have health insurance, according to a 2021 article in the American Journal of Agricultural Economics.

Immigration Anxieties

The work requirements are the latest in a long list of obstacles placed between workers and the healthcare they’re legally entitled to, Guild said. “Medicaid certainly helps because it alleviates the cost issue,” she said. “But there are still other barriers, such as transportation, taking sick leave, and finding time to visit a health center. All these factors can prevent them from actually receiving medical care.”

For farmworkers with green cards and naturalized U.S. citizens, there is another source of stress: the fear that signing up for Medicaid could put personal information in the hands of immigration authorities.

That’s what worries Luis, a 45-year-old green-card holder and Medicaid recipient who dreams of becoming a U.S. citizen. Luis — who asked to be identified by only his middle name — lives with his wife and daughter in North Carolina, where he has worked in agriculture for nearly a decade.

Speaking in Spanish, he said that when he learned about the work requirements, he knew it would be challenging for him to prove that he works 80 hours a month. “I only work on farms for six or seven months; the rest of the year I work in whatever I can find,” he said.

Republicans in Congress argue that work requirements will reduce federal healthcare spending, encourage nondisabled adults to , and preserve safety net resources for the most vulnerable populations.

Among Hispanic adults enrolled in Medicaid, 67% are already working, according to a 2025 .

The Centers for Medicare & Medicaid Services did not respond to requests for comment for this article. But in June, when its “nationwide framework” to implement the Medicaid work requirements, Administrator Mehmet Oz said it would help beneficiaries “build skills and independence through work, education, job training, or community service, creating new opportunities for themselves and their families.” Federal officials say the new requirements “could reduce poverty by as much as 2.9 million people.”

Chronic Illness

Agricultural work is one of the nation’s , and it is associated with and , including respiratory conditions. A found that 37% of male farmworkers and 47% of female farmworkers in the state had at least one chronic health condition. The new work requirements present one more barrier for those seeking care, advocates said.

“People skip checkups and screenings, and conditions that could be caught early and treated cost-effectively” aren’t, said Adriana Cadena, executive director of .

Emergency rooms often become the “natural” place to go for healthcare, Cadena added. “This drives up waiting times and costs for all of us. … And when people are sick enough that they miss work, it starts a vicious cycle of lost productivity and family economic instability that again threatens all of us.”

A Loss for Families and Children

The new federal rules also require beneficiaries to verify their eligibility at least twice a year, twice as often as previously, creating another potential obstacle.

“Letters can easily be missed, and forms may go unfilled. If people get caught up in the paperwork, they could lose coverage,” said , an assistant vice president at , a nonprofit that promotes an equitable healthcare system.

For farmworkers who travel from state to state, the process can be especially difficult.

“You have to find the time to transfer your coverage and probably find a person or organization that can help you — and that can be really hard when you’re constantly moving,” Cadena said.

The situation highlights the difficulties of navigating a complex system for individuals and families already struggling to make ends meet.

“The result,” Cadena said, “could be the loss of coverage not only for workers, but also for their families and children.”

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If you or someone you know may be experiencing a mental health crisis, contact the 988 Suicide & Crisis Lifeline by dialing or texting “988.”

Eight days before my 33rd birthday in April, a social worker at a crisis clinic near Denver determined I was an imminent danger to myself. She placed me on an involuntary 72-hour mental health hold.

What came next wasn’t treatment, but a search for a bed. Clinic staffers called area hospitals with inpatient psychiatric units, asking if they had available beds. They didn’t. So, I was told I had to spend the night at the clinic, which is open 24/7. I settled into a recliner, trying to make myself comfortable as my mind drifted in a blank, disassociated haze. Sleep came in brief bursts.

Since the 1950s, the United States has seen a nationwide due in part to deinstitutionalization and the rise of antipsychotics. But that has created a critical shortage for those needing help. From 2011 to 2023, the number of hospitals with inpatient psychiatric units , according to a 2025 study. Another study from that year found that this country has 28.4 inpatient psychiatric beds per 100,000 people — not even half the 60-bed ratio researchers frequently refer to as the .

The shortage has created what the American Psychiatric Association : emergency rooms overwhelmed with people suffering from severe mental health illnesses, inpatient stays prematurely shortened to speed up bed turnover, and acutely ill individuals left without critical care.

“Where are these people going?” said , an assistant health policy professor at Rutgers University, who co-authored those 2025 studies. “For people who don’t receive this care, they don’t just go away. How is it affecting them? Society? Their families?”

Meanwhile, the White House shut down the part of the national suicide hotline catering to LGBTQ+ youth, President Donald Trump’s 2027 budget proposal calls for cuts to agencies , and Health and Human Services Secretary Robert F. Kennedy Jr. recently announced a plan to .”

A Fractured System

I was already intimately familiar with the country’s fractured mental healthcare system before I was involuntarily committed. What I had yet to experience myself, I saw through my wife: waitlists, outpatient programs stretched beyond capacity, and inpatient psychiatric care so scarce that access often depends on surviving a crisis severe enough to justify it.

She died by suicide after we had separated.

As the years passed, grief and anxiety pushed me from observer to patient.

At the crisis clinic, I woke up the following morning disoriented and groggy. In the bathroom — its door deliberately unable to latch, swinging both ways so staffers could enter in case of an emergency — I stood at the sink and watched the faucet run, trying to piece together how I had ended up here.

America’s history of treating mental illness is long and complicated.

The 19th and 20th centuries saw the removal of people with severe mental disorders from jails and — squalid facilities designed to house the poor — to state asylums that (though they ultimately became ). From the 1860s to the 1930s, the number of psychiatric hospitals increased dramatically, according to the American Psychiatric Association, and by 1955, the number of psychiatric beds in the U.S. peaked at more than half a million.

However, owing to the development of antipsychotics, the belief that psychiatric institutions were inhumane, and President John F. Kennedy’s 1963 to free thousands of Americans from a life in institutions, many state hospitals shut down. An estimated for adults and kids are left in a country where more than 14 million experience severe mental illness each year.

Two years after JFK’s legislation passed, a new policy prohibited federal Medicaid funds from covering inpatient psychiatric care in facilities . The goal was to encourage states to move patients out of large, often substandard psychiatric institutions into community-based care settings.

The consequences of these changes, however, have been far-ranging. People with severe mental illnesses are often forced to as they wait for a bed to open. The length of stay in state psychiatric hospitals , according to research by the Treatment Advocacy Center, a national organization focused on eliminating barriers to the treatment of severe mental illness. And some people with mental illness .

From 1986 to 2014, as the behavioral health crisis intensified, mental health expenditures in the U.S. rose from $32 billion to $186 billion — though the proportion of that spending allocated to inpatient care .

This period also recorded major policy shifts affecting inpatient hospitalization rates, notably the 1999 U.S. Supreme Court decision in Olmstead v. L.C. The ruling shifted care away from psychiatric facilities by mandating states to people with developmental and mental disabilities.

“The road to hell is paved with good intentions,” said Leslie Carpenter, legislative advocacy manager at the Treatment Advocacy Center. “A lot of these bills, including the Community Mental Health Act, were really well intended and ended up with adverse consequences.”

For me, that next day at the clinic passed both painfully slowly and in a blur. A staff member I hadn’t met before told me they were still reaching out to hospitals across the region. The search for a bed continued.

‘No One Wants To Pay for Any of This Care’

Last year, members of Congress introduced two bills to change the 16-bed Medicaid funding cap at inpatient psychiatric facilities, the and the , which would increase the cap to 36 beds. Both have stalled in the House.

According to the Congressional Budget Office, a federal agency that analyzes budgetary and economic issues, eliminating the 16-bed limit would increase Medicaid expenditures from 2024 to 2033.

“No one wants to pay for any of this care that people need,” said Colorado state Sen. , a Democrat who has witnessed limitations to Colorado’s mental healthcare system firsthand because her son has schizoaffective disorder.

In lieu of federal action, states are stepping up to bridge the gaps.

Colorado, 15 other states, and Washington, D.C., now operate under waivers allowing Medicaid to fund inpatient facilities for mental health treatment, according to KFF data. Seven additional states have waivers pending. One 2025 study found that these waivers may be tied to fewer hospitalizations, emergency department visits, and incarcerations .

Yet even local efforts to improve mental healthcare face resistance. In California, Colorado, Iowa, Missouri, Nebraska, and New York, locals have pushed back against proposed psychiatric facilities for minors, claiming such facilities will worsen safety and lower property values. Behavioral health advocates have disputed these claims and argued they are rooted in stigma.

That psychiatric facility in Colorado was . The state has nearly 20 inpatient beds per 100,000 people, , according to 2022 data across all 50 states plus Washington, D.C., collected by the Treatment Advocacy Center. Wyoming ranked first with 47.3 beds per 100,000 residents, although, as the least populous state, it has only 275 total inpatient beds compared with California’s 5,703. Minnesota ranked last, with only 4.3 inpatient beds per 100,000 residents.

While increasing the number of inpatient psychiatric beds is vital, mental health advocates are also calling for , such as peer support specialists and clubhouses, where people with serious mental illnesses can learn life skills and find community.

When it came time for me to use our mental health safety net, I was among the fortunate ones: At noon the day after my hold began, a bed opened at a hospital in Denver — a rare stroke of luck in a system in which many people wait days or weeks for the care they need. An ambulance transferred me to the hospital at 3 p.m., marking 21 hours into my 72-hour hold.

Two days later, on my last day at the psychiatric hospital, I stood outside the nurse’s station awaiting discharge papers.

A man I had not seen before looked at me and asked, “Are you leaving?”

“Yes,” I said. “Are you being admitted?”

“Yeah,” he responded. “This is my third time being hospitalized in a year.”

I shook his hand. “Good luck,” I said, and I walked out the door.

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If you or someone you know may be experiencing a mental health crisis, contact the 988 Suicide & Crisis Lifeline by dialing or texting “988.”

QUINCY, Calif. — When Taletha Washburn and the staff at Plumas Charter School first heard that California wanted to help schools treat more kids struggling with mental health, it felt like a well-timed remedy for a rural community where families struggle to find care.

Getting the program funding up and running, however, has proved difficult.

Employees spent two years “spinning our wheels,” attending state-led webinars, filling out countless forms, and researching electronic health record systems to prepare, said Washburn, the school’s executive director. When they reached out for assistance, she said, they waited months for a state response.

The school received its first reimbursement check in April. Washburn said the school has been reimbursed $8,000 and has at least $12,000 in outstanding claims. For a program Washburn had thought could be a game changer in her small rural town, it’s been a disappointing bust.

Plumas Charter is among roughly 1,000 public schools, community colleges, and universities that participate in Gov. Gavin Newsom’s first-in-the-nation initiative requiring that health insurance companies reimburse them for on-campus behavioral healthcare. California schools have been adding counselors, therapists, and psychiatrists to provide services where young people spend most of their time, making mental health treatment more accessible to kids whose families might have spent months waiting to see private therapists.

Five years after the program’s launch, Washburn and other California school officials say they have encountered a rollout fraught with inadequate guidance from the state, an incomplete billing infrastructure, a lack of standardized forms, and persistent delays signing up and getting paid. More than half of California’s school systems and colleges don’t participate in the billing program. Of those that do, fewer than one-fifth as of June 1, according to the latest state data.

The program hasn’t come close to bringing in the half-billion dollars in promised revenue to cover the salaries of thousands of counselors, therapists, and wellness coaches, many of whom school districts hired with a deluge of federal covid pandemic funding. As a result, schools across California have issued amid local budget cuts.

“One of the things that makes people hate government is when we make a promise and then we struggle to keep that promise because we can’t get the administrative part of it up and running,” said state lawmaker Dawn Addis, a former special education teacher and Democrat who has criticized the program’s slow implementation.

Newsom’s office declined to make the governor available for an interview for this article. At a May press conference to release his final state budget proposal, the Democratic governor pointed to the “unprecedented” initiative, saying “no other state in the nation has done more.”

“We have a lot more work to do to deal with the crisis of our time,” Newsom said. “Making investments in wellness, not just physical health, but mental health for our kids, is a good investment.”

He did not answer when asked whether he considered the program a success.

Tom Insel, the former head of the National Institute of Mental Health, who has advised Newsom, said the rocky rollout, in many ways, reflects the groundbreaking nature of what California is trying to do. Still, given the level of investment so far, he too had expected clearer evidence of dramatic improvement.

“What we struggle with in California is: We spend the money, but we don’t always see the outcomes. It’s sobering to realize, especially as an advocate, that you could actually get the programs, get the money, get everything that you want from the policy side, but the execution just isn’t there.”

A First-in-the-Nation Plan?

In 2021, 1 in 10 high school students nationwide said they’d attempted suicide, by then the second-leading cause of death for young people ages 10 to 24.

In response, Newsom announced a “Master Plan for Kids’ Mental Health,” promising an overhaul of California’s behavioral health system that he said would be transformative. National mental health experts said Newsom’s initiative was the most ambitious attempt of any state to tackle a youth mental health crisis that had metastasized during the pandemic.

The state funneled $730 million in one-time funding into workforce efforts, such as campaigns to recruit mental health workers and programs to repay student loans. An additional $220 million has gone to facilitate partnerships between local governments and school officials, and $381 million was distributed in grants to schools and community groups for facilities or services, according to an analysis of program funding by Ñî¹óåú´«Ã½Ò•îl Health News.

The state has spent roughly $532 million to date on digital apps designed to connect families with counseling and provide a consultation service for primary care physicians handling behavioral health issues outside their expertise, while an additional $232 million has gone toward state operations and program evaluations.

And the state has added 1,855 school counselors since 2021, according to statistics from the American School Counselor Association, which in recent years has integrated mental health into professional standards. That’s well below the 10,000 Newsom had pledged by the end of this year as part of his initiative.

The of Newsom’s Children and Youth Behavioral Health Initiative focused on schools and was designed to increase behavioral health services on campus — at no cost to families. Schools would be able to bill health insurers, who would be required to reimburse them.

Some $1.3 billion — nearly a third of the total investment — has gone toward setting up campus wellness centers, new billing infrastructure, and beefing up school-based mental health support in other ways.

Filing claims became an administrative nightmare for schools unfamiliar with the complex world of medical billing.

In February 2025, when the Fresno County Office of Education launched its medical billing, it felt “like building the plane while flying it,” Trina Frazier, assistant superintendent of student services, told lawmakers in a public hearing a couple of months later. The delays were so acute that lawmakers last year authorized $20 million in grants to Fresno and 170 other school systems so they wouldn’t have to lay off newly hired mental health staffers while waiting for reimbursements.

Anaheim Elementary School District in Orange County, which state officials called a “champion” of the program, has recouped more than $1.1 million since its 23 campuses began billing student insurance in February 2025, said program specialist Shirley Diaz.

Still, that accounts for less than 30% of the behavioral health services the district has provided to students over that time. It’s not just the complexity of medical billing that has hampered the claims process. Parents have also been reluctant to provide health insurance information in the largely Latino district, where residents have been fearful of immigration raids carried out by the Trump administration.

To help administer claims across California, the state signed a $65 million contract with Carelon Behavioral Health, a service , one of the nation’s largest health insurers. But schools have struggled to get claims cleared, and many have spent hundreds of thousands of dollars to troubleshoot and bill claims.

As of June 1, the Boston-based administrator has approved about 232,100 claims totaling more than $11.3 million to 186 school districts and educational agencies, according to the Department of Health Care Services.

That’s a small fraction of the thousands of entities the state had hoped would participate and far from the $500 million a year state officials told schools the program could eventually provide for school-based mental health services.

“We probably were given the impression that this was going to happen more quickly and now there’s this reality of a kind of slow growth,” said Amy Blackshaw, behavioral health project director for the California School-Based Health Alliance.

Carelon contract manager Christina Kim declined to comment to Ñî¹óåú´«Ã½Ò•îl Health News and referred questions to the state. Autumn Boylan, deputy director of the Office of Strategic Partnerships at DHCS, said staff members incorporated early feedback from school districts and extended claim deadlines, loosened onboarding requirements, and hosted webinars and office hours. But changes of this magnitude, she said, take time.

“We’re trying to help the school districts increase their scale,” Boylan told lawmakers at a May 4 hearing. “It’s not a problem of claims being submitted and not paid. It’s a problem of claims not yet being submitted for payment.”

Boylan noted the volume of reimbursements has increased exponentially since the first claims were filed in November 2024.

Meanwhile, children and youths continue to struggle and have trouble accessing care. In 2024, nearly ages 12-17, for example, reported delaying or skipping mental healthcare because they couldn’t get an appointment, while 1 in 4 teens said they did so because of cost, up from roughly 6.5% the previous year, according to data from the California Health Interview Survey.

The share of young adults 18-24 who reported ever seriously considering suicide has stabilized but remains higher than pre-pandemic, according to the annual survey, conducted by the UCLA Center for Health Policy Research.

And while the suicide rate among Californians ages 12-25 has dropped from its high in 2021, this mirrors national trends, and state rates for female and Black youths increased from 2023 to 2024. “We have to have high expectations that when we invest in the magnitude of billions as this program did, we would have results to show,” said Assembly member David Alvarez, a Democrat in San Diego.

Other states have taken note of California’s implementation difficulties, some adopting a few strategies rather than the dozens California chose to roll out at once, said Sharon Hoover, formerly the co-director of the National Center for School Mental Health at the University of Maryland. Illinois, for instance, has focused on universal mental health screenings for schoolchildren while Colorado has expanded coverage of some behavioral health services for youths who lack a formal diagnosis.

“It’s always hard to be first, and someone has to be brave enough and hopeful enough to take that leap,” Hoover said.

Launching its reimbursement program before billing infrastructure was in place, Hoover said, created momentum but also posed challenges to school districts and providers. Still, she added, Newsom’s focus on prevention and early intervention became one of the biggest national policy shifts in years.

“We’re going to look back on this thinking it was one of the most progressive actions in the history of public systems,” said Alex Briscoe, a principal at the nonprofit Public Works Alliance who has pushed for system reform in kids’ mental health. “We spent a significant amount of money preparing for it. I just don’t think we did that very well or strategically.”

Rural Schools Struggle Most

Students at Plumas Charter School had endured a relentless wave of trauma by fall 2021. Wildfires, covid shutdowns, and, weeks into the school year, a car accident that killed a classmate and left two others severely injured. Teachers saw signs of depression, anxiety, and frequent outbursts among their K-12 students. Nine kids that year reported considering suicide, an all-time high.

So, the school hired a full-time therapist and wellness coach with temporary federal funds.

Senior Will Coelho wasn’t there for any of it, but by the time he arrived in the remote California logging town of Quincy a year later, he’d been through plenty of his own loss.

Days before the pandemic lockdowns, a friend had died in a . Isolated at home, Coelho struggled to process his grief, he said. That year, his stepfather became increasingly violent and, after a bitter, years-long custody fight, Coelho left the Central Valley to move in with his dad in the remote town in Northern California, just weeks before starting high school.

One day, he found himself chatting with a faculty adviser, the new kid half-joking about therapy. At her suggestion, Coelho started seeing the school therapist weekly, on campus and free of charge.

“It has had a large impact on the way I process emotions and my outlook on life,” he said.

Behind the scenes, school officials struggled with how they would continue to cover the therapist’s salary.

Twice, the state rejected the school’s application to the state’s landmark billing program, telling school officials they hadn’t met all the requirements, such as having sufficient systems to bill private insurers and collect student insurance information.

When school staffers flagged difficulties filing claims online, Washburn added, state officials suggested they submit paper claims instead.

The experience has soured Washburn and her staff on the program, which she said doesn’t work for small rural districts like hers where the human resources director is also the office business manager, and the faculty member who manages discipline also teaches PE.

DHCS spokesperson Tony Cava said that many charter schools are small and wouldn’t be expected to participate. While charter schools make up about half of eligible entities, Cava said, they serve only 12% of California’s students.

Lawmakers who represent small, rural districts have argued the program should be able to serve all kids. Early this year, Addis proposed legislation that would give intensive technical help to school officials who need it.

Even if it passes, it may be too late to help Plumas Charter. Washburn is unsure her school will reap enough revenue to pay for their therapist. “In theory, this should be a good program,” Washburn said. “We’re too small, and our funds are too limited to just keep waiting.”

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He had been targeted by a drive-by shooter in Jacksonville, Florida, and hospitalized with two gunshot wounds. During his weeklong hospitalization, he said, a physician assistant changed the course of his life by visiting his hospital bed each day and warning him that Black men with gunshot wounds often end up paralyzed — or worse.

“I used to run the streets, you know, on the wrong sides of the track,” Pinckney said. “He made me promise that I would never come into his ER that way again. That was the last conversation we had, right before I was discharged.”

His goal since then has been to become a physician assistant. Pinckney, who spent most of his career working for New York City’s Department of Sanitation and as an Army Reserve medic, recently took a step toward achieving it. In May, he graduated with departmental honors from Lehman College with a Bachelor of Science degree.

After moving from New York to Prince George’s County, Maryland, he’d planned on applying for physician assistant school this year. But now, he’s worried his dream may be thwarted by new student loan rules.

Starting July 1, the amount of money graduate students will be allowed to borrow from the federal government . The new student loan limits are part of the GOP’s tax-and-spending legislation known as the One Big Beautiful Bill Act, which President Donald Trump signed into law last year.

The caps are intended to curb the cost of higher education and student loan debt, according to the Trump administration.

But critics widely agree the new limits are too low, especially for students allowed to borrow only $20,500 a year in federal loans due to the law’s controversial definition of a “professional degree.” On June 24, a federal judge temporarily blocked the Department of Education from enforcing that definition. Still, for many students, the new caps won’t cover the combined cost of tuition, housing, and living expenses.

This could leave hundreds of thousands of students who borrow money for graduate school each year at the mercy of private lenders with higher interest rates and fewer repayment options.

Some experts and students also worry that the limits will threaten efforts to diversify the healthcare workforce by deterring minorities and people from low-income households from applying to graduate programs. A drop in incoming students could worsen existing rural and primary care shortages, they argue.

Many politicians and loan experts have acknowledged that the cost of higher education needs to be addressed. But the new federal loan limits are “just not going to achieve that goal,” said Todd Pickard, president of the American Academy of Physician Associates, one of several organizations that have sued the Department of Education over the rules.

“It’d be like if you had a hangnail and I cut your whole arm off instead of just taking care of your hangnail,” Pickard said. “The treatment doesn’t match the problem.”

‘A Rock and a Hard Place’

Students working toward what the law describes as “professional degrees” — including trainee doctors, dentists, pharmacists, and chiropractors — will be allowed to borrow up to $200,000 total, and no more than $50,000 a year.

Meanwhile, the median cost of attending a public medical school is nearly $300,000 over four years, while the median cost of a private medical school education exceeds $400,000, according to the Association of American Medical Colleges.

The caps were set even lower for those pursuing other “graduate” degrees, who face a $100,000 borrowing limit for federal loans over the course of their degree programs. The annual limit for this category of students is only $20,500. Students pursuing physical therapy, physician assistant, and nursing degrees were originally included in this group. But according to new guidance issued by the Department of Education on June 29, some of these students will at least temporarily be able to borrow up to the higher limit, .

The Department of Education, which has been sued by clinician trade groups and about two dozen states over the new rules, did not respond to questions for this article.

As the law was written, a physician assistant student who completed their degree within the average two to three years would not have been eligible to borrow the full $100,000. Meanwhile, physician assistants typically start their careers with an average debt of $112,000, meaning some could be forced to finance their education with higher-interest private loans.

“I feel like I’m between a rock and a hard place,” said Olivia Trull, 24, who is scheduled to begin the physician assistant program at Northwest University in Kirkland, Washington, this summer. The 28-month program costs $137,000, with about $62,000 in tuition and fees estimated for the first year, she said. That doesn’t include living expenses.

Before the court order, Trull said she qualified for the maximum annual allotment under the new rules of $20,500 in federal loans during her first year of graduate school. The balance would need to be financed through a private lender.

She anticipated she would need up to $100,000 in private loans to finance her graduate degree and would face loan payments of more than $3,000 a month when she was done.

“I have to actually sit down and have a conversation with myself,” Trull said, to consider “if I want to be drowning in debt for the next 10 years of my life.” One private bank offered her a loan with an interest rate of nearly 14%, she said.

Pinckney, who said he finished his undergraduate degree with about $10,000 in federal student loan debt, said some of his friends who have already applied for private student loans have been quoted interest rates as high as 13%. Meanwhile, interest rates for federal loans for graduate students, which are set annually, are currently about 8-9%. Federal loans also offer more flexible repayment options than private loans typically do.

In May, 25 states and the District of Columbia against the Department of Education over the new rules. The complaint described the law’s “professional degree” definition as “arbitrary and capricious.”

In a separate filed in June, the American Academy of Physician Associates and the PA Education Association alleged that the new rules deny students the loan amounts needed to attend physician assistant schools. They argue that PA students should be able to access the higher loan limits available to students in medical school and other professional degree programs. (While “physician assistant” and “physician associate” typically refer to the same role, the AAPA in 2021 because of “concern that ‘assistant’ does not reflect the important role of PAs in delivering high-quality healthcare to patients.”)

Meanwhile, Trump administration officials have contended the cost of graduate school is too high across the board. Education Secretary Linda McMahon, speaking before a House committee in May about the new limits, said, “It is our overall goal to bring down the cost of college and education.”

Indeed, some experts acknowledge that the new limits may be helpful in bringing down costs. The federal Grad PLUS loan program, established by Congress 20 years ago, did not cap the amount graduate students could borrow in federal loans. That program was eliminated in the One Big Beautiful Bill Act.

“There is considerable evidence that people borrowed more than they really needed to go to school,” said Sandy Baum, a higher education economist and a senior fellow at the Urban Institute.

Already, some graduate programs have lowered tuition prices, Baum said. In May, for example, the it would lower the cost of its MBA programs by tens of thousands of dollars to fall below the new federal lending thresholds.

And yet Baum doesn’t anticipate many other schools will follow suit.

“I don’t think we’re going to see some dramatic decline in prices,” she said. “I think some programs could close down because they can’t manage.”

‘Tears Have Been Shed’

The new lending limits will also disproportionately affect Black students, Baum said, because they have historically borrowed more than white and Hispanic students.

For some students who borrowed money to finance their undergraduate degrees, the new limits will hit especially hard. Under the new rules, they will be subject to a lifetime limit of $257,000 in federal student loans.

“There will be students who can’t enroll,” Baum said.

Andrei Robu, 26, a medical student at the Medical University of South Carolina, leads the Financial Literacy Interest Group on the Charleston campus. He said many of his peers are worried that the lending limits will make the student body less diverse.

He is also concerned that, because the demand for acceptance into medical school is already so high, schools could prioritize entrance for students from wealthy backgrounds and “still fill up their classes.”

“That’s just not what we want in our physician workforce,” said Robu, who isn’t subject to the new rules as a current student. “We want to represent the population of the country at large.”

Jasmine Vasquez, 26, who has been accepted into the physician assistant program at South College in Atlanta, decided to defer her enrollment until 2027, partly to see if her financing options change. She is worried about taking on too much debt from a private bank.

“Tears have been shed multiple times,” said Vasquez, who is due to give birth in September. “It’s nothing that’s within my control.”

Betsy Mayotte, president of the Institute for Student Loan Advisors, expects the new rules will force some graduates into bankruptcy when they can’t afford to repay private loans.

First, though, she expects enrollment numbers to drop and some graduate programs to close because they can’t recruit enough students. Completion rates will also drop, she expects, as students run into federal loan limits partway through their degree programs.

Beyond that, she predicts healthcare graduates will seek jobs in high-paying specialties, exacerbating shortages in rural and underserved communities.

“They’re going to go where they can make the most money,” Mayotte said.

Pinckney said he is “not really sure” what the future holds. He paid for most of his undergraduate education by working while he was in school, but that’s typically not possible for full-time physician assistant students.

He has considered applying to a biomedical science graduate program instead, which he estimated would cost about $30,000 — an amount that’s “a lot more doable,” he said. It would allow him to potentially work in a lab or in pharmaceuticals, he said. It’s still aligned with medicine, he said, but it wouldn’t help him realize his goal of working with patients.

“Maybe this thing will blow over,” he said of the new federal loan limits. In the meantime, he’s holding out hope.

“If I can influence one person’s life, that would be my way of paying him forward for what he did,” he said, referring to the physician assistant who inspired him back in 1999. “It’s very hard to pivot from that dream.”

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His aunt sat at the dining table, sobbing. His father, who’d walked him to the bus stop that morning and promised to take him to dinner when he got back, wasn’t there.

Saúl Zermeño, a 45-year-old single dad, had gone to a routine check-in appointment at an Immigration and Customs Enforcement office that morning, a requirement he’d complied with for years. The father had deferred action that allowed him to stay and work in the U.S., according to his attorney. But that day, Oct. 3, officers deported him to Mexico, where he hadn’t lived since he was 9 years old. Zermeño had been Damian’s sole caregiver since he was a baby because his mother chose not to be involved in the boy’s life, the family said.

Suddenly, Damian, who was born in the U.S., found himself separated from his father by thousands of miles and a heavily guarded border. The previously cheerful 10th grader, who doesn’t have a driver’s license and can make a few basic dishes but isn’t used to cooking for himself, faced navigating his teenage years alone, his dad’s presence reduced to a two-dimensional image on his phone.

“I thought it wasn’t true,” Damian said. “I just went to my room. I didn’t want to leave. I didn’t even want to eat.”

Damian is among an estimated , most of them U.S. citizens, separated from a parent by the Trump administration’s deportation policies. Their mothers and fathers have been deported or locked for months inside detention centers, often from where their families live. These children are separated, , from the adults they depend on. Parents have been arrested while , , and at immigration check-ins with their children present. Most people detained have . (Being in the U.S. without authorization is typically a civil offense). With their parents gone, kids’ lives are plunged into fear and uncertainty.

As a result, a generation of children from immigrant families are exhibiting mental health problems that could .

Parents, therapists, and others who work with immigrant families said they’ve already encountered preschoolers with speech delays, elementary school children who talk of suicide, and teenagers too anxious to leave the house. Research has shown repeatedly that separating children from their parents . The stress of losing a primary caregiver creates havoc in a child’s brain and body, increasing their risk for mental and physical health problems, including depression, anxiety, post-traumatic stress disorder, a weakened immune system, and developmental delays.

“You can just see it in their faces; it’s almost like the light has been dimmed in their eyes,” said the Rev. Tanya Lopez, a pastor at Downey Memorial Christian Church who regularly visits immigrant families as part of a made up of Los Angeles-area religious leaders.

The health risks from this stress response are long-term. People who experience parental separation and other traumatic events as children are heart disease, diabetes, cancer, and other chronic conditions as adults.

In a statement, the Department of Homeland Security said ICE does not separate families, and that parents are asked if they want to be removed from the country with their children or to designate a safe person for them to stay with in the U.S.

However, by the Women’s Refugee Commission and Physicians for Human Rights found that many parents aren’t given that choice, and that ICE often doesn’t ask detainees if they have children or take steps to ensure that children left behind are safe. Saúl Zermeño said ICE officers didn’t ask about his son or check on Damian’s well-being when he was deported.

For days after his father’s deportation, Damian didn’t want to leave his room, eat, or go to school. He stopped talking to his friends. He stopped playing his favorite video game, Fears To Fathom. When he returned to school a week later, the teenager would cry in class or walk out overwhelmed with sadness. Even his favorite subject — English — lost its appeal.

Damian and his father were inseparable; family members joked that they never saw one without the other. Zermeño took Damian, who has attention-deficit/hyperactivity disorder, autism, and other health conditions, to his medical appointments. He cooked for him and combed his hair. He loved to take Damian to his favorite Thai restaurant or to get boba drinks after school. As much as they joked around and played pranks on each other, Zermeño also taught Damian the importance of work by bringing him along to construction jobs and to find supplies at Home Depot.

Damian used to get annoyed with his father’s motivational chats about responsibility. Now they’re one of the things he misses most.

“I thank my dad every day for teaching me to be strong before he left,” Damian said.

Elsewhere in Los Angeles, Jacob, a shy 9-year-old with cropped, curly hair, skinny limbs, and a serious expression, was missing his mom. On a Saturday in May, he clung tightly to his father’s hand as they walked among homeless people, street peddlers, and the stench of urine that hangs in the air outside the building where they live in a cramped apartment. He hoped his mom would soon be released from immigration detention so that he could hug her again.

“If my mom was here, I’d be happy,” he said. “Right now, I’m not.”

Jacob is in some ways a typical 9-year-old. He likes playing Roblox and Street Fighter. He dreams of becoming a police officer and of owning a guard dog, “because you can train them and they defend you.”

But he also endured a harrowing journey, even before being separated from his mom in January. Jacob’s family fled their home country of Colombia in 2024 because members of a paramilitary group threatened to kill them, his father, Andreis, said. During their journey to the United States, Jacob saw dead bodies while trekking through the jungle, was kidnapped and robbed at gunpoint with his parents, witnessed a rape, and had to sell candy and beg for money, his dad said. Ñî¹óåú´«Ã½Ò•îl Health News is not using the father’s or son’s real name because the family fears it would jeopardize their asylum cases.

After the family arrived in Los Angeles, Jacob suffered from nightmares and an intense fear of being alone. He started to recover once he began attending school and got connected to therapy through the school district, his dad said. For a short while, the family felt they had found peace.

Then, immigration officers detained Jacob’s mother at a check-in appointment while he and Andreis sat in the waiting room. The mother has a pending asylum application and no criminal record, Andreis said. The father said he and his son broke down when officers informed them of his wife’s detention, handing them a bag with her wallet and cellphone. They returned home without her, leaving Jacob inconsolable.

“He was terrified,” the father said, fighting back tears, his voice growing quiet as he recounted that moment. “He was crying with rage.”

After that, Jacob didn’t want to eat or go to school. When he went to school at his dad’s insistence, his teacher called home to ask why he was crying in class. Jacob couldn’t sleep. He acted out. He blamed his dad.

“When will my mom come back?” he asked his dad. “Why do they have my mom? I miss my mom.”

At the same time, Andreis said, he was going through his own crisis, trying in vain to console his son while wrestling with grief, worry, and desperation over what happened to his wife. He stopped his work as a laborer for two weeks to take care of Jacob, but that created financial stress and meant he sometimes couldn’t afford to fund his wife’s commissary account so she could buy better food and make phone calls. Jacob lived for those phone calls.

Jacob listed all the things he missed about his mom, including her cooking (rice with meat, corn cakes with egg), visiting the park together, and her taking him to get his hair cut, treating him to McDonald’s on the weekend, and bringing him to church. Most of all, he missed being close to her.

“I would lie down with her, and I’d watch videos with her,” he said. “My mom would hug me and I’d hug her.”

Sometimes he sprayed her perfume on himself so he could smell her.

After almost five months at the Adelanto ICE Processing Center, Jacob’s mother was released based on a habeas corpus petition in May. The family is still living in fear of detention or deportation. The father worries he too could be detained, and what that would mean for Jacob. Andreis is currently appealing a removal order for the two of them.

A published by the Brookings Institution estimates that over 200,000 children — including 145,000 U.S. citizen children — have likely had at least one parent detained since President Donald Trump returned to office. About a third of those children are under age 6. The number of children with detained parents is expected to grow as the federal government pours over $200 billion into immigration enforcement, including funding from the GOP’s and a appropriation Trump signed this month.

More than 4.6 million U.S. citizen children live with a parent at risk of deportation, according to the report.

Families Broken

Noemi, a Guatemalan mother and asylum seeker, stood in the parking lot at an ICE office north of Los Angeles, her three children wailing and clinging to her, glass from the family’s car scattered at their feet.

Moments earlier, immigration agents had smashed a window and forced her partner out of the car while he waited for Noemi and the kids to finish a check-in appointment. While they were inside, officers tried to separate Noemi from the couple’s children, ages 9, 7, and 1, but gave up after the kids started screaming, Noemi said. Meanwhile, her partner, a Mexican national who’s lived in the U.S. for almost 20 years, was sent to the ICE detention center in Adelanto.

“It was something tragic, something inexplicable that happened that day,” said Noemi, who asked to withhold her full name because she fears government retaliation for sharing her story. “It’s something that marks you for your whole life. My family was broken.”

Located in the Mojave Desert, the privately run Adelanto ICE Processing Center is the immigration detention center closest to Los Angeles and in the U.S. It held a daily average of as of April, and a facility next door called the Desert View Annex held an additional 426.

Since her partner’s detention in December, Noemi said, their children haven’t been the same.

Her 7-year-old daughter, till then usually happy and smiling, became depressed and refused to eat. Her once-high grades plummeted, and she forgot the names of letters and numbers in both English and Spanish. She and her 9-year-old brother struggled to sleep and asked constantly about their dad, wondering if he was taken because they’d done something wrong.

“Why is this happening to us?” they asked her. “We’re good. We’re studying.”

Noemi’s youngest daughter went back to crawling for three months, even though she’d already learned to walk before her father was taken. The little girl would cry out in her sleep, “Pa! Pa!”

Sofia Mendoza, a therapist who works with immigrant families at a community clinic in Los Angeles County, said separated children can experience a form of grief. It’s hard for them to come to terms with their parent’s absence because the parent is still alive, but not with them. This can disrupt the child’s bond with that parent and their ability to form trusting relationships in the future, she said.

Many children also become extremely anxious, angry, and fearful, Mendoza said. Young children often complain of physical symptoms such as stomachaches, develop separation anxiety, and regress to earlier behaviors like bed-wetting. Older children may have panic attacks, nightmares, and difficulty focusing, Mendoza said. Caregiver loss is also associated with and substance use in children.

Norma Gómez, a project manager for the Mixteco Indigena Community Organizing Project in Oxnard, said after immigration raids shook the community last summer, her 9-year-old daughter refused to go to school for a week and was afraid to leave her mom and dad, even though they’re legal U.S. residents. She’d seen other kids at school crying because family members had been detained. Gómez showed her daughter their U.S. residency documents to reassure her. The child asked to make copies for her classmates, hoping they would protect them too.

‘Time To Be an Adult’

Back in East Los Angeles, Damian is living with one of his aunts and struggling to adapt to not having his father around. He said his grades have dropped because he can’t focus in school. He no longer wants to do things he used to enjoy with his dad, such as going out to eat.

“Fun is over,” he said. “It’s time to be an adult right now.”

Being without his father has forced Damian to become more independent, he and his aunt Claudia Zermeño said. Before, his dad did almost everything for him. Now, Damian does his own laundry, helps with housework, and styles his own hair. He’s protective of his aunts, who are both devastated by their brother’s absence; he hugs them frequently and tells jokes to try to cheer them up. He doesn’t want to upset them more by showing his own sadness.

Damian receives therapy both in and outside of school. He said he’s learned breathing exercises that have helped, but he still feels sad and worried a lot of the time. Sometimes he feels angry.

“I try my hardest to think, to stay focused,” he said. “But with everything that’s going on, I can’t keep the facade of ‘everything’s normal’ when I feel heartbroken.”

Saúl Zermeño, now living in Guadalajara, said he’s worried about his son’s health. Damian has a genetic condition called , which causes tumors to grow on nerve tissue in his body, including one in his head that, if not checked regularly by a doctor and monitored by his family, could interfere with his brain. He also suffers from epilepsy and was born with only one kidney, which means he tires easily and doesn’t play sports. Saúl is afraid his son won’t get the care he needs without him there. As Damian’s legal guardian, Claudia Zermeño is doing everything she can for him, but she has two children of her own and is also caring for her mother, who has neurological problems from a stroke.

Damian talks with his dad as often as he can. He hopes to visit his father in Mexico, but he doesn’t have a passport and, as a minor under 16, there are more requirements to get one without his dad present. Saúl is working with an attorney to get permission to legally return to the U.S., but the process is complicated and uncertain.

So, for now, Damian’s hanging on to hope that his dad will be allowed to return and is trying to become the man he believes he should be. He’s making plans to get his driver’s license when he turns 16 this month. He’s given up his goal of going to college and instead wants to get a job right after high school to help his aunts and send money to his dad.

He still cries, but only when he’s alone in his room.

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When Congress allowed covid-era subsidies for health insurance to expire, California used its own funds to offset the hike in Obamacare premium costs for residents with low incomes.

But the reach has been limited.

As Gov. Gavin Newsom negotiates his last budget with the legislature, the Democrat wants to offer financial help to more than 1 in 4 enrollees in Covered California, the nation’s largest state-run health insurance marketplace. Democratic lawmakers, who hold a supermajority, are still debating the plan.

“My budget proposal would KEEP $0 monthly plans for low-income Californians to help clean up the financial disaster Trump created,” Newsom , where he often chides the president and GOP Congress.

have put up their own funds to keep Affordable Care Act plans affordable and residents insured as the rising cost of healthcare has emerged as a among voters. Newsom’s $300 million proposal would make California’s program among the most generous, but even the nation’s richest state can’t patch a left by the expiration of enhanced subsides at the end of last year.

“The gap between what people can pay in their monthly budget and what health insurance costs is so big that it’s a lot for states to take on,” said , a senior research fellow at the Center on Health Insurance Reforms at Georgetown University. “They’re going to have to figure out how they can finance that.”

New Mexico lawmakers have of the lost federal subsidies with state money. It seems to have worked; New Mexico saw in marketplace enrollment this year, but state analysts that the subsidy program isn’t sustainable.

and , which, like California, tax residents , are also spending hundreds of millions of dollars to try to keep premium payments low. Their hope, healthcare experts say, is to avoid the exodus seen in states such as Georgia that didn’t offer enrollees help.

Since the enhanced subsidies expired, have seen their premium payments increase by $65 a month on average.

Conservatives including have long argued that the subsidy expansion was too generous to high-income enrollees and .

“There are never enough subsidies to make health insurance affordable because subsidies are the problem,” said Michael Cannon, director of health policy studies at the libertarian Cato Institute. “They are causing people to turn a blind eye to fraud and waste and excessive prices because it’s someone else’s money that they’re spending, not their own.”

Helping the Poorest?

People who earn too much to qualify for Medicaid got relief starting in January after Newsom and legislators softened the blow for about 300,000 of the lowest-income enrollees. They offset lost federal premium tax credits for individuals who last year and partially filled the gap for those who earned up to $25,823.

The governor now wants to expand subsidies to those who earn up to $31,920 this year for an individual and $66,000 for a family of four — an estimated 218,000 additional people.

Veronica and William Walter, who live in the San Francisco Bay Area, earn less than $40,000 a year in one of the nation’s most expensive regions. They’re counting on a more generous state healthcare tax credit if they have to pay for health insurance next year.

A car accident two years ago left William temporarily disabled, qualifying the couple for Medi-Cal, the state’s Medicaid program.

Now he’s back at work as a security guard, and Veronica said she’s worried they’ll be kicked off Medi-Cal. She’s even more worried about how they’ll get by with federal premium tax credits not nearly as generous as before.

“Without it, we’re going to be facing worse problems than we have now,” she said. Under Newsom’s proposal, Veronica and others in the highest eligible income bracket could receive an average monthly subsidy of $36 a person.

“For them, $36 a month is the sort of thing that can make a difference between keeping coverage and losing coverage,” said Peter Lee, former executive director of Covered California. “We can’t fix everything with that gap, but we can focus the dollars on those who need it most.”

The Walter family, though, may still face a nearly $200 monthly premium payment to cover both of them, $130 more than they previously paid for healthcare and prescriptions through Covered California.

“I can’t afford that, not really,” said Veronica, a pet sitter who works part-time at a school. “A giant state like this with this many people, and this many resources? You can’t just leave the people with nothing for healthcare or healthcare they can’t afford.”

California policy researchers and health advocates acknowledge the limits of a partial subsidy but say that concentrating funds on those who earn less is the most efficient way to maximize impact. People who drop coverage are , healthier, and less likely to have high healthcare costs — all factors that help stabilize the insurance risk pool. Without coverage, Lee said, they’re also more likely to experience debt from medical emergencies or leave unpaid hospital bills that strain the .

Cary Sanders, senior policy director at the California Pan-Ethnic Health Network, a health advocacy group, said the state’s move last year kept low-income enrollment in Covered California steady and reduced racial disparities in coverage.

“It’s working; it’s just that it’s not enough,” Sanders said. “We need the federal subsidies back.”

Still No Help for Many

When Congress passed enhanced subsidies in 2021, it capped monthly premium payments for even the highest earners at 8.5% of income. Those temporary enhancements allowed about 8 million Americans to choose robust plans with no monthly premium payment last year and helped double Obamacare enrollment to of 24 million.

At the end of last year, 22 million of them lost that help when the GOP-led Congress blocked the extension.

The pressures on Obamacare enrollees don’t stop at premiums. Federal legislation Republicans passed last summer known as the also shortens enrollment windows, tightens income verification requirements for subsidies, and requires enrollees who earn more than they projected to pay back the full amount.

Even if Newsom’s proposal passes, most Covered California customers won’t get state help. Nearly 1 million enrollees — 52% — earn above the $31,300-a-year individual earning cutoff.

Victoria Garzouzi was one of many middle-income retirees hit with one of the most extreme premium increases: The monthly payment for her low-level bronze plan jumped eightfold to $1,600.

To make ends meet, she came out of retirement and dipped into her savings. “I’m working to pay for my insurance,” she said. “I am an army of one.”

Despite a $6,000 deductible, her health insurance premium payment is more than the mortgage on her two-bedroom house. She’s putting off a needed cataract surgery until October, when she turns 65 and qualifies for Medicare.

While GOP leaders have not publicly weighed in on the state subsidies, some Democratic lawmakers have questioned why more help hasn’t been proposed.

Assembly member Dawn Addis, who chairs the chamber’s budget subcommittee on health, suggested Newsom could tap an additional $230 million from a fund for healthcare cost relief — money raised from a state penalty levied on those who can afford to enroll in health insurance but choose not to.

Lawmakers have previously criticized state officials for socking away much of the penalty revenue, which was supposed to go toward healthcare affordability. After California discontinued its premium subsidies thanks to increased federal assistance, the Newsom administration said the state was saving to help consumers once those temporary subsidies expired. Instead, California borrowed from the subsidy fund to cover state budget shortfalls, to the tune of $771 million. Starting this year, the subsidy fund should see an influx of cash as the state pays back the loan.

At a May legislative hearing, Joseph Donaldson, then a Department of Finance analyst, said maintaining the reserve was a prudent and financially sustainable approach.

Dylan Roby, a public health professor at the University of California-Irvine who consults for Covered California, said the focus on lower-income enrollees is deliberate. They qualify for federal subsidies that higher earners don’t, maximizing federal investment and strengthening the broader system.

“You end up with more advanced premium tax credits flowing into the state that you would have been leaving on the table,” he said.

State lawmakers have until June 15 to pass a state budget. Then, Covered California’s board would decide eligibility and benefit amounts, a decision that could come this summer, with new subsidies starting Jan. 1.

Even with the extra help, Walter and her husband worry they won’t be able to afford a potential $200 monthly premium payment. Walter said she’d likely have to rely on free clinics or ration medications.

“I take so many pills, I rattle,” she said. “That, on top of the $200? For us, it really adds up.”

Are you struggling to afford your health insurance? Have you decided to forgo coverage? Click here to contact Ñî¹óåú´«Ã½Ò•îl Health News and share your story.

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, with approximately 120,000 members, has put forward two ballot initiatives to cap the pay of medical executives and require community clinics to spend the vast bulk of their revenues on patient care.

The California Hospital Association has responded with its own ballot proposal that would make it tougher for unions to spend money on political initiatives in the future. It would require approval by a union’s rank-and-file membership for any spending of $1 million or more on statewide measures, or $100,000 or more on local ones.

The competing measures, which have drawn enough verified signatures to qualify for the November ballot, come at a time when the rising cost of healthcare is emerging as a .

The Service Employees International Union affiliate has seized upon affordability angst to resurrect a proposal for a cap on healthcare executive compensation, which it has failed to achieve multiple times before. The proposed measure garnered more than 1 million petition signatures.

“This initiative reflects the serious crisis we face and that affordability is a real thing,” said Vikas Saini, president of the Lown Institute, a Massachusetts-based healthcare think tank. “I think it also reflects grassroots anger and a desire to do something.”

Mikey Vaughn, a certified nursing assistant at Cedars-Sinai Medical Center, said that the Los Angeles hospital, despite its reputation as the go-to place for the rich and famous, often lacks supplies and staffing levels that he and his colleagues need to do their jobs effectively and without undue stress.

“The executive pay initiative would, I hope, be used to hire staff and to actually provide better resources for our patients,” said Vaughn, a member of SEIU-UHW’s executive board and political committee.

Thomas Priselac, then-president and CEO of Cedars-Sinai Medical Center, in fiscal year 2024, according to the organization’s most recent available federal tax filing. Kaiser Permanente’s CEO, Gregory Adams, made . Warner Thomas, head of Sutter Health, made .

Cedars-Sinai spokesperson Duke Helfand said if the measure passed, the hospital would be unable to recruit and retain physicians, nurses, and specialists, dramatically impairing its ability to provide healthcare.

“Such a scenario would be disastrous not only for Cedars-Sinai but for hospitals across Los Angeles and California,” Helfand said.

The union wants to cap compensation at $450,000 a year for senior hospital and medical group executives, as well as other administrative and managerial staff. However, the initiative does not stipulate how dollars diverted from payroll must be spent.

The union has dubbed the latest proposal the “Health Care Executive Compensation Act of 2026.” A heavyweights opposing it — hospitals, physicians, and clinics, among others — has rebranded it the “Health Care Endangerment Act.”

Carmela Coyle, CEO of the hospital association, called the measure a cynical political ploy. “It’s bad policy and it’s going to have bad consequences across California,” she said.

Glenn Melnick, a healthcare economist at the University of Southern California, said that even if the initiative were fully implemented and pay cuts enacted, he doubts it would reduce the cost of healthcare for patients.

SEIU-UHW does not have an estimate of the total amount the initiative would claw back from pay packages that exceed the limit.

Opponents of the initiative note that it doesn’t target only executive pay but would affect medical practitioners who are also managers. That could include chief medical officers and chief nursing officers, as well as heads of surgery, emergency rooms, oncology, obstetrics, cardiology, and other specialties, they say.

It would be up to each hospital, health system, and physician group to report which staff members exceed the cap and by how much.

Ultimately, who is subject to the pay cap “probably will have to be battled out in court,” said the hospital association’s Coyle. “That’s why we are throwing everything we can at it.”

The second SEIU-UHW ballot initiative, on community clinics, is already in court. , which represents clinics, filed a federal lawsuit in April seeking to invalidate it before it reaches the November ballot.

The proposed measure would require to spend at least 90% of their revenues on activities directly related to their mission of providing care for low-income populations. If it were to pass, over 90% of those clinic organizations would be on the hook for penalties totaling $1.7 billion in the first year alone and “would face similarly crippling penalties every year,” commissioned by the primary care association and conducted by the Berkeley Research Group, an international consulting company.

Louise McCarthy, president and CEO of the Community Clinic Association of Los Angeles County, said many pivotal services the clinics provide — translation and transportation, for example — would likely not be counted toward the spending requirement.

“They are targeting a group of what they see as employers and we see as the safety net,” she said.

The lawsuit cites the harm to clinics and claims the proposed spending requirement would interfere with federal authority.

Renée Saldaña, a spokesperson for SEIU-UHW, characterized the lawsuit against the initiative as “a really desperate attempt by the clinic industry to try and avoid accountability.”

SEIU-UHW, , is also behind a controversial proposal that would impose a one-time 5% levy on California residents with fortunes over $1 billion to backfill the funding gap created by federal cuts coming down the pike under Republicans’ One Big Beautiful Bill Act. The law, passed last July and signed by President Donald Trump, is projected to squeeze over $900 billion from the Medicaid health coverage program for low-income people by 2034, including as much as in California.

The hospital association, the community clinic group, and the California Medical Association, which represents physicians, oppose the wealth tax proposal. But Saldaña said all three of the union’s ballot proposals tie into an overarching strategy to counter the widening healthcare disparities caused by the federal law. Referring to the proposed pay cap, she said, “We believe the primary concern of healthcare providers, including executives, should be to serve the community, heal patients, and not be in healthcare just to enrich themselves.”

Over the years, the union has submitted dozens of local and statewide ballot initiatives, including ones to cap the pay of hospital executives, regulate dialysis clinics, and raise the minimum wage of healthcare workers.

The hospital association calculates that SEIU-UHW has spent nearly $125 million on local and statewide initiatives since 2012. But healthcare industry groups have spent far more opposing them. The hospital association data shows that the union spent nearly $36 million on three ballot proposals to regulate the dialysis industry, but dialysis companies poured in $302 million to defeat them, according to state campaign finance records.

The union’s ongoing political efforts “threaten patient access to quality health care,” according to the hospital association’s ballot initiative, which could limit how much unions spend on future ballot measures.

Saldaña hinted at a possible lawsuit should that measure pass, saying that “we don’t see the legal viability” of it. The proposal, she said, is an attempt “to silence the front-line healthcare workers.”

Ultimately, a ballot initiative won’t cure the ills that plague healthcare in the United States, said the Lown Institute’s Saini. What’s needed, he said, is “an evaluation and reimagination of healthcare.”

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She spoke at rallies. With other members of the advocacy organization Compassion & Choices, she visited legislators’ offices. In 2024, as the state Assembly was debating the aid in dying bill, she helped unfurl a banner in the chamber gallery that read, “Stop the Suffering.”

Her activism was becoming difficult. Netherland, who is 59 and works for a nonprofit, was diagnosed with breast cancer in 2019. “I did a full year of aggressive treatment,” she said. “Chemotherapy. A mastectomy. Radiation treatment every weekday for five weeks. Six months of two oral medications.”

She recovered and felt well until the cancer returned a few years later. Although metastatic breast cancer is incurable, drugs are keeping her disease at bay for now. Netherland feels fortunate but also fatigued, and she contends with brain fog, gastrointestinal symptoms, and joint pain.

“My energy is really limited,” she said.

As she emailed and called legislators, Netherland feared she might die before the aid in dying bill — first introduced in New York in 2016 — could become law.

‘A Breakthrough Moment’

On June 9, 2025, after the Assembly approved the bill, Netherland was in the state Senate chamber, watching the aye votes mount, and seeing it pass.  an amended version in February; it is scheduled to take effect Aug. 5.

A similar law is  in September in Illinois, which would become the (plus the District of Columbia) where medical aid in dying is legal.

“A breakthrough moment,” said Kevin Díaz, president of Compassion & Choices, which has spearheaded the long campaign for such laws. After almost 30 years — Oregon’s law, the first in the country, was enacted in 1997 — the addition of two populous states means that almost a third of Americans will live in one where medical aid in dying is legally available. “It shows that there’s broad support for this model,” Díaz said.

Polls consistently back that claim. A  last spring found that almost two-thirds of respondents didn’t consider the practice “morally wrong,” either because they thought it was acceptable or not a moral issue. Support crossed many political and religious lines: A narrow majority of Republicans and 76% of Democrats both found “physician-assisted death” (also sometimes called “physician-assisted suicide”) permissible; so did most Catholics, Jews, and nonevangelical white Protestants.

In New York,  that 54% of respondents supported aid in dying, including majorities of men and women, of all age groups, and of city, suburban, and upstate residents. A plurality of Latinos supported it; Black respondents narrowly opposed it.

Passing these laws has grown somewhat easier, said Thaddeus Pope, a bioethicist and professor at Mitchell Hamline School of Law in St. Paul, Minnesota, who tracks such policies. “You can say, ‘We have 10 years in California, 18 years in Washington, and 29 years in Oregon, and nothing bad has happened.’ It becomes more accepted.”

‘You Need A, B, and C’

Yet legalizing medical aid in dying, or MAID, has been and remains a long, contentious process. Catholic leadership and many disability organizations staunchly oppose it. (Pope Leo XIV personally  not to sign the bill.)

The American Medical Association says that “physician-assisted suicide is fundamentally incompatible with the physician’s role as healer” and poses “serious societal risks,” although a number of state medical organizations have opted to remain neutral or, as in New York, to .

The Patients’ Rights Action Fund, through a sister organization, has lawsuits pending or on appeal in California, Delaware, and Colorado, arguing that aid in dying laws discriminate against people with disabilities by steering them toward physician-assisted suicide instead of treatment.

“This is a litigation strategy we’ve developed to ultimately get to the Supreme Court,” said Matt Vallière, the group’s executive director, who declined to say whether it would sue to block the Illinois and New York laws.

Even when aid in dying laws succeed, using them can prove challenging. In every state (except Montana, where it became legal through a court decision, so there is no statute governing eligibility), aid in dying is available only to people with incurable illnesses who are expected to die within six months.

It typically involves oral and written requests to two doctors, with mandated waiting periods between requests. Patients must have the mental capacity to make the decision, which disqualifies those with dementia, and they must ingest the medication without assistance. (An amendment Hochul insisted on adds a psychologist or psychiatrist to the process.)

All but two states require patients to be residents. Oregon and Vermont scrapped their residency requirements  brought by Compassion & Choices. ( a .)

Moreover, any doctor, hospital, or healthcare system can legally decline to provide aid in dying, and religiously affiliated institutions often opt out. Those that participate can add their own requirements.

“The state can say ‘You need A, B, and C,’ and Columbia-Presbyterian can say, ‘We also want D, E, and F,’” said Pope, the Minnesota bioethicist.

Hotly Debated, Seldom Used

Perhaps these restrictions, or a lack of public awareness, help explain why, despite the headlines and fervent debates, the number of people who actually use the law is tiny in every state — usually 1% or fewer of the deaths recorded annually. The support for giving patients this kind of autonomy at the end of life remains widespread, but the desire to personally exercise it apparently is not.

Still, after studies showed that many patients seeking MAID were dying , the trend has been to loosen restrictions. California cut its 15-day waiting period to 48 hours; New Mexico allows physician assistants and advanced-practice nurses to write prescriptions along with doctors.

“Most states have now amended their laws two or three times,” Pope said. “We have liberalized.” Telehealth can also facilitate access to participating doctors.

Compassion & Choices is planning legal challenges to end residency requirements in additional states, Díaz said. It is also considering how to “make inroads in jurisdictions with a much different cultural and political environment,” he added, mentioning Florida and other Southern states.

Medical aid in dying represents a shift in power, Díaz said. “The person who has to bear the burden of the suffering should have the ability to decide when it’s enough,” he added.

Anne Gurnett Bander, 72, a retired research scientist in Carmel, New York, cared for her husband for four years as ALS — the relentlessly disabling neurological disorder also known as Lou Gehrig’s disease — rendered him bedridden and dependent on feeding and breathing tubes. “By the time he died, the only thing he could do was nod his head,” she recalled.

So being diagnosed with ALS herself last year was “my worst possible nightmare,” Gurnett Bander said. She was planning to fly to Switzerland, where the nonprofit organization Dignitas provides medical aid in dying, when she learned about the New York bill and began speaking publicly in support of it, her voice faltering as her illness advanced.

Gurnett Bander and Netherland say they’re not certain they’ll use lethal drugs to end their lives as their symptoms intensify. Not infrequently, patients complete the necessary steps, secure the prescribed medication, decide they don’t need it after all, and die of their diseases. But both women insist that the choice should be theirs.

“It can offer so much peace of mind,” Netherland said. “I thought, ‘People should have this option.’ Now, they will.”

The New Old Age is produced through a partnership with .

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The Department of Health and Human Services is seeking data from little-known state systems that allow hospitals and clinics to exchange detailed, identifiable patient information, Ñî¹óåú´«Ã½Ò•îl Health News has learned.

In private meetings, some public health leaders have objected to giving Kennedy’s team access to such data, raising doubts that it’s legal or that the information would even be useful.

They have also expressed concerns about allowing the federal government to peer into the minutiae of Americans’ medical records, which could mean viewing anything from doctors’ notes to prescription history. HHS has offered no insight into how it will protect or handle the personal health information it obtains.

But Kennedy told Ñî¹óåú´«Ã½Ò•îl Health News that medical records are key to investigating the cause of autism, vaccine safety, and chronic diseases. And millions of dollars in grant money has poured into a Nebraska nonprofit that has assisted Kennedy’s effort, according to state records.

He and his advisers have been frustrated that federal access to Americans’ medical records has been limited.

“We need a good health record system, and one of the things that really surprised me most when I came into office is that there is — that the systems are broken,” Kennedy said in a May interview. “We’ve had to go to the states and, luckily, we’ve got a lot of cooperation from the states, but we now have databases together that we can actually do the studies on. Those studies are in motion.”

HHS has not publicly announced any new projects involving medical records and autism or vaccine research. Kennedy faced blowback last year when he proposed compiling the medical records of people with autism to create a federal disease registry — which health department officials .

But Kennedy said in May, “We have a whole pipeline of studies that will be done over the next year.”

Though the White House has steered Kennedy away from further changes to U.S. vaccine policy ahead of November’s crucial midterm elections, President Donald Trump has regularly echoed Kennedy’s doubts about vaccine safety and last week signed an executive order calling for the U.S. to reduce the number of vaccines recommended for children.

Kennedy’s political appointees and allies — including William “Reyn” Archer III, a former Texas health official and whom Kennedy hired as a senior adviser — have led the initiative for the health department to collect and examine medical records.

Federal officials met with leaders of the state-run health information exchange systems several times over the past year and asked how the personal medical records they maintain could be used for vaccine research, according to seven people who participated in the discussions or were familiar with them.

Craig Behm, who runs the Maryland health information exchange, said Kennedy’s team asked about how the vast trove of medical records they store from hospitals and health systems could be used to study vaccines.

“If this administration wants to conduct research on the effectiveness of vaccines, are you saying you all can help us conduct that research?” Behm recalled being asked by a top official at HHS’ health information technology office.

Last June, Behm and leaders of other state exchanges met with Kennedy’s top advisers to discuss sharing more medical data with federal agencies. The state organizations followed up with a pitch in October for a new surveillance system that would give the federal health department “real-time, 24-hour data feeds on opioid and chronic disease trends” within a year, according to a presentation reviewed by Ñî¹óåú´«Ã½Ò•îl Health News. Under the proposal, HHS would get data from 90% of the population’s medical records by 2028.

Administration officials regularly asked during the meetings how the records could be used to monitor vaccine safety. Kennedy has rejected the federal government’s current vaccine-monitoring systems; decades of research has shown immunizations are safe and effective for most people.

“Vaccine safety, or whatever words you want to use, has come up pretty consistently in those conversations,” said John Kansky, CEO of the Indiana Health Information Exchange.

Kansky sees the potential value of sharing information from the exchanges for public health but is worried about the focus on vaccines: “It’s like, oh man, I wish you would have picked something that pushed fewer buttons for people.”

A System To Monitor Chronic Disease

Nearly every state has at least one health information exchange — often regulated by state laws and run by private companies or nonprofits — that enables hospitals and health systems to immediately share patients’ medical records with one another. The systems allow doctors and nurses to quickly pull up nearly anyone’s medical history and records at emergency rooms or share after-visit summaries and notes with patients’ primary care providers, for example.

In certain circumstances — most often dealing with cases of infectious diseases such as measles or flu — the exchanges notify public health authorities, like the state health department or the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention. Using the exchanges for broader public health purposes is not an unusual idea in itself. But it can present privacy, legal, and ethical complications, health officials say.

In the end, Behm said his organization in Maryland declined to share more data with the federal government for vaccine research, noting that sharing medical records for that purpose would require a rash of approvals from hospitals, state political leaders, and research boards. Any new data-sharing agreement should also have a clear, detailed framework outlining what would be shared and with whom, he added.

“A number of us said, ‘We can’t do anything our agreements don’t allow us to do, so no,’” Behm said. Indeed, most health information exchanges have contractual restrictions on who can access clinical data.

Kansky said Indiana is still weighing whether to provide additional data for Kennedy’s project, and that nothing has yet been shared.

HHS spokesperson Emily Hilliard did not answer questions about how many states are participating in Kennedy’s project, what new data the agency is collecting, how much the federal government is spending on the initiative, how it is protecting patient privacy, or who has access to the data.

“HHS is strengthening public health surveillance and modernizing data systems to better understand and combat the childhood chronic disease epidemic as part of Secretary Kennedy’s Make America Healthy Again agenda,” Hilliard said in an emailed statement. “Americans deserve robust systems to monitor the drivers of chronic illness.”

Kennedy has asserted, without evidence, that vaccines can cause chronic illness.

A Kennedy Partner in Nebraska

At least one state has been cooperative.

The former leader of Nebraska’s state health information exchange has led the effort to share data from medical records with the federal government.

Jaime Bland, former CEO of CyncHealth — the Nebraska health information exchange used by in the state — said several states are looking to “open up channels” to provide more analysis to Kennedy’s team.

“They’re looking at the data differently and providing some insights back to the CDC,” Bland told Ñî¹óåú´«Ã½Ò•îl Health News.

Bland was among a group who proposed that CyncHealth would help kick off the initiative, according to a 43-slide PowerPoint presented to federal officials during an October meeting.

CyncHealth and other state health information exchanges would “ingest data from hospitals, clinics, laboratories, pharmacies, payers, and social services agencies,” then “link claims and clinical records through a master patient index.”

Data from the exchanges “will be deidentified where appropriate,” according to one slide.

The federal government would pay the exchanges for furnishing the records, according to the proposal: $3 a person, annually.

Officials would “frame publicly that this is not a new database, but a federated trust model that delivers real-time data for all HHS missions,” the presentation reads.

After the meeting, Nebraska’s health department was awarded a large grant from the CDC, and CyncHealth in turn got millions of dollars from the state.

On Dec. 19, the CDC announced new funding under its , which sends money to state and local health departments for lab work, health information enhancements, and solutions for outbreaks.

Nebraska’s state health department was awarded $18.7 million — the most of any state last year, though Nebraska is the 38th most populous state. By comparison, Texas received $9.2 million, and California got $10.8 million.

CyncHealth was then awarded three contracts totaling $13.6 million from the state health department just weeks later, on Jan. 9 and Jan. 16, according to a publicly accessible database of state contracts.

Grace McNamara, a spokesperson for CyncHealth, said it retained $2.4 million of the funding for Kennedy’s project; the remaining money was distributed to “other participating states and various vendor organizations for implementation support.”

A former CDC official who was aware of the transaction, but not authorized to speak publicly about it, confirmed the money was intended for CyncHealth to supply data for Kennedy’s initiative to look at vaccines and autism. McNamara said that the “work is focused on improving outcomes related to acute and chronic illnesses.”

“The referenced project is not research, but rather a proof-of-concept project on how health information exchange and public health can work together to improve health outcomes and is not specific to autism,” she said in an emailed statement.

McNamara did not answer questions about what type of medical data is being provided to the federal health department or whether patients’ identifying information is removed.

Bland left her post at CyncHealth — where she was paid nearly — in December. She was named in April as the chief data strategist for the MAHA Institute — a think tank founded by allies of Kennedy and Trump to advance their Make America Healthy Again movement.

Bland agreed with Kennedy that data from state health information exchanges could provide more insight into autism’s causes or vaccine injuries.

“The data is so fragmented, so modeled when it comes to population health and public health, that we lose sight of the individual stories,” Bland said. She told a story she had heard about a woman who had a seizure after receiving the HPV vaccine.

“You know, the vaccine is safe — it absolutely is — but it wasn’t safe for her,” Bland said. “As public health officials, we say the vaccine is safe. But there are cases where it is not.”

Daniel Jernigan, a former top CDC official who left the agency last summer, said he tried to point Kennedy to data that would help the health secretary study vaccine safety and autism.

After 31 years at the CDC overseeing public health surveillance, emerging infectious diseases, and the influenza divisions, Jernigan thought the solution was simple. The secretary could work with researchers to obtain huge databases pulled from health systems nationwide and maintained by major electronic health records companies.

Those databases are deidentified, meaning they don’t include patient names or other information that can identify individuals. Jernigan said Kennedy didn’t seem interested.

Instead, as The New York Times first reported, the health secretary dispatched two top advisers — Archer and Hannah Anderson, his former deputy chief of staff — to the CDC’s headquarters in Atlanta last July to download millions of identifiable patient records directly from the Vaccine Safety Datalink, the system the health agency uses to investigate complications from vaccines. The records, though, were decades old.

Jernigan said the federal government has limited legal authority to access medical records from state health information exchanges. In any case, examining those records may provide a view of a person’s medical history that will not necessarily produce answers to Kennedy’s questions about vaccines and autism.

“If they’re just using the electronic health record data, there are limits to that,” Jernigan said. “If they’re only looking at electronic health record data, all you’re going to get is what was captured in the encounter. It’s not going to be very satisfying.”

Ñî¹óåú´«Ã½Ò•îl Health News data reporter Maia Rosenfeld contributed to this article.

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It’s a situation state officials have spent more than a decade trying to avoid. For years, they’ve been trying to make it harder for parents to send their kids to school unvaccinated.

But those efforts have backfired in places like St. Clair County, in Michigan’s conservative Thumb region. Remington Nevin, the county’s medical director, has declared “a new era of vaccine choice.” Local parents there can now bypass the usual protocols and get school vaccine waivers via email, days after they fill out a brief digital form.

State health officials aren’t fighting it.

In fact, Michigan’s health agency has been helping more than 30 counties move away from a state policy once credited with sharply reducing the number of parents who opted their kids out of shots.

In 2015, the state started requiring parents seeking waivers to first attend a vaccine education session, in person, at their local health department.

But in the post-covid era, local health officials say, the sessions became hostile, ineffective, and sometimes even unsafe for staff. One high school called police last fall over an escalating dispute with parents who refused to obtain a state-recognized waiver for their children, with a sheriff’s deputy warning the parents that they could face criminal charges.

In response, the state has helped create a hybrid waiver process for dozens of counties, allowing parents to take a brief vaccine education course online while still requiring they get their waivers signed in person. It’s part of a broader shift in strategy in a state that had some of the most polarizing and covid restrictions.

At Michigan schools where only 30% to 40% of students are now vaccinated, it is “simply not possible to keep diseases like measles at bay,” said , the state’s chief medical officer. “And when one of these measles cases ends up in a low-immunization community, that’s when the ember really has a chance to expand and become a wildfire.”

A Short-Lived Success Story

In 2014, Michigan had the in the country.

Health officials suspected some parents were just signing waivers during the stress of school registration, not because of a deeply held conviction.

“‘Oops, I forgot to do this. I’m just going to sign a waiver and be done with it,’” said Norm Hess, executive director of the . “That’s not really the way we want parents to make decisions on this issue.”

Around that time, national headlines were focused on a Disneyland-linked measles outbreak in which were infected. California cracked down, becoming the first state in decades to end .

With Republicans then in control of the Michigan Legislature and governor’s office, health officials found a side door. They created an saying nonmedical waivers required certification by the local health department “that the individual received education on the risks of not receiving the vaccines being waived and the benefits of vaccination to the individual and the community.”

“We were not aware of the rule until the day it happened,” Suzanne Waltman, president of Michigan for Vaccine Choice, . “We thought it was a stealth move.”

At first, it seemed to work. Kindergarten waiver rates in 2015. “Kids were protected more from these vaccine-preventable diseases,” Hess said.

But after that year, waiver rates started rebounding. When the pandemic hit five years later, immunization rates plunged.

‘An Unsafe Setting’ for Medical Staff

Juan Marquez is the medical director of a county where a measles outbreak sickened several people this spring, but even he wouldn’t want to do those in-person sessions again.

“It was really creating an unsafe setting, actually, for our nurses,” said Marquez, the medical director for two counties, Livingston and Washtenaw, just west of Detroit.

“Our nurses are just trying to do their job,” Marquez said. “And you can imagine, to have somebody yell at you or just say not nice things to your face and sit through that for hours is demoralizing.”

Washtenaw has had seven measles cases since March and is believed to be the source of an eighth case in a neighboring county. As of May 28, the state had a total of 14 cases this year.

Since the start of the pandemic, waiver requests in Michigan have been increasing.

Tensions over public health became especially high during the state’s covid lockdowns, which critics lambasted as too long and too strict. Republicans , and Donald Trump flipped the state in the 2024 presidential contest.

Some parents felt it was demeaning to have to go in for counseling sessions they perceived as judgmental.

Republican , who represents a district along the state’s southern border, recalled her session, speaking at a in Lansing last year. “I had a very negative experience there, simply because we made decisions as parents and did the research and made the choices that we felt were best for each one of our children.”

That resentment has also made it harder to do basic public health work, like contact tracing for measles cases, Marquez said.

Of the 10,000 vaccine waivers Marquez’s counties have given out in the past 10 years, he said, the education sessions changed the minds of maybe one or two people.

“If we’re not changing folks’ minds, can we do this in a safe way?” Marquez said. “So that was really the idea behind the hybrid model.”

The Workaround

At first, state immunizations director Ryan Malosh thought dropping the in-person requirement was a bad idea.

He was skeptical when Livingston County health officials said they wanted to replace in-person sessions with a 20-minute online course about the benefits of vaccines and the risks of vaccine-preventable diseases.

State health department staffers were worried that if the waiver process became more convenient, more people would get exemptions, which could lead to more outbreaks. And because parents could get a waiver from any local health department, people from across the state might start flooding Livingston County with requests.

“We were worried that this could be sort of a sinkhole,” Malosh said.

It wasn’t. Parents took the online course, then made an appointment at the health department to get their nonmedical waivers signed. Waiver rates increased in Livingston County, but at the same rate they were rising in the rest of the state.

So the state turned to the University of Michigan to create a standardized, online course that any county could use. Parents would go through a 20- to 30-minute course, answering questions about the content, and then be able to get their waivers signed at their local health department office.

Michael Rubyan, a public health associate professor at the university, worked with some 40 public health nurses from throughout the state to design it. They wanted it to be simple and fact-based: Here’s what you should know about these diseases. Here’s how vaccines work. And if there is an outbreak at your school, your kids may have to stay home if they’re not vaccinated.

No judgment. No pressure.

This needed to be a building block in a much longer relationship with local public health, the nurses said. And while this change alone probably won’t lead to a dramatic decrease in waivers, Malosh said, it may start to rebuild some trust. “That then opens the door for further conversations, which maybe then gets these folks vaccinated,” he said.

Hybrid May Not Be Enough

About a third of the state’s counties have adopted the hybrid approach, but the waiver system is still creating confusion and conflict.

Last fall, a dispute over the waiver process involving a St. Clair County family blew up into a local controversy, and school officials asked local law enforcement to get involved.

Although the family lived in St. Clair, the children attended high school in neighboring Macomb County. Macomb had already switched to the hybrid model, but the parents didn’t want to file the documents, because they didn’t want their children’s vaccination status to be known by local health officials at all.

The father, Andrew Eberly, said at a that getting a certified waiver “forces parents like me to register personal health decisions” with an agency they don’t trust. (Eberly did not respond to multiple attempts to contact him via email, via phone, and at his home.)

At one point during the ongoing conflict, school officials asked the sheriff’s department to intervene. A deputy’s conversation with Eberly on Nov. 5 was captured in body-camera footage obtained by Ñî¹óåú´«Ã½Ò•îl Health News through a public records request.

The deputy described the counseling requirement as a set of “stupid hoops.”

“I know it’s super inconvenient to go into the health department, go through their stupid 10-minute class for them to tell you something you already know, to sign the waiver,” the deputy said.

But the deputy went on to warn Eberly that if they continued taking their kids to school, despite being repeatedly informed they couldn’t be enrolled without a state-recognized waiver, then they could be charged with contributing to the truancy of minors.

The clash became a local cause célèbre. Nevin, the St. Clair medical director, seized on it — and the state’s falling immunization rates — at a public health board meeting as proof that people who mistrust the state’s public health establishment “have sound reasons for doing so.”

So far, state health officials have declined to engage in verbal or legal conflict with Nevin, who has drawn cheers and jeers at public meetings over his vaccine stance. He has also been the subject of at the county health department.

Instead, state officials are stressing the importance of parents understanding the risks that vaccine-preventable diseases, like measles, pose for their kids.

“Local health departments get to decide for themselves in a lot of ways what’s best for their residents,” Malosh said. “And I think that what’s best is to be as upfront as possible, to be as truthful as possible, and to try to give the best information that we have available to us to parents so that they can actually make an informed decision.”

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