Republicans are beginning to break ranks as MAHA leadership inside and outside the administration pushes its agenda by undercutting science.
Earlier this month, Robert F. Kennedy Jr. fired Dr Susan Monarez, his hand-picked director of the CDC, just a few weeks after supporting her. In Senate testimony, she maintained she was removed “for holding the line on scientific integrity.” Her dismissal sent shockwaves through the agency. Several colleagues resigned in protest, including Dr. Demetre Daskalakis, who wrote that Kennedy had no interest in the gold standard science of the CDC and instead took advice from “unvetted and conflicted outside organizations.” The message was clear: scientific expertise could be set aside when it got in the way of political goals. There’s nothing responsible, respectable, or supportable about embracing what can at best be called “selective science.”
Days later, Kennedy stood beside President Donald Trump as he claimed a link between Tylenol use in pregnancy and autism. That claim has already been rejected by federal courts and the broader scientific community. But Secretary Kennedy’s tort lawyer buddies are already licking their lips.
Even GOP leaders are uneasy. Senate Majority Leader John Thune cautioned that, “science ought to guide these discussions.” Sen. Bill Cassidy, a physician, has asked HHS to show the “new data” behind Kennedy’s vaccine and acetaminophen pivots. So far, there is none. It’s also important to note that a lot of junk science doesn’t equal good science – and the plural of anecdote isn’t data.
What’s really driving this shift is not a sudden flood of groundbreaking research, but the rise of a multi-billion dollar “wellness” economy – a cottage industry of influencers who package junk science as truth. From podcasts peddling veterinary drugs as cancer cures to celebrities endorsing “seed oil free” diets, pseudoscience has mastered the language of science while ignoring the evidence.
We saw this in the Netflix series, Apple Cider Vinegar, which spotlighted an alternative wellness influencer who claimed she cured her brain cancer with “natural” remedies. She never had cancer. But followers believed her, skipped proven treatments, and some paid with their lives. That’s not quirky wellness. That’s deadly. Remember ivermectin?
Influencers rarely act alone. They amplify one another, weaving hashtags into movements and movements into markets. What looks like a “new science conversation” is, in reality, a feedback loop of misinformation designed to erode trust in institutions.
For example, the coining of the moniker “the hateful eight” to attack seed oils illustrates how scientific studies have taken a backseat to pseudoscience. Influencers claim that seed oils are industrial waste products washed with toxins and will cause heart disease, diabetes, and inflammation. But their claims reveal a fundamental misunderstanding of the science behind how these oils are produced – and they’re profitable. Steak n’ Shake saw a 10.7% sales bump after switching to beef tallow and bragging about it. But the American Heart Association is clear: beef tallow is loaded with saturated fats, the very stuff that drives heart disease. Seed oils are the healthier choice.
Decades of research and public education mean little in the age of social media. A catchy slogan can overshadow expert guidance and, worse, shape public policy. This summer, Louisiana passed a MAHA-inspired food bill requiring restaurants to slap disclaimers on seed-oil use – as though fries fried in canola oil were dangerous, but fries fried in beef were “clean.” That’s not science. That’s branding turned into law.
This is the real danger: catchy slogans outmuscling decades of research. A “wellness economy” worth billions is feeding off each new fad – raw milk, tallow sunscreen, seed-oil free certification, miracle supplements, and more. Vani Hari, better known as the Food Babe, has made a career out of admonishing “big food” for poisoning us with chemicals and toxins. Her call to action – “If you can’t pronounce it, don’t eat it” – seems to be useful advice. That sells products. But it’s the opposite of food safety.
It’s not surprising that slogans beat science online. But it is unacceptable when they start steering public policy. Marion Nestle, one of America’s leading nutrition policy experts, has put it: these food movements operate more like religion than science. Belief systems can’t be argued with. But government policy can’t be built on belief.
Policymakers must rely on evidence, not fads or Instagram trends. Scientific expertise exists to guide decisions that affect millions of lives, and ignoring it comes at real cost. Laws, regulations, and health policies should be grounded in facts — not marketing campaigns. Public health cannot afford shortcuts.
