Sarah Boim carefully arranged the papers on her Atlanta coffee table – remnants of a career abruptly ended. They were printouts, tangible proof of her employment at the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention, a precaution taken during a period of unsettling chaos.
Last February, Boim was among over a thousand CDC employees suddenly dismissed. The termination letter, she recalled, felt like a personal affront. Her performance reviews consistently lauded her work, even resulting in a recent raise, yet the agency deemed her skills “not fit” for their current needs.
Boim’s role within the National Center for Environmental Health focused on critical public health threats: radon, “forever chemicals,” lead poisoning. She communicated vital information, safeguarding communities from unseen dangers. The thought of that expertise vanishing weighed heavily on her.
The initial wave of firings wasn’t isolated. The Trump administration reinstated some workers, but continued staff reductions and funding cuts followed. For over six months, the CDC operated without a permanent director, further compounding the instability. The agency ultimately lost over 3,000 employees.
Now working a combination of contract and freelance jobs, Boim worries about the long-term consequences. The loss of CDC personnel isn’t just a statistic; it’s a dismantling of vital protections, a potential for “generational harm” to those unaware of the agency’s crucial role.
The impact extends beyond public health. Atlanta, a city deeply intertwined with the CDC, felt the economic ripple effects. Thousands of employees, friends, neighbors, and family members, suddenly faced financial uncertainty, impacting local businesses.
Nathan Chanthavong, manager of SriThai restaurant across from the CDC campus, noticed the change. A significant portion of his clientele vanished with the layoffs. Catering orders, once frequent, dwindled, representing a substantial loss of revenue.
The Department of Health and Human Services defended the cuts, citing a need to eliminate “wasteful and duplicative entities” and align with a specific agenda. However, the reality on the ground was one of disruption and loss.
Every Tuesday afternoon, a growing group of protesters gathered outside the CDC’s main entrance, marking the anniversary of what became known as the “Valentine’s Day massacre.” Signs proclaiming “We love CDC workers” and “Save Public Health” filled the sidewalk.
Among the protesters was Ben McKenzie, a current CDC researcher, witnessing the exodus of talented colleagues. He spoke of the “heartbreaking” loss of expertise and the added emotional burden of working at an agency increasingly perceived as a target.
That feeling of vulnerability was tragically underscored last summer when a gunman opened fire on CDC buildings, claiming the life of a DeKalb County police officer. The physical scars of the shooting remain, with repairs still incomplete, a constant reminder of the danger.
McKenzie is part of a mutual aid group that has distributed over $200,000 to support former CDC workers struggling with rent and basic necessities. It’s a testament to the community’s resilience, a collective effort to mitigate the damage caused by the upheaval.
