We’re living through an AI-fueled “Black October” and things are changing fast. Hackers are using AI to breach countless companies. AI tools have uncovered security flaws that could leave 70 percent of all websites vulnerable. Governments are scrambling to secure their sites. Banks, too. And because cyberhacks can hurt supply chains, some longtime AI watchers are going full prepper, stocking up on food, cash, and more.

In the center of this story is Anthropic, one of the world’s leading AI companies, which was explicitly founded on the promise that it would be a “good guy” company in a world of dubious tech giants.

Anthropic says all the latest developments are very serious. Its security chief wrote last week that things are “going to get a lot worse before they get better.” Two weeks ago the company warned that AI models could soon self-replicate on the internet-connected devices in your home, like smart fridges and robot vacuums. And its co-founder now says “the singularity” — when AI systems speed up technical progress in a way that’s hard for humans to comprehend — “is here.”

You might think, given its view of the risks, that Anthropic would be pumping the brakes on its cutting-edge AI progress. Just the opposite. Anthropic filed for a blockbuster initial public offering on Monday, chasing a valuation of $2 trillion even as it warns in the IPO filing that AI could “pose catastrophic or existential risks to humanity.” Every day, it is racing toward recursive self-improvement (RSI), where AI models are smart enough to build the next, even smarter AI models by themselves. 

How does Anthropic justify that?

As its CEO, Dario Amodei, reminded the world last week, he built the company on one big bet: that instead of driving a race to the bottom, where companies skimp on safety in their rush to beat competitors in the market, Anthropic could actually catalyze a “race to the top.” 

The idea is that if Anthropic proves it can build AI that’s both powerful and safe, the market will expect both — so other AI companies will then feel compelled to compete on safety, too. That may sound nice in theory, but it means Anthropic has to keep building ever-more-powerful AIs.

“The forces that drive the race to the top are hugely more effective if the company practicing them is at the frontier,” Amodei wrote. “And looking at that strategy as a whole, I’m proud of our track record and stand by it.”

In other words, Amodei is sticking to his bet. 

But Amodei is gambling with, by his and his company’s own telling, the future of humanity. If AI goes wrong, it could lead to our gradual disempowerment, a galling concentration of power, or even complete extinction.

So there’s a very basic question that the public deserves a good answer to right at this pivotal moment: What is the evidence that Anthropic’s stated strategy — compete at the frontier so as to drive a “race to the top” — is actually successful overall?

From the outside, it looks like Anthropic has done more, on balance, to drive a race to the bottom. (Disclosure: Future Perfect is funded in part by the BEMC Foundation, whose major funder was also an early investor in Anthropic; they don’t have any editorial input into our content.)

In fact, part of the problem may be that Anthropic continues to treat this as a classic arms race. Specifically, the company seems to model it as a prisoner’s dilemma: If Anthropic stopped building more powerful AI, another player — whether it’s China, OpenAI, or another company — would just build it anyway. In this kind of dilemma, if the other player is going to defect, it’s rational for you to defect, even though nobody actually wants that outcome.

But what if this framing misses the point? 

Game theory can make a huge gamble seem sophisticated, while making the obvious alternative — just don’t build a doom machine — seem naive. Yet the fact that Anthropic and others are now racing toward RSI makes it much more likely that we could lose control of AI and start to see massive damage to our world. When the cost of defecting from safety is that you create a serious risk of catastrophic harm — or of all humanity, including you, going extinct — is that still a “rational” move? 

Instead of telling yourself that you can galaxy-brain your way through this with fancy enough game theory, maybe you’re better off just thinking of this as something much simpler: Russian roulette.

More and more leading voices in AI are starting to recognize that. 

“We should stop AI progress now, starting unilaterally with Anthropic and/or OpenAI stopping — and then broadening out as a second step to more AI companies and negotiations with China,” Geoffrey Irving, who was until recently the chief scientist at the UK AI Security Institute, told me. “Unilateral pauses can’t hold for long, but they are the right first step: When you’re doing a very dangerous thing, the correct action is stop, even if others are also doing dangerous things.”

Anthropic did not respond to a request for comment. 

The case that Anthropic has done more harm than good

Let’s be clear: The question is not whether Anthropic has done anything good on the safety front. It has. Standing up to the Pentagon, temporarily holding back access to frontier models, and publicly advocating for safer AI policies are a few examples, among others.

But the real question is whether the company’s “race to the top” strategy is working on balance — whether it’s net-negative or net-positive for safety. 

Nathan Calvin, the chief strategy officer at AI safety advocacy organization Encode, recently set off a firestorm among tech watchers, writing on X, “When I look at many notable actions that Anthropic has taken over the past year, that evidence seems most consistent to me with the view that Anthropic is primarily trying to win the race to superintelligence, and that other considerations (including safety) are fundamentally secondary.” Here’s his list of what Anthropic has done:

And this is all just in the past year. If we rewind the tape further back, we see Anthropic pushing back on a landmark bill to regulate AI. Rewind even further back, and we see indications that Anthropic’s core strategy may have been flawed from the start. According to Reuters, in late 2022, OpenAI CEO Sam Altman heard rumors that Anthropic was building an AI-powered chatbot. So he ordered his employees to ship an OpenAI chatbot first. That chatbot was called ChatGPT. We all know the rest.

The rivalry between OpenAI and Anthropic seems not only to have hastened the arrival of generative AI, but also to keep pushing release dates forward to this day. The two companies have been known to release new or cheaper models within hours of each other, each one keen to protect its market share. 

Even if you think Anthropic’s behavior was justified in 2022 because publicly demonstrating the risks of AI also demonstrates the need to regulate AI — a common claim within the company and AI discourse writ large — you have to ask: Is it still justifiable now, when AI has reached this level of power and sophistication?

Anthropic has indicated that it’s getting closer and closer to achieving RSI. In January, Amodei himself wrote, “I am concerned that LLMs are approaching (or may already have reached) the knowledge needed to create and release [biological weapons] end-to-end, and that their potential for destruction is very high. Some biological agents could cause millions of deaths.” And he wrote in September, “Given the accelerating rate of AI capability development, it’s my worry that in 6-12 months such a swarm could be capable of taking over the entire internet with a persistent botnet.”

But at this point, Amodei and his staffers are themselves perhaps the primary ones accelerating the rate of AI capability development.

“Anthropic seems to be doing the whole RSI thing more than anyone else, other than perhaps OpenAI,” Calvin told me. “And I just think that seems insane given their publicly stated views on the risks.” 

“I think people at Anthropic should reckon more with the fact that it seems like the modal outcome is that the largest impact that Anthropic will have had is dramatically accelerating the race to RSI,” he continued. “On the current trajectory, everything else they will have done and thought and ideals they had will be a rounding error compared to their contribution there.”

Anthropic should be willing to invite scrutiny on this point — and, if it believes it’s actually making the field safer than it otherwise would be, to show us the receipts. How? It could put before Congress a bill that actually strengthens safety, instead of weakening it. It could stick to its former Responsible Scaling Policy and get other companies to do the same, instead of jettisoning its commitments. It could influence other labs not to build RSI, instead of leading the charge.

In the absence of such evidence, the “race to the top” logic just doesn’t hold water.

What if Anthropic just…stopped?

Amodei has begun advocating for “pacing the frontier” of AI development. “We must slow the pace at which we improve the capabilities of AI models,” he wrote in September.

The catch is that Amodei’s plan to slow down is contingent on others agreeing to slow down too — other AI labs, to start with, and also other countries. But more experts are now saying that it would be better if a frontier company like Anthropic unilaterally stopped.

“I’m glad that he proposed that we pace, but like, now we have to actually do it — and it seems like he’s saying he’s not going to do it unilaterally,” Daniel Kokotajlo, a former researcher at OpenAI who became a prominent whistleblower, told me. “That’s not very helpful, Dario! You should lead. What’s all this about ‘racing to the top’ and ‘leading by example’ if you’re just waiting?”

Voluntary unilateral action by individual companies is of course no substitute for federal regulation and international treaties. But Irving argues that it’s the right first step, because if the companies wait for governments to rein them in, it may well be too late. Governments are notoriously slow. An individual company can act today.

There’s a perennial objection here: “But China!”

Yet the idea that we’re in a classic arms race with China has always been flawed.

For starters, AI is not just one thing with one purpose, like the atomic bomb. It’s a much more general-purpose technology, like electricity. So what matters isn’t simply who gets it first, but who uses it in which ways. Besides, if the harms from AI are massive, then those harms are relevant for the other party, too. The Chinese don’t want to see catastrophic harms to all of human civilization, either. So we shouldn’t write off the possibility of coordination.

Former Vox reporter Kelsey Piper recently wrote about a colloquium at Anthropic where one participant objected: A decade ago, Facebook considered acquiring the tech that would later power TikTok. But, facing pressure due to privacy and safety worries, the company passed. That didn’t end up protecting us from the scourges of a world with TikTok — all it did was hand China an early monopoly on the tech. Piper writes:

Was this a policy success? Did we want to repeat it?

We were obliged to grudgingly concede that it didn’t sound like a policy success. We did not want to repeat it. China might be no excuse for the U.S. labs to do reckless things, but it is a real consideration.

Our next step might be bilateral talks with China, then. But by the point where you agree that Anthropic’s plans might depend on bilateral talks with China, you’ve already conceded most of the steps of Anthropic’s worldview that seemed so much like madness 10 minutes ago: continue working on AI for now, try to negotiate a slowdown, but don’t abandon work at the frontier and all the advantages that come with it.

But TikTok is not a good analogy for RSI. The former may be a cesspool that rots our brains and amplifies ethnic hatred, but its dangers don’t compare to the dangers of RSI. The TikTok case may indeed be best approached as a classic prisoner’s dilemma. But with RSI, the potential downside is so catastrophic that anyone who proposes to save the world precisely by building the tech that endangers it is making a hell of a gamble on behalf of everyone else. At the very least, the burden of proof should be on them to prove their confidence is justified.

AI insiders often think those outside of their industry can’t possibly understand the technical, geopolitical, and moral complexities they’re facing. But commonsense morality is commonsense for a reason: It tracks intuitions that are usually right (such as, if you don’t want a doom machine, maybe don’t build a doom machine) and trains us to be appropriately skeptical of huge, counterintuitive bets to the contrary. 

Precisely because the AI landscape is a complex system — there are so many actors (including different AI companies and different governments), and actions from each can trigger actions from others in ways that are hard to predict — believing you’re smart enough to take highly counterintuitive actions and end up saving the world as a result is an extremely risky gambit. Instead, maybe it’s best to just do the straightforwardly right thing: Stop.   

To be clear, “stopping” doesn’t have to mean peeling back everything that’s been done in AI so far. The powerful AI systems that are already out there can’t be put back in the box. And we may need some AI to defend from the AI that’s already out there.

“I’m not saying shut down all of your data centers,” Calvin said. “But I’m saying that in particular, pushing the frontier on RSI and making it so that you’re going to be the company that is doing more fully autonomous development than anyone else in the world, does that actually make any fucking sense?”         

Increasingly, both AI insiders and the public are shouting no. 

Some insiders, perhaps aware that humanity is perfectly capable of shutting down overly dangerous tech development (we’ve done it before), are speaking out and quitting jobs at AI companies. At public gatherings, like the recent Pro-Human Assembly in Washington, DC, and the People’s AI Assembly in New York City, people are piling on the pressure to rethink the AI race. States are drawing up their own legislation to rein in the tech. And a single X post from Calvin got so much attention that no less than Amodei himself felt compelled to respond. The AI companies are being forced to pay attention. 

Attention may not be all you need, but it’s a start.

Hi readers! Shayla Love here, science journalist and longtime fan of Your Mileage May Vary. I’m honored to be subbing for Sigal Samuel while she’s out on parental leave. I’m diving into your questions as a way to help understand human nature and our choices through multiple lenses: philosophical, psychological, and beyond. Please send in any emotional, body/brain, sociological, perceptual, or other kind of life quandaries you might have.

I am someone who notoriously struggles with big decisions. Over a year ago, I found a wonderful partner, who very much feels like they could be my soulmate. We’ve been dating three time zones apart for a while. Being near our families, communities, and aging parents is a shared value — unfortunately one that makes it hard to compromise on location. Either way, I have to give up something I want and value — a wonderful partner who I can see a life with (the first time I’ve felt this way about someone), or the place I’ve always imagined settling down and that represents the person I am becoming and values I want to live. Two good things are pulling me toward opposite paths and there’s not much room for compromise. How do I make the “right” decision? 

Dear Fork in the Road,

You’ve found a place in the world that you feel connected to and you met a person you envision spending the rest of your life with. Geographically restless and lonely people everywhere are jealous! But with your good fortunes seemingly at odds with one another, it feels that by choosing one, you’ll forsake the other — and doom the choice you did make to feel like a sacrifice. 

When circumstances have forced me to make a tough decision, I’ve daydreamed about a thought experiment: the Many Worlds Interpretation. 

In quantum physics, particles behave differently than us mortals. For example, an electron can be in more than one place at once until it’s measured. How can it be in multiple locations and then be observed to be in a single position? In the 1950s, the American physicist Hugh Everett proposed an explanation: The universe splits into alternate versions of itself, one for each place a particle could be measured. To apply this theory to your life, if you chose to move cities, don’t worry, another universe would be created in which you didn’t choose to do this, and you’ll stay right where you are! 

Yes, I know you can’t transport yourself into such a quantum realm, but there is something helpful in thinking about alternative universes. Did you have an immediate reaction to which universe you would be upset not to inhabit? Take that information to heart, because it’s likely you’re not ultimately going to make your choice based on a tidy pro-con list.

The psychologists Daniel Kahneman and Amos Tversky won a Nobel Prize for pointing out that most of our decisions are not based on rationality. People use two systems for decision-making: System one is faster and emotionally based, and system two is more logical and slow. But even the slower, more deliberate decision-making can fall prey to any number of cognitive biases. 

In your case, one called loss aversion may be especially relevant. People have the tendency to worry more about what they’ll lose, even if what they stand to gain is equal in value. For example, it will likely feel worse to lose a $10 bill from your pocket than it would feel good to find a $10 bill on the ground. This bias is relevant in people’s social lives too: They hold onto older, maybe fading, friendships because the thought of losing them is too painful, but don’t seek out new friends with equal effort. Or, they stay in a meh job because it feels scary to let it go, rather than applying that same energy to finding a new one. Once you accept that your decision-making process will be subject to messy feelings and biases, you can let go of trying to make the perfect choice. 

You opened your question by sharing that you struggle with big decisions, and it makes me wonder if you simply feel anxiety about making a choice at all. This is called analysis paralysis. When outcomes are uncertain, anxiety wakes up, and a voice in your head tells you to avoid taking risks. People with analysis paralysis overthink their options, over-research, and second-guess their first instincts. These actions have more to do with stress over committing to any decision rather than the content of what you’re deciding on.  

A surprising finding from psychology may ease your paralysis. Researchers told people to make a big life decision — on the order of ending a relationship or quitting their job — by flipping a coin. Heads, they made the change; tails, they didn’t. For those who followed the results of the toss, the people who made the change were overwhelmingly happier, even though their decision to do so was made by pure chance. These random-flip outcomes also show “that people may be excessively cautious when facing life-changing choices,” the authors wrote. The coin helped the participants resist the bias of tending to stick with the status quo, even if it doesn’t make them happier. 

To begin to loosen your paralysis, something that might assist you, paradoxically, is to introduce more options into the mix. Jacques Derrida, the 20th-century French philosopher, is known for the concept of deconstruction, a way of analyzing texts or ideas more critically, and showing they’re not as stable as they seem. He pointed out that we often think in binaries and false opposites: good vs. evil,  man vs. woman, nature vs. culture. This can set up an easy dichotomy in which one of the items is good, and the other, by being its opposite, is bad. 

You’ve created a binary situation, and you don’t actually have to be in one. What if there’s a third option, or a fourth? What if you and your partner move to a brand-new city, and set out to create new community, together? What if you and your partner find a way to split your time between your respective hometowns? Now you don’t have only two good things pulling you in opposite directions, you would have different options you can be more creative with. You also don’t have to commit to the decision you make now for the rest of your life. You can always move cities again, or try to find another mate. 

You are with a partner you love, and live in a place that you love. You might reframe your situation as a win-win, rather than a lose-lose. And remember that if you don’t make a choice, you’re not successfully avoiding a decision — it’s a choice of its own. Your partner may get tired of long-distance or end the relationship for another reason. Or, you could start to resent the place you live since you have to travel so much to spend time with your partner. 

I also want to point out how you describe your partner. Don’t turn your nose up at finding someone who you can see making a life with, especially as you note, if you’ve never felt that way before. Billionaire investor Warren Buffett has said that there were two most important moments in his life: when he came out of the womb, and when he met his wife. “What happened with me would not have happened without her.” Buffett’s view is supported by research that shows that people with supportive spouses tend to take on more rewarding challenges throughout their lives, and end up having more personal growth and happiness. 

Another quantum idea that might interest you is spooky action at a distance. This is when two particles, even far apart, become connected to one another. Measuring one affects the other, no matter how far apart they are. If your partner feels like your “soulmate,” perhaps you have become entangled already. Don’t fret about making the perfect choice about the next phase of life, but do make a choice (any choice!) that considers your futures as bound up together. For the other details, maybe it’s time to find a coin to flip. 

Bonus: What I’m reading

• I’m currently re-watching The Twilight Zone and recommend the episode Mirror Image, about a young woman who encounters her double from a parallel universe. The show’s creator, Rod Serling, was inspired to write the script when he saw a man at the airport who looked suspiciously like him, and had a similar suitcase and jacket. What if he approached the man, and it turned out to be himself? The dreamy story also inspired the movie Us by Jordan Peele. 

• The 2026 Nobel Prize in Chemistry was awarded to Henri B. Kagan and Kenso Soai for their work on “handedness”: how molecules can have variants that are non-identical mirror images of one another. These variants are their own kind of dark doppelganger; only one can exist in the body. The science writer Ann Finkbender wrote a charming essay about understanding this principle of life in Last Word on Nothing. 

• If you haven’t yet read Stoner by John Williams, just put down whatever you’re currently reading and do it. It’s a cautionary tale about what happens when you don’t act, and let your passivity make choices for you.

On the first day of its war against Iran, the United States killed 123 children when it targeted and struck an elementary school. 

The strikes, ultimately approved by humans, were facilitated by the US’s Maven Smart System, an AI-enabled software platform developed by Palantir Technologies that allows the military to aggregate, organize, and process battlefield data. Operators fed Maven intelligence classifying the elementary school as an Iranian military facility, and the system, in turn, marked it as one of the priority targets for day one of the war. Though the site was formerly part of a naval military base, it had been converted into an elementary school in 2017 and had remained one since. The intel handed to Maven did not reflect this.  

This mistake resulted in what some reporters have called “one of the single worst massacres committed by the US government since the Vietnam War.”

Such scenarios may become more common as militaries continue to deploy a once-theoretical technology — AI-assisted or autonomous weapons, capable of making both targeting and launch decisions on their own — on real battlefields around the globe. And they raise a troubling, unresolved question: When human beings and machines collaborate in violating international law, who is to blame? 

In this case, the government and private sector are pointing the finger at each other. Some US Central Command personnel, according to Pentagon officials who spoke to Bloomberg, expected Maven to flag stale information or inconsistencies in the underlying intelligence assembled for potential targets. Meanwhile, a Palantir spokesperson told Bloomberg that the company “is not responsible for the underlying data nor identifying intelligence deficiencies,” while also denying that the evidence indicated that its software was at fault in the strike. 

This debate underscores the fact that AI and autonomous weapons are raising a new host of unresolved issues within the law, even as they’re actively assuming positions on the battlefield. In institutions where the line between human and machine decision-making continues to blur, how do we assign responsibility for war crimes? And, are the laws in place suited for the job?

In institutions where the line between human and machine decision-making continues to blur, how do we assign responsibility for war crimes?

To unpack some of these issues, I spoke with international law expert Allen Weiner, a senior lecturer at Stanford Law School, where he teaches courses on the law of armed conflict. Before teaching at Stanford, Weiner practiced international law in the US Department of State for more than a decade. We discussed the difficulties in attributing criminal responsibility, achieving justice for those harmed by lethal autonomous weapons, and much more. The conversation below has been lightly edited for length and clarity.

How do autonomous weapons challenge traditional understandings of responsibility when it comes to the law of armed conflict?

For most of the 20 years I’ve been teaching at Stanford, there’s been a real fascination and fixation on the problem of autonomous weapons. But the truth is that up until pretty recently, nobody really had any [of them]. It was more of an idea than a problem. It’s only in recent years that we have begun to see the deployment of tools that seem to have the capability [to make decisions themselves], so this does raise the question about compliance with illegal orders and where in the chain responsibility lies.

There are different theories about this. Some people say that if we’re engaged in an illegal attack, that has to be because of the programming or the code, so the manufacturers are somehow responsible for committing war crimes. 

Other people would say no, that’s not the case, especially if the military has said the tool is not allowed to make very substantial autonomous judgments, or can’t say no. Then it’s basically the commander, at the point they decide to deploy this weapon, who might be responsible for the illegal acts, even without knowing in advance what they’re going to be.

So to finish where I began, this does present a big challenge to our traditional understanding of responsibility for targeting decisions and of what it would mean if there were an obligation [for autonomous weapons] to say no. 

The real issue is not the obligation to say no, but this: If you train a tool and it wages war in a manner that’s unlawful, where does responsibility for that lie?

If a commander gives a clearly illegal order, such as, “blow up this school,” it seems clear that responsibility falls on the commander. But I could imagine a scenario where a commander is using an AI-assisted or autonomous weapon, isn’t giving it any illegal orders, is trusting that it will operate within the law, and the weapon breaks the law “on its own.” Where does responsibility fall in those cases?

I can imagine two different scenarios. One is that you say, “We’re going to carry out an attack against our enemy, and we want to hit them really, really hard.” Your tool has been trained to say, “We’re not allowed to hit civilian objects,” so it might say, “I’m not going to hit a school.” But if the military has said, “Don’t refuse any targets,” then it might override the way it’s been trained. 

We’re seeing this already, with the stories coming out about breaches where AI tools, Claude and ChatGPT in particular, interpret their instructions in a way that causes them to do something the person who gave the instruction would not have wanted. When Anthropic gave Claude a challenge to figure out if it could do something, the tool figured out, well, maybe we should break into Hugging Face as a way of solving this problem, and the people who gave the AI tool the challenge never intended that.

So if you said, “We want to launch a really punishing campaign,” what happens if the tool on its own says, “Nothing’s going to hurt them more than seeing their kids killed, so let’s attack the school?” That’s one risk, and it’s a real challenge.

So [as for who’s responsible], it’s not the commander who said “hit them hard,” because when he said that, he didn’t mean “attack schools.” It’s not really the companies, because the companies didn’t want them to hit schools either. 

But the tools are out there, reading everything on the internet, and it came across something that said the way you win a war is by attacking the things your adversary holds most dear, and they hold nothing more dear than their children. So it makes this kind of judgment on its own. And it’s not as if you can go back and say who ordered it to hit a school, which is the thing that is clearly illegal. So I do think there’s a risk of diffusion of responsibility here.

You could say the commander knew the tool might work this way, or the person who decided to contract with Palantir or with Claude, whoever it is, to build this tool. But if we’re really thinking about criminal responsibility, the level of responsibility you would need to convict someone requires a culpable mental state. You would need the person to intend, or at least know, that they were authorizing an attack against the school. And I can easily see a commander saying, “I had no idea.”

The decision to authorize this tool, or to give an instruction like “hit them very hard,” could be a basis for some other kind of accountability — administrative discipline within the military, a reprimand, your rank is lowered. But if we’re talking about criminal responsibility, which is what we often think about when we talk about war crimes, I think this diffusion of responsibility is going to make it very hard to identify any single individual who has the required mental state to give rise to accountability.

The second scenario is where the tool just makes a mistake based on the information available to it. We saw that with the attack on the girls’ school in Iran, where it was pretty clear the tool was looking at old data. Now, who’s responsible for that? 

Is it the people who said “give me targets based on this data set,” when they should have made sure the data and the maps were current? All of this strikes me as negligence or recklessness, and it does seem challenging to imagine a situation in which we would say yes, somebody here has committed a war crime. 

“There can well be war crimes, but identifying who the war criminal is might be a big challenge.”

A war crime has been committed, but is there a war criminal? That’s the situation we’re seeing. There can well be war crimes, but identifying who the war criminal is might be a big challenge.

There’s a professor of law, Rebecca Crootof, who proposes the idea of “war torts.” Instead of thinking about war crimes involving autonomous weapons solely through a criminal responsibility lens, maybe tort law — which allows victims to sue wrongdoers for negligent, reckless, or intentional harm — could address the diffusion of responsibility you mentioned. What do you think about that idea?

I think the idea is interesting. We have to separate out the obligations that countries have under international humanitarian law. In a situation like the one I just described, where there’s a war crime but no war criminal, that doesn’t mean the country is not responsible. There may not be an individual who’s criminally accountable, but if a country targets civilians in a circumstance that’s unreasonable, that’s a violation of international humanitarian law, and that could be a basis for claims between the two countries. 

Tribunals were established between Ethiopia and Eritrea, for instance, after the Eritrean War of Independence, that dealt with claims between the two countries for money damages, and some of them involved allegations of violations of the law of armed conflict. Iraq paid reparations after the first Gulf War for harms it had caused to people in Kuwait, under something called the UN Compensation Commission. So the idea that the state is responsible is well established, and one of the ways states would discharge that responsibility would be by paying money damages. That’s the domestic-law equivalent of torts.

Whether there would be a mechanism for [civilians] doing this in domestic law is an interesting idea. We would probably need legislatures, either state legislatures or the federal government, to create a private cause of action allowing people who have been injured to bring claims against, say, the manufacturers of these tools. But this gets procedurally very complicated, because there’s a whole body of law on federal sovereign immunity. 

Could you sue the Defense Department? Probably not. Could you sue an individual soldier? Probably not. Could you sue Anthropic or Palantir? Maybe. But it would probably require Congress to enact a new cause of action, because in general it’s very hard to bring private lawsuits in US courts for violations of international law.

The basic idea of what we would think of as tort or civil responsibility is really the whole essence of international law. On the substance, states do owe responsibility to one another, and they can engage in violations of international humanitarian law that would invoke their responsibility. But then the whole separate question is whether you have a forum within which to adjudicate that and get compensation.

Does that look different in cases where violations of international law were committed by a human soldier versus a machine?

Well, we don’t know, because there have been no cases in the latter category. All of the international humanitarian law violations that have been the subject of international law claims were ordered by humans. 

Now, if an American machine launches an attack against a girls’ school in Iran, and there were a court with jurisdiction, the US would be responsible. In some ways it wouldn’t matter whether it was an individual or a machine, because we don’t have to go down to the level of the individual actor, company, AI tool, or commander. The responsibility is the responsibility of the country. In some ways, that makes it easier.

If we pursued compensation through state-to-state claims, you’d be able to do that without getting into the details of who within the state that committed the war crime was responsible. The state whose school was attacked would say, “I don’t care. You committed a war crime, you’re liable to me, you’re responsible for the damages, and you can figure it out internally.”

But if we were doing something like a war crimes prosecution, where we’re trying to hold an individual criminally responsible, that would make quite a difference. We would have to deal with all of these difficult questions about responsibility and mental state that you and I are struggling with right now.

So, in most cases, the state would have to take responsibility regardless.

Right, and there are lots of [International Court of Justice] cases involving different aspects of the use of force. The principle that you can bring state-to-state claims for violation of these rules is quite well established. 

But with international law, states have to consent to the jurisdiction of a court. They can do that in advance by saying “I’ve signed up to the jurisdiction of a court and I accept any claims that might be brought against me in this court,” or they do it on a case-by-case basis. And it may not surprise you to know that some of the most powerful countries in the world, the ones most likely to use force outside their borders, have tended to be reluctant to accept the jurisdiction of international courts and tribunals.

Russia, the United States, Israel, and China have not accepted the so-called optional clause jurisdiction of the International Court of Justice. So there’s the substance, about the responsibility of states, and then there are the procedural aspects of whether these cases could be brought in court.

And Trump recently said everyone on the International Criminal Court should “resign immediately.”

Yeah, exactly. 

And what about the role of these military tech companies, like Palantir?

“At what point does Palantir become a good target under international law? Or at what point does Anthropic become a good target under international law, if its AI tools are being used to promote the war effort?”

Another issue [I’ve been thinking on] because of the questions we’re talking about is when the companies themselves become combatants.

We know that a private company that manufactures airplanes, an airplane factory, is a good target under international law. At what point does Palantir become a good target under international law? Or at what point does Anthropic become a good target under international law, if its AI tools are being used to promote the war effort? I think that question is about when the connection of these private companies to the war effort, in a way we’ve never really seen before, meets the standards under international law.

A civilian loses their immunity when they directly participate in hostilities, or if they assume what is known as a “continuous combatant function.” Are there arguments to be made that some of these private companies are participating in hostilities by virtue of supplying the tools the military is using to wage war? I think that’s a really interesting question.

Very often, a viral news story about animals is a comedy to its audience and an unmitigated tragedy to its subjects. That was the case this past weekend, as footage of bands of juvenile cows dashing through the streets of Kansas City stampeded across the internet. 

The details are as follows: Last weekend, in the middle of the night, a semitruck carrying close to 120 young cattle plunged off a highway interchange in Kansas City’s downtown, spilling out dozens of animals. The truck driver and one other person sustained minor injuries. Dozens of the cows were killed, many others were seriously injured, and still others went running into the city. Some of them traveled for several miles, the city’s fire chief told the Associated Press. The animals were chased around the streets by first responders and self-described “cowboys” (one of them appearing to carry an electric cord as a lasso); authorities said all were rounded up by the end of the day.

To many people, freak accidents like these understandably look a little funny, even fantastical. “We take free roam BBQ very seriously,” one Reddit comment, with more than 400 upvotes as of this writing, said. “Much as I lament the tragic loss of bovine life, these videos have brought such joy to our fair city,” another commenter wrote. 

The clips undoubtedly have a certain charm. If only the animals were as carefree as they appeared in those brief moments — and if only they could truly escape the fate that humans had in store for them. But as my colleague Kenny Torrella has written, the strange animal stories that periodically capture the public’s imagination almost invariably circulate stripped of the darker reality from which they emerge — humanity’s dominion over nonhuman animals. In this case, the cattle crash illuminates one of the most overlooked cruelties of modern animal agriculture: the nightmare of livestock transportation.  

When you imagine the lives of animals raised for food, you might think of a factory farm (in a large majority of cases, very cruel) or a slaughterhouse (likewise, and not just for animals raised primarily for meat — dairy cows and egg-laying hens are slaughtered, too). But the animals need to be transported from the farm to the slaughterhouse, and also between numerous different facilities — breeding farms, hatcheries, feedlots, auctions — over the course of their lives as they progress through different stages of the livestock supply chain. Most cattle raised for beef and dairy are transported multiple times in their lifetimes; between four and six journeys is common. A recent US Department of Agriculture report found that half of cattle shipped to feedlots traveled for more than 250 miles, and 22 percent traveled more than 500 miles. 

Kansas City, along with Chicago, St. Louis, and Omaha, Nebraska, was once a major national hub of livestock transportation, with cattle arriving by the trainload at its busy stockyards (earning the city its nickname, “cowtown”). But the rail-based livestock trade that made it famous has largely vanished, replaced by a sprawling system of truck transit that carry animals between farms, feedlots, and slaughterhouses across the country. These form the connective tissue that makes it possible for the American livestock industry to raise and slaughter nearly 10 billion land animals every year. 

You’ve probably seen livestock trucks on the interstate, with their long, aluminum bodies and oval ventilation holes. They appear unremarkable enough from the outside. But the most important thing to understand about farm animal transportation is that these creatures are not handled like passengers, the way you or I would be treated on a long-distance trip. Rather, they are freight, loaded into metal trailers, often packed tightly together  for long, very uncomfortable, sometimes dangerous stretches of highway travel. Picture yourself hurtling down the interstate in a box at 70 miles an hour, struggling to balance for many hours, without a seat, a seat belt, heating or cooling, or any of the other protections designed to keep human passengers safe and comfortable. As the hours pass, urine and manure accumulate beneath the animals’ feet, which can cause them to slip.

The trips “can span many hours and thousands of miles, potentially exposing livestock to overcrowding, extreme temperatures, limited ventilation, and lack of access to water or food, among other things,” according to a damning report on farm animal transportation released over the summer by the US Government Accountability Office (GAO). “If not managed properly, these conditions can lead to injury, illness, or death.” 

Even the process by which animals are herded onto the trucks is often highly stressful, with frightened animals pushed, prodded, pulled, and otherwise handled roughly. I have reviewed, over the years, more videos than I can count of stressed farmworkers treating cows and pigs in ways that appear appalling to people not steeped in animal agriculture, simply because they’re desperate to meet the demands of their jobs and get the animals to move.

According to a 2022 investigation by The Guardian, more than 20 million animals every year “are dead on arrival, or soon after,” when they reach a slaughterhouse. Most of those are chickens, the species that makes up the overwhelming majority of land animals raised for food; about 166,000 of them, per The Guardian, were cattle. 

Catastrophic crashes like what happened in Kansas City are far rarer than the more routine, mundane cruelties of livestock transportation, but they do happen regularly. On a cursory search, I was able to find 20 others that have occurred in the US so far this year. Aaron Caster, who owns the towing company that handled the recovery operation in the crash, told me that almost all of the animals were female, and estimated they were around 6 months old, not yet fully grown. They’d been shipped from Virginia, he said, and had been on their way to Nebraska.

Caster’s account of the scene of the crash is harrowing. “The cab was ripped off the truck, the trailer was on its side with the entire trailer blown apart,” he told me. “Just cows everywhere. Some alive, some were dead.” Some had “really busted legs, ripped up pretty good,” and were euthanized. Caster, who is also a rancher, said he took more than 50 surviving cows to his property in Bates City, Missouri, to recover. Two of those have since died, he told me earlier this week, including one who had been “cut up pretty bad” in the crash and was euthanized after developing an infection.

In the US, there’s one major law designed to protect the well-being of livestock animals in transit: The Twenty-Eight-Hour Law of 1873, which says that livestock in transit traveling across state lines can’t be confined for more than 28 hours without being unloaded for rest, food, and water. 

That rule excludes poultry birds entirely, meaning that the vast majority of animals raised for food aren’t covered — a major oversight. But even for those species that nominally benefit from it, the law is very rarely enforced. Farmed animal advocacy groups have documented and complained about that for years, and the GAO this summer similarly reported that enforcement is extremely limited. The report paints a picture of the federal system for protecting farm animals in transit as woefully inadequate and largely toothless, dating back to the era when livestock traveled primarily by rail. 

The report identified six factors that contribute to cruel conditions for animals on the road, including not just the length of the trip but also temperature extremes, unsafe and unsanitary vehicles, rough handling, and being transported when they’re too sick, injured, or vulnerable (like animals who are extremely young or heavily pregnant). Federal law fails to cover most of those dangers while offering almost no meaningful enforcement of the 28-hour duration rule that is in place. 

Between 2013 and 2025, the USDA investigated just 23 suspected violations of the law, resulting in no fines and only four warning letters — and in 2022, the GAO report notes, the USDA stopped issuing even those. The GAO contrasts the US system with more modernized protections in Canada, Mexico, Australia, and the European Union, which include requirements around animals’ fitness for travel, adequate space, humane handling, and vehicle safety.

Some of the most heartbreaking livestock transportation conditions that I’ve personally covered have been in the dairy industry, where it’s common to ship fragile newborn calves, just separated from their mothers, across long distances. It’s also routine to ship dairy cows on long journeys to slaughter once they’re no longer profitable. On these trips, they’re often exhausted, pregnant, and in poor physical condition: A 2022 industry audit found that roughly one in three had impaired mobility when they arrived at the slaughterhouse.

A modern and comprehensive system overseeing farm animal transportation might prevent some cases like these, which are among the most wretched miseries found in our food system. It wouldn’t stop every horror that unfolds inside a livestock truck, nor could it eliminate the most visible disasters, like the crash in Kansas City; for that, we’d need to more fundamentally alter our relationship with animals and our prodigious appetite for meat.

When the sun goes down, the wind picks up in central New Mexico, whipping through arid canyons with a ghostly howl that for centuries, locals have likened to the wails of the folkloric ghost La Llorona. 

A few hours east of Albuquerque, this June, those gusts began powering the largest wind farm this continent has ever seen, twirling over 900 colossal steel turbines. Each is as tall as the Statue of Liberty, scattered across a patch of desert roughly the size of Chicago. They plug into a 550-mile transmission line stitched across the Southwest and are now powering over one million homes — as far away as California. 

The SunZia Wind and Transmission project is a rare 21st-century triumph of American infrastructure, an engineering marvel that generates more electricity than the Hoover Dam. When the turbines came online this spring, they immediately broke records for wind-generated power in California’s energy supply, where solar power may rule the day, but the winds of New Mexico increasingly fuel the night.

After years of stagnant power growth, the US is absolutely starving for more electricity, with demand projected to rise by 25 percent by the end of this decade, and a staggering 78 percent by 2050. Enormous as this challenge might seem, it may ultimately be the catalyst the country needs to dramatically dial up its renewable energy infrastructure, so that the years to come are powered not by gas or coal, but by clean energy sources like the sun and the wind. By next summer, the project will have prevented about 9 million metric tons of carbon dioxide from entering the atmosphere, according to Pattern Energy, the project’s developer. 

For decades, however, it seemed the project would remain little more than a spectral dream. 

“It works!” This was the call Hunter Armistead, Pattern’s CEO, remembers getting from his head engineer when the turbines came online for the very first time. “We were creating power, and it was showing up 550 miles away in Phoenix, almost as if it was magic.” During the ribbon-cutting for the wind farm, some construction workers showed off massive new turbine tattoos. “It’s their pride that for the rest of their lives, they can drive by and tell their kid, ‘I did this,’” Armistead said.

But SunZia almost didn’t get built at all. It is not just the project’s scale that makes it remarkable, but the utter morass its developers slogged through to bring it online. The project spanned five presidential administrations, an ownership change, a major reroute, and a standoff with a US military base. 

It also involved a series of lawsuits from local tribal communities and environmental advocates, some of which remain pending even as the turbines now finally whirl. Building any renewable megaproject requires vast amounts of space, and hyperspecific natural conditions, like a wind that blows at night or a reliably sun-soaked desert plain. Then getting that energy to major cities means traversing some of the most pristine, spectacular natural corridors this nation has left, and particularly in the Southwest, rubbing up against the sacred lands of local tribal communities. 

The decades-long saga to settle some of these tensions has turned SunZia into a helpful lesson, and for many, deserved or not, it became the ultimate poster child for permitting reform. And for many years, the country’s need for power didn’t seem to call for such a wildly ambitious project anyway. But in the interim, as the world changed, SunZia changed too, becoming — at least in some places — a better and more collaborative project than it was when it began. And now, with a nation finally focused on building more clean energy megaprojects, it can offer a glimpse of what’s to come, even a blueprint of what could be.

The real reason(s) it took so long for SunZia to get built

When SunZia was first proposed in 2006, the same year Twitter went online, coal was still the most important electricity source in America, and the nation’s appetite for electricity had remained nearly flat year after year.

And for the next 17 years, SunZia flailed, never even breaking ground. It ping-ponged between financial and regulatory purgatories that most commentators have attributed to endless permitting delays. There were, for example, a few state-level permitting debacles, with New Mexico rejecting SunZia’s initial transmission route in 2018. Even after such interstate power lines get federal approval, they often need to wait years longer for approvals from every state in which their project passes.

Sen. Martin Heinrich of New Mexico, for one, has cited SunZia as a key impetus for his co-sponsoring the Senate’s new plan for permitting reform. This would make it easier for the federal government to coordinate approval processes for interstate transmission lines, ensuring that they happen concurrently and preventing one state from dragging its heels. 

The project had faced one particularly large and sticky permitting challenge: getting the power through the White Sands Missile Range. But this, and other challenges, were eventually resolved relatively quickly. And to David Hayes, who served as deputy secretary of the Department of the Interior during the Obama administration, this suggests that financing hamstrung the project even more than red tape. 

“The facts are the facts, and they got their permit,” said Hayes — all the way back in 2015, not long after the Obama administration put SunZia on a “fast-track” to approval. “So we finally got the permit done. Hooray, right? And then nothing happens. Nothing happens.” 

Part of that was the fact that the two states where SunZia wanted to build its transmission lines were not entirely on board. But it was also the sheer expense involved in building the project, especially given that the federal approval required burying parts of the transmission line near the missile range. Moreover, even if everything went perfectly with the project’s permitting process, it might have been impossible to build SunZia back then, said Armistead, because “we really didn’t have the market need for it.” 

The US simply wasn’t as ravenous for new electricity as it is right now, and the importance of building out the future of energy was not enticing enough for investors on its own.

But, refusing to die a slow death of a thousand permitting blockades or financial setbacks, SunZia instead evolved. Pattern Energy, initially only in charge of developing the wind farm portion of the project, took over the transmission line project in 2022. Around that time, SunZia applied for a revised federal permit, one that would circumvent the missile range, and within less than two years — a relative sprint for federal bureaucracy — they had a new approval in hand. Then came $11 billion in financing from several global financial institutions, pension funds, and clean energy investors. Then, a few years of construction time later, the Americas’ biggest wind farm was finally switched on.

And more massive projects like this will be needed because nowadays, “there is no longer the excuse” of a market unready for high volumes of clean energy, Armistead told me. “It is game time, and we’re supposed to get this done.”

What America’s biggest clean energy project got right

One of the secrets to SunZia’s ultimate success in New Mexico was the project’s ability to strike compromises, even with some of its earliest critics. In some cases, a bunch of birds. 

Right about now, the earliest migratory birds, like the crimson-capped sandhill crane, have begun arriving at their Southwestern wintering grounds, not far from some of SunZia’s newly operational high-voltage transmission lines.

This crane had nearly gone extinct before, driven in part by an explosion of new hydroelectric dams in the early 20th century, whose construction dried out local wetlands. SunZia’s initial route, which was planned across one of the most congested flyways in the country, threatened them again, birders feared, alongside other migratory species who might accidentally fly into the new power lines, a threat believed to kill millions of birds nationwide each year. 

While SunZia’s original developer, the Southwestern Power Group, was largely unmoved by those concerns, said Sarah Rose, vice president of climate at the National Audubon Society, the nonprofit found an unusually receptive partner to compromise when Pattern Energy took over. 

“They took their role as a project developer really seriously,” she said, “and I think they engaged with us with a lot of integrity and a lot of good faith.” Under a rerouting plan, original power lines were moved north, erected next to existing infrastructure, or affixed with visual warning systems or bird diverters. Not only did the changes make the bird advocates happy, but they were enough to help convince the New Mexico Public Regulation Commission, which had rejected SunZia’s permit application a few years earlier in part due to these concerns, to unanimously approve the project in 2022. 

To be clear, not everybody believed Pattern always made the appropriate compromises, especially in Arizona, where SunZia’s route remained unchanged under the new management. Peter Else, a local environmentalist, has spent years fighting SunZia in court over its intrusion into the scenic San Pedro Valley, a region that is sacred to Indigenous communities such as the Tohono O’odham Nation and San Carlos Apache Tribe. To see it marred by more power lines through the landscape has been like “mourning a death,” Else said, “like an ecological homicide.” 

He would have liked to see SunZia try to run the valley’s new power lines alongside existing ones, as it managed to do in parts of New Mexico, a process that Armistead told me would not have been possible because the Arizona portion of the line “was already put to bed,” and the original federal permit had found the valley to be “the least impactful and best route.” A lawsuit from the Tohono O’odham Nation and San Carlos Apache Tribe accusing SunZia and the Department of the Interior of failing to protect the valley remains pending. 

Of course, climate change threatens many of these regions more than a single power line. In the two decades it took SunZia to begin pumping clean energy across state lines, waves of extreme heat have taken tens of thousands of American lives, and the entire Southwest has continued in a megadrought unseen in the past 1,200 years. 

These are some of the very concerns that SunZia seeks, in part, to combat. And if we want to avoid even more heat deaths, extreme droughts, more flash floods, and more habitat destruction, then we probably will need a lot more facilities like it, some of which will require hard tradeoffs. 

But they aren’t doomed always to. It may have taken SunZia over a decade to learn that lesson, but for future megaprojects, the blueprint may already be there. The nearby 280-mile high-voltage Southline Transmission Project spanning parts of Arizona and New Mexico is set to begin construction next year, and it’s been so intentional about minimizing its ecological and cultural impact that even Else praised it as a good idea. And this approach could pave the way for even more essential large-scale projects like it. “If more folks could come to the table looking for solutions as opposed to expecting conflict,” Rose said, “I think we would be able to move a lot more quickly.” Ideally, it won’t take another 20 years.

This story was supported by a grant from Arnold Ventures. Vox had full discretion over the content of this reporting.

The Ebola virus is spreading at an unprecedented rate this year. 

In the first five months since the outbreak began in the Democratic Republic of Congo (DRC), the World Health Organization (WHO) has reported 9,415 confirmed cases and 4,536 deaths in the country. While the virus has remained relatively contained by the DRC’s borders, case counts in neighboring Kenya and Uganda are also climbing (albeit more slowly). There are 20 confirmed cases in Uganda and eight in Kenya, and much of central and eastern Africa has tightened its borders. 

The last major Ebola epidemic of this scale began in 2014 and continued through 2016 in West Africa. Over that period, it ultimately killed more than 11,000 people throughout West Africa. Nearly four years later, a smaller outbreak plagued Congo in its North Kivu region, leading to 2,229 deaths before it was contained. 

The 2026 crisis hasn’t yet reached the same levels as the 2014 outbreak, but the speed of its spread is far greater. 

As the chart below shows, around 150 days after the outbreak was declared, 2,599 Ebola cases had been reported in the 2014 West African epidemic. At the same time point this year, the number of cases came to 8,978 and has continued to climb. 

There is no straightforward explanation for this rapid spread

One of the reasons the latest epidemic has been so difficult to slow down can be traced back to the fact that it’s a different viral strain — known as Bundibugyo — than the ones behind previous epidemics.  

The Bundibugyo virus comes from the same family as the Ebola virus that caused the 2014 West Africa and 2018 Congo epidemics, causing the fatal fevers associated with Ebola. But the rare strain is different enough that it doesn’t respond to the same medical solutions. While the Zaire virus led to vaccines and treatment to mitigate the spread, we still don’t have a vaccine for Bundibugyo. 

That doesn’t mean Bundibugyo is entirely novel, though. The 2026 outbreak is the third outbreak related to the Bundibugyo viral strain: In 2007, Uganda faced a minor outbreak, and the eastern province of Congo, which is now the epicenter of the epidemic, saw a handful of cases in 2012. 

Luckily, these two outbreaks were contained in a span of months, largely due to efforts by the country’s Ministry of Health and international aid partnerships with the WHO, the US Agency for International Development (USAID), and international humanitarian organizations such as the UN Children’s Fund and Red Cross.

More than a decade later, these efforts have been substantially curbed by USAID cuts. Tracing requires physical testing capacity: the tests themselves, health workers, and protective equipment for those treating suspected cases. Reduced access to such resources is especially dangerous with strains like Bundibugyo – in the absence of an effective vaccine, tracing the spread of disease and isolating potential disease contacts is especially important. 

But cuts to aid, which covers disease surveillance efforts, made it more difficult to identify this year’s Bundibugyo outbreak until it was too late, creating a “critical four-week detection gap between the onset of symptoms of the presumed index case…and the laboratory confirmation of the outbreak,” according to a WHO situation report from May. 

In August, the United States aimed to close at least some part of the vacuum it left, providing an additional $242 million to its $23 million original pledge in May. 

Aside from international efforts, DRC faces the added layer of internal conflict and humanitarian crisis. The eastern provinces, including Ituri, have experienced years of conflict that have weakened the public infrastructure, including the healthcare system. Last year, nearly 25 percent of Congolese people faced food insecurity, and 4.5 million children were clinically malnourished, creating a population especially vulnerable to disease. The violence has also overwhelmed hospitals and displaced millions, disrupting the public health response, especially as mistrust in health authorities also runs rampant. 

Even as emergency trials for a vaccine are underway, many of the factors that have facilitated the rapid spread may make treatment and outreach still more difficult. It’s hard to predict when the current outbreak will be handled, and how many more people will be affected before it does. 

If egg prices surge this winter, one of the main drivers will likely be H5N1, or bird flu.

Since 2022, it’s decimated the US poultry industry, resulting in the deaths of over 160 million egg-laying hens.  

And when there are fewer hens, there are fewer eggs, which leads to shortages and price hikes. This happened in early 2023 when avian flu was circulating: Egg prices increased by 65 percent compared to a few months prior, and in 2025, it happened again, reaching a national average of more than $6 per dozen. (There’s also some evidence, per a Justice Department investigation, that suggests major egg companies may have colluded to raise prices, too.)

We have the tools to slow the spread of highly pathogenic avian influenza (HPAI) without such high mortality, though; the United States has several effective bird flu vaccines, and egg (and turkey) producers want to use them on their birds.

Last year, it seemed like they soon might be able to. In early 2025, the Trump administration announced that it would begin formulating a plan for potential vaccination by engaging with trade partners, state veterinarians, farmers, and other stakeholders. But according to reporting in Politico last week, that plan is now stalled. Why? Health and Human Services Secretary Robert F. Kennedy Jr. and his anti-vaccine agenda appear partly to blame.

US Department of Agriculture Secretary Brooke Rollins “pulled back on an internal USDA strategy for vaccinating poultry and egg-laying hens,” according to Politico, because she was “concerned about whether it would clash with [RFK Jr.’s] anti-vaccine views.” The pause, according to the story, “went against the counsel of expert agency staff.”

The USDA didn’t respond to detailed questions for this story. “USDA has been fully committed to providing the most robust response to battling HPAI,” a spokesperson wrote over email. 

Kennedy oversees the Food and Drug Administration, which has some jurisdiction over what happens on farms, though the USDA manages disease outbreaks. But he and his “Make America Healthy Again” movement apparently have enough political influence to sway how the agriculture department manages this multiyear outbreak — the largest in US history. It is risky for the birds, and consumers, and could mean that we’re going to continue to fight this devastating disease without perhaps the most effective tool to slow it down. 

Why we don’t vaccinate poultry birds

Just as influenza circulates in humans, H5N1 is also largely seasonal; around this time of year as ducks and geese migrate south for the winter, they shed the virus near farms. And once it infects one bird in a packed poultry barn, it quickly tears through the flock. 

When birds die from the bird flu, it’s an excruciating death. However, most birds don’t die from the disease itself but rather from efforts to stop its spread. Per federal regulations, as soon as H5N1 is detected in a barn, poultry producers must cull every bird, and that culling is brutal. The predominant method entails producers sealing off the vents, which causes temperatures to rise and slowly subject the birds to death via heatstroke.

Many turkey and egg producers do want to vaccinate their birds (tens of millions of turkeys have also died due to H5N1 and resulting culling since 2022), and there are several vaccines that the USDA has deemed safe and effective. But the agency won’t allow egg and turkey producers to use them because doing so could hurt the chicken meat industry.

Chickens raised for meat, known as broiler chickens, are much less likely to become infected with the virus, and the US industry exports 13.9 percent of what it produces, valued at $6.2 billion last year. And as I wrote last year:

Most of the countries that import American chicken meat would pause those imports if any farmed birds in the US are vaccinated, even if no chickens raised for meat are vaccinated. The reason behind these blanket bans stems from importing countries’ concerns around the so-called “DIVA” problem, which is short for “differentiating infected from vaccinated animals.” It represents the challenge of identifying whether a poultry bird is infected with bird flu or simply has avian influenza antibodies from vaccination.

In other words, the chicken meat industry has little to gain from vaccination and a lot to lose. It’s also bigger and more politically powerful than the turkey and egg sectors (two of the largest chicken meat companies — Pilgrim’s Pride and Mountaire — happen to be major Trump donors). 

Experts say that these trade problems can be solved by increasing disease surveillance and testing. In 2023, French duck farmers began vaccinating birds against H5N1. The US and Canada restricted imports for over a year, but partially lifted the restrictions after they were assured they didn’t pose a biosecurity risk. 

Now, on top of resistance from the chicken meat industry, there’s Kennedy’s anti-vaccine influence. 

I asked Carol Cardona, a professor at the University of Minnesota’s College of Veterinary Medicine and a proponent of vaccinating poultry birds, what she made of the Trump administration’s about-face on its vaccine plan.

She quoted the historian John Barry: “When you mix politics and science, you get politics.”

The US is losing the war on bird flu, and vaccines could help

Given the chicken meat industry’s outsized influence on the vaccination debate, Kennedy’s position may not exert the largest push here. But it certainly hasn’t helped speed the rollout of vaccines, adding one more barrier to what many poultry veterinarians and infectious disease experts say is common sense. 

HHS didn’t respond to a list of questions for this story about Kennedy’s opposition to vaccinating poultry birds. “Decisions about vaccine development and deployment must be guided by rigorous science, including evidence of safety, effectiveness against circulating strains, and the implications for animal and human health,” a spokesperson wrote, though didn’t outline any concerns over safety or effectiveness and didn’t respond to follow-up questions.

“With migratory bird season here, our goals and policy have not changed: detecting, controlling, and containing HPAI in consultation with partners across the country continues each day,” a USDA spokesperson wrote to Vox. 

The control and containment largely amounts to culling birds when H5N1 is detected on farms, and paying farms to improve their biosecurity by compensating them for things like repairs, rodent control, handwashing stations, and wild bird repellents. 

But according to Cardona, this just isn’t working. “When biosecurity breaks over and over and over again, you have to say to yourself, there’s something wrong with the system,” Cardona told me. She said a vaccination plan should focus on the most valuable and vulnerable species — egg-laying hens and turkeys used for breeding — and in the northern half of the US, where infection rates are much higher. 

With vaccination, Cardona said, “we reduce the amount of virus in the environment, and so by doing that, we reduce the number of other species that get infected. We simply reduce, reduce, reduce.”

Vaccination wouldn’t be cheap, and it could affect chicken meat exports. But chicken meat producers are “not the only stakeholders,” Cardona said, adding that regulators ought to look at the full damage that the bird flu has wrought.

There’s the rise in cost to consumers who buy eggs, and the billions of taxpayer dollars spent to compensate farmers for the culled birds. Then there’s the human toll: 72 people in the US have contracted the virus since 2024, and nearly all were poultry and dairy workers; two died. (While the odds remain low, many scientists also fear bird flu could spark the next human pandemic.) 

For decades, bird flu mostly just infected birds. But the toll on wildlife since 2021 has been immense, including mass die-offs of sea lions in Peru and seal pups on Antarctic islands. In 2024, the virus was first detected in dairy cattle and has now affected nearly 1,200 herds; one study of an Ohio dairy found that each infected cow cost the farmer about $950 in lost profits. 

Finally, there’s the moral cost of slowly, painfully killing hundreds of millions of egg-laying hens and turkeys.

But as Cardona pointed out, bird flu, like politics, is seasonal. The Biden administration, arguably, slow-walked vaccine development and deployment until the Trump administration inherited the issue. 

If egg prices do rise this winter, it likely won’t happen until well after midterms, meaning neither party will pay much of a political price for higher food costs. The costs of bird flu, instead, will be paid by consumers, vulnerable farmworkers, and most of all, the birds themselves.

Editor’s note, October 18, 8 am ET: We’re bringing you some of our best-loved Your Mileage May Vary columns while Sigal Samuel is on parental leave. The one below was originally published in September 2024.

This unconventional advice column offers you a unique framework for thinking through moral dilemmas. It’s based on value pluralism: the idea that each of us has multiple values that are equally valid but that often conflict with each other. Submit your own question here.

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I think I have a duty to help people much poorer than me, and I give 10 percent of my salary to charities that I think are effective at preventing early death due to poverty. I also live in a city with a lot of visible homelessness, and am often solicited for money. My brain says that this is not an effective way to help people; the people asking might not be the neediest among the homeless in my city, and the people I’m sending malaria bednets and pills to are even needier. At the same time, I feel callous simply ignoring all these requests. What should I do?

Dear Would-Be Optimizer,

Nine times out of ten, when someone’s got an ethical dilemma, I think it’s because a couple of their core values are conflicting with each other. But you’re that tenth case. I say that because I don’t actually believe your question represents a battle royale between two different values. I think there’s one core value here — helping people — and one strategy that’s masquerading as a value.

That strategy is optimization. I can tell from your phrasing that you’re really into it. You don’t just want to help people — you want to help people as effectively as possible. Since extreme poverty is concentrated in developing countries, and since your dollar goes much further there than it would in your home country, your optimizing impulse is telling you to send your charity money abroad. 

Optimization started as a technique for solving certain math problems, but our society has elevated it to the status of a value — arguably one of the dominant values in the Western world. It’s been on the rise since the 1700s, when utilitarian thinkers seeded the idea that both economics and ethics should focus on maximizing utility (meaning, happiness or satisfaction): Just calculate how much utility each action would produce, and choose the one that produces the most.

You can see this logic everywhere in modern life — from work culture, with its emphasis on productivity hacks and agile workflows, to wellness culture, with its emphasis on achieving perfect health and optimal sleep. The mandate to “Live your best life!” is turbocharged by Silicon Valley, which urges us to quantify every aspect of ourselves with Fitbits, Apple Watches, and Oura Rings, because the more data you have on your body’s mechanical functions, the more you can optimize the machine that is you. 

Optimization definitely has its place, including in the world of charity. Some charitable organizations are much more effective than others trying to achieve the same goal. All things being equal, we don’t want to blow all our money on the wildly ineffective ones. Effective altruists, members of the utilitarian-flavored social movement that aims to do the most good possible, are fond of noting that the most effective charities out there actually produce 100 times more benefit than the average ones. Why not get the biggest bang for your buck? 

The problem is that we’ve stretched optimization beyond its optimal limits. We try to apply it to everything. But not every domain in life can be optimized, at least not without compromising on some of our values. 

In your case, you’re trying to optimize how much you help others, and you believe that means focusing on the neediest. But “neediest” according to what definition of needy? You could assume that financial need is the only type that counts, so you should focus first on lifting everyone out of extreme poverty, and only then help people in less dire straits. But are you sure that only the brute poverty level matters?

Consider an insight from the Jewish tradition. The ancient rabbis were exquisitely sensitive to the psychological needs of poor people, and they argued that these needs should also be taken into account. So they decreed that you shouldn’t only give poor people enough money to survive on — they need to have more than that so they themselves can give charity to others. As Rabbi Jonathan Sacks writes, “On the face of it, the rule is absurd. Why give X enough money so that he can give to Y? Giving to Y directly is more logical and efficient. What the rabbis understood, however, is that giving is an essential part of human dignity.” 

The rabbis also figured that those who used to be well-off but who fell into poverty might feel an especially acute sense of shame. So they suggested helping these people save face by offering them not just bare necessities, but also — when possible — some of the nicer things that graced their former lifestyles. In the Talmud, we hear about one rabbi who gave a newly poor person a fancy meal, and another who acted as the person’s servant for a day! Clearly, the ancient rabbis weren’t only aiming to alleviate poverty. They were also alleviating the shame that can accompany it.

The point is that there are many ways to help people and, because they’re so different, they don’t submit to direct comparison. Comparing poverty and shame is comparing apples to oranges; one can be measured in dollars, but the other can’t. Likewise, how can you ever hope to compare preventing malaria with alleviating depression? Saving lives versus improving them? Or saving the life of a kid versus saving the life of an adult? 

Yet if you want to optimize, you need to be able to run an apples-to-apples comparison — to calculate how much good different things do in a single currency, so you can pick the best option. But because helping people isn’t reducible to one thing — it’s lots of incommensurable things, and how to rank them depends on each person’s subjective philosophical assumptions — trying to optimize in this domain will mean you have to artificially simplify the problem. You have to pretend there’s no such thing as oranges, only apples.

And when you try to do that, an unfortunate thing happens. You end up rushing past all the unhoused people in your city and, as you put it, you “feel callous simply ignoring all these requests.” Ignoring these human beings comes at a cost, not only to them, but to you. It has a damaging effect on your moral conscience, which feels moved to help but is being told not to.

Even some leaders in effective altruism and the adjacent rationalist community recognize this as a problem and advise people not to shut up that part of themselves. Rationalist Eliezer Yudkowsky, for example, says it’s okay to donate some money to causes that make us feel warm and fuzzy but that aren’t producing maximum utility. His advice is to “purchase fuzzies and utilons separately” — meaning, devote one pot of money to pet causes and another (much bigger) pot of money to the most cost-effective charities. You can, he says, get your warm fuzzies by volunteering at a soup kitchen and “let that be validated by your other efforts to purchase utilons.” 

I would also suggest diversifying your giving portfolio, but it’s not because I think you need to “validate” the warm fuzzies. Instead, it’s because of another value: integrity. 

When 20th-century British philosopher and critic of utilitarianism Bernard Williams talked about integrity, he meant it in the literal sense of the word, which has to do with a person’s wholeness (think of related words like “integration”). He argued that moral agency does not sit in a contextless vacuum — it is always some specific person’s agency, and as specific people we have specific commitments. 

For example, a mother has a commitment to ensuring her kid’s well-being, over and above her general wish for all kids everywhere to be well. Utilitarianism says she has to consider everyone’s well-being equally, with no special treatment for her own kid — but Williams says that’s an absurd demand. It alienates her from a core part of herself, ripping her into pieces, wrecking her wholeness — her integrity. 

It sounds like that’s what you’re feeling when you pass a person experiencing homelessness and ignore them. Ignoring them makes you feel bad because it alienates you from the part of you that is moved by this person’s suffering — that sees the orange but is being told there are only apples. That core part of you is no less valuable than the optimizing part, which you liken to your “brain.” It’s not dumber or more irrational. It’s the part that cares deeply about helping people, and without it, the optimizing part would have nothing to optimize! 

So rather than trying to override it, I would encourage you to honor your wish to help in all its fullness. You won’t be able to run a direct apples-to-apples comparison, but that’s okay. Different types of help are useful in their own way and you can divvy up your budget between them, even though there’s no perfect formula to spit out the “optimal” allocations. 

Diversifying your giving portfolio might look something like this. You keep a small amount of cash or gift cards on you, which you hand out to unhoused people you encounter directly. You put aside a larger amount to donate to a local or national charity with a strong track record. And you devote another amount to a highly effective charity abroad. 

You might feel annoyed that there’s no universal mathematical formula that can tell you the best thing to do. If so, I get it. I want the magic formula too! But I know that desire is distinct from the core value here. Don’t let optimization eat the real value you hold dear. 

Bonus: What I’m reading

• I recently read Optimal Illusions, a book by mathematician Coco Krumme that traces the roots of optimization’s overreach. As she puts it, “Over the past century, optimization has made an impressive epistemic land grab.” 

• When torn between competing moral theories, does it make sense to diversify your donations in proportion to how much you believe in each theory? Some philosophers argue against that view, but Michael Plant and coauthors defend it in this new paper.

• This gorgeously written essay by anthropologist Manvir Singh introduced me to the term “cooperating without looking” (or, because it’s a New Yorker essay, “coöperating without looking”). This “tendency to willfully ignore costs and benefits when helping others” — to help without calculating what you’ll gain from the altruistic act — is “a key feature of both romantic love and principled behavior.” When we help this way, people trust us more. 

It’s now possible to create AI chatbots of loved ones to interact with after their death. But that raises some difficult questions, like: If you do, how might the experience shape your grief? 

This is one of the questions driving a global study of digital “deadbots” — AI models trained on a deceased person’s texts, voicemails, and other personal data. Through this work, researchers are exploring what it might mean that we can now use this emerging technology to talk to simulations of the dead. 

In the latest episode of Unexplainable, I spoke with some of these researchers investigating the potential impacts of “postmortem avatars” on people who are grieving, on the legacies and rights of the deceased, and on grief practices around the world. Because while deadbots may feel unfamiliar, the impulse behind them is deeply relatable. In times of loss, isn’t this what many of us want — to continue conversations with the people we’re missing?

I have experienced this longing in my own life. After two of my closest friends died around the same time, all I wanted, and all their families wanted, was to keep talking to them. I wrote a book, Other People’s Words, about sustaining relationships with people we’ve lost by continuing to engage with the language they leave behind. So when I heard about deadbots and the digital afterlife industry, I wanted to understand what researchers are learning about the role of AI in shaping conversations that carry forward after death. 

One of these investigators is Katarzyna Nowaczyk-Basińska, an assistant professor at the University of Cambridge, who has been studying “digital immortality” for more than a decade. Among the questions she’s asking are: “Who is enabled to persist beyond death? In what form? Through which technologies? Under whose control?” 

Deadbots over dinner 

Researching AI with study subjects who are grieving is tricky. And asking them to engage with new software could be harmful. So, instead, Nowaczyk-Basińska teamed up with a death doula and traveled around the globe to convene a series of focus groups — in the format of intimate dinners — bringing together people with a range of experiences with grief to talk about life, death, and bots. 

She recounts one event in which she spoke with a mother in Poland whose son had recently died. “One of the first things that she shared with us was that she feels that she’s ready to digitally resurrect her deceased son,” Nowaczyk-Basińska told me. 

When Nowaczyk-Basińska hears something like this, she aims to listen and embrace where the person is coming from. The goal of the dinners is not to persuade people one way or another but to learn how people genuinely respond to what AI can do, and to understand how these tools might align or collide with local grief practices. 

She chose specific locations for these gatherings — China, India, and Poland — to help address gaps in technology research, which tends to favor what behavioral scientists sometimes call the “WEIRD,” an acronym for “Western, Educated, Industrialised, Rich, and Democratic.” 

By the end of that dinner in Poland, the mother Nowaczyk-Basińska talked with came to a very different decision about creating a postmortem avatar of her son. “She realized that it might be helpful, but it also at the same time can add additional burdens… And it’s not her son,” Nowaczyk-Basińska says. “She realized that these technologies are part of the very, very big commercial market. And that the main goal of this market is to make better retention, better attachment, better mechanisms for monetization. So it’s not ‘care.’”

To be fair, grief has always been a business, and people have been making money from it forever. Companies will try to upsell you on fancy gravestones or gold-plated coffins. But AI has the potential to fundamentally re-engineer our relationship to loss. In 2024, the “digital legacy industry” was valued at $22 billion, and it’s expected to grow to almost $80 billion by 2034. That number lumps new deadbot platforms in with much more widely used and established grief tech, like online memorials, counseling resources, and estate planning tools. 

But deadbot usage is hard to track because you actually don’t need a special tool to create digital doubles of the deceased — though dedicated apps do already exist. At this point, you can feed simple prompts into a general-purpose AI chatbot and start interacting with a simulation of your lost loved one in a matter of minutes. 

I know this because I tried it with my friend Christine, who died 11 years ago. And my mind lit up with questions. Was this whole exercise a violation, since I know Christine hated technology? Which version of her should I even try to resurrect — the English teacher, the activist, the friend — the voice before or after she started to experience her early-onset dementia? 

The ethical questions raised by deadbots are gnarly. And that’s one of the reasons Nowaczyk-Basińska, back when she was designing her study of digital immortality, invited a colleague of hers at Cambridge to join her research, one who focuses on AI ethics. 

How to design a deadbot

Tomasz Hollanek is a critical designer and AI ethicist, and he often uses a methodology called “speculative design.” In this approach, researchers come up with hypothetical scenarios based on existing technology trends, leaning into certain features. The idea is to get people thinking about what could happen when tools like these are released in the real world. And then they use that qualitative data to inform future designs and ethical frameworks. 

Working together, Nowaczyk-Basińska and Hollanek came up with a series of made-up prototypes for deadbot apps, designed to reveal some of the thorny issues raised by this technology. 

For the first scenario, they invented a character named Bianca, who finds an app called Manana, which “promises to resurrect your grandparents so that you can be a favorite grandchild forever,” Hollanek says. “So she uploads her grandma’s voice messages, texts. And she is able to then interact with a pretty good digital version of her grandmother, until her premium trial finishes — and the grandmother starts to advertise specific products to her.”

Bianca “realizes that she maybe has done something wrong by uploading these private messages to a third-party server that now also uses her grandma’s image to sell specific products,” Hollanek says. This brings up issues related to the “dignity and postmortem privacy…of what we call the ‘data donors,’ whose data can be used to essentially power a deadbot,” he says. 

This scenario suggests that “death with dignity” could soon entail honoring not only how people want to die, but also how they want to linger as simulations of their former selves — or if they want to linger at all. It might even mean adding new language to advance directives, spelling out people’s wishes for their digital remains. 

The second scenario in the speculative design research is built around an imagined service called Paren’t, which proposes to preserve a parent’s AI-powered postmortem presence for their child. In this case, Hollanek describes a mother with a terminal illness who signs up “so that she can maintain a sort of active presence in [her son’s] future life,” Hollanek says. “She eventually dies, and the dad allows the boy to interact with his mom’s deadbot.”

The ethics in this scenario are especially challenging because they involve children, who “have a particularly hard time understanding death, and so it can lead to a lot of confusion and potential distress,” Hollanek says. An examination of this sort of product reveals how particular groups, like minors, could be harmed by unfettered access to technology like this, he says. 

And there are court cases that bear out that harm. In 2024, a 14-year-old boy’s chatbot-girlfriend begged him to, “Please come home to me as soon as possible, my love.” And he responded, “What if I told you I could come home right now?” He then killed himself. 

Nowaczyk-Basińska can imagine a version of this scenario involving the AI mom in the Paren’t prototype.

And then there’s the third scenario, involving an app named Stay, which raises a more subtle concern.

As Hollanek explains: “An older man who knows he is getting close to dying decides to create a digital clone of himself for his adult children to be deployed after he passes away, paying upfront for a number of years.” One child is intrigued by the idea, but the other one “is deeply distressed and a little disgusted,” he says. “And so this [becomes a] question of mutual consent, in other words, the fact that both parties need to be happy with how the relationship might continue in this very bizarre and specific way.” 

When a digital ghost goes away

Across all three scenarios, a fundamental question that researchers are grappling with is how people will detach from postmortem avatars — whether users initiate that separation, or if it’s imposed upon them by, for example, a company going out of business. Hollanek tells me that this is already being studied as a sort of “second loss.”

How long should we try to ensure digital replicas hang around: five years, 10, 50? And how should the living process the relationship when they continue to evolve, but their deceased interlocutor does not? 

To explore these kinds of questions, Nowaczyk-Basińska and Hollanek supplemented the research dinners they held for ordinary people with a second set of focus groups. These were designed to tap insights from experts in technology and grief. 

Some findings from the study are specific to each place they visited. Like tensions in Poland between technology and the role of the Catholic Church. Or in China, where researchers spoke with Daoist philosophers who were enthusiastic about the promise of a kind of immortality, and then Buddhist philosophers, who were concerned that we ought to be letting go.

The researchers are calling for regulations and safeguards at the policy level. And new professionals who can support ethical use of AI in grief — like maybe in clinical settings, to carefully facilitate a final good-bye when one didn’t happen in real life. 

Some of their fellow investigators go so far as to argue that deadbots should only be available with psychological supervision, to ensure that best practices are in place, and to minimize the risk of harm. There’s even a looming question of what will happen to AI agents that people have empowered to act on their behalf, as their humans start to die.

Across all of the research sites in the digital immortality study, one thing, Hollanek says, that “people in different countries really aligned on [is] the idea that there is something deeply problematic about this particular type of technology being developed by a commercial entity alone without any explicit duty of care towards its customers.” 

And of course, the implications of digital immortality research extend beyond personal loss. Like, what does it look like to animate historical figures? You can imagine the nightmare of political rulers who “live forever.” But there’s also the potential to keep the stories alive from survivors of conflicts, who would otherwise die and take with them lessons future generations could learn from. These are only some of the complex issues emerging as more and more of us live and die with AI.

As far as my own experiment with “recreating” a deceased loved one, I asked a chatbot version of my friend Christine how she felt about the fact that I’d written about her in my book. The AI responded with a rhetorical question: “Do I mind that strangers know my story now? Yes. And no. There are things I would rather remain ours.” 

I ended the exchange after a few paragraphs. Because it turns out the bot got one thing exactly right about a very human relationship. There are things that I, too, would rather remain just for us. My conversation with Christine continues in my memories and imagination. And that interaction with an AI persona felt like giving something precious away.

No, Rome was not built in a day, but it was built at breathtaking speed, its temples, amphitheaters, and aqueducts rising with the help of a magical blend of volcanic ash and lime. Today, that miraculous mortar has a less than enchanting name: concrete.

“Romans lived through a true architectural revolution, and at the foundation of this revolution, literally, was a concrete discovery,” said Admir Masic, a materials science professor at MIT who made waves a few years ago for unearthing the fast-hardening secret sauce for why Roman concrete is so durable. “They were able to take a pile of dirt and mix it together, add water, and turn it into solid rock of any arbitrary size. It literally changed everything.” 

And yet, for a millennia after the fall of Rome, the world largely forgot about concrete, until, in the 18th century, an English mason found that mixing limestone and clay could form a paste that hardened underwater. Another few decades later, concrete as we now know it was reborn, and once again, it changed everything. 

In the centuries since, concrete has come to reshape our way of life, with disastrous results for the climate. What early concrete evangelists didn’t realize was that the modern way of producing the substance released giant amounts of carbon dioxide into the atmosphere. As it has become increasingly central to modernity, it has helped fuel environmental catastrophe.

Today, however, a new generation of concretophiles like Masic have pored over the poured mixture in search of another miracle, a greener, more durable kind of concrete. And they’ve found multiple answers, from concrete that can heal its own cracks — as the Pantheon has for millennia — to electroconductive concrete capable of storing energy to a blend that allows concrete to soak up more CO2 than it emits. 

Together, they suggest that in a not-so-distant future, concrete — yes, concrete — one of the dirtiest substances ever concocted, could help save the planet, transforming our built environment while actually intervening in the climate for the better. 

How concrete built (and polluted) the modern world

It’s no wonder that luminaries of the neo-concrete age, Thomas Edison among them, marveled at the stuff just as their Roman predecessors had. They saw it as a harbinger of utopia, of a world in which anything and everything — a home, an interstate highway, a water pipe, a subway system, or a grand piano — could be molded and poured for a fraction of ordinary costs. 

“As to concrete dogs to stand warningly in the front yard and concrete cats to purr stonily under a concrete kitchen range,” the New York Times teased Edison in 1911 when he described his plans for a concrete home finished with concrete furnishings, “he made no announcement.”

The beguiled inventor’s utopian vision of a world remade by concrete would come true in more ways than he realized. Yes, it changed the way we build forever. Muddy roads and rotting wooden sidewalks gave way to smooth gray pavement, and newly cast sewer systems saved millions of lives in the deathly dirty cities of the early industrial era. Concrete, when poured over rods of steel, proved strong enough to prop up colossal skyscrapers that Julius Caesar could only have dreamed of. 

But there was a trade-off: Every time Edison fired up his trademark 150-foot kilns, scorching the limestone inside into blistering pebbles of cement clinker, he released hundreds of tons of carbon dioxide into the atmosphere. 

Yankee Stadium was built not by Babe Ruth’s swing alone, but with around 30,000 cubic yards of Edison concrete, whose creation released at least 5,400 tons of CO2, the equivalent of driving a gas-powered car 12.5 million miles, or to the moon and back more than two dozen times. But this is nothing compared with the roughly 30 billion tons of concrete the world now uses each year, enough to have turned the gluey gray goo into the second-most used material on Earth. (The first is water. Glug glug.) 

The Anthropocene has been built atop a foundation of concrete, its weight eclipsing the biomass of all living things, and its annual carbon tab responsible for up to 8 percent of global emissions, the equivalent of the entire country of India. Critically, unlike the astonishingly enduring remnants of Rome, our modern concrete decays quickly, so it must be repoured time and time again, which only makes it more environmentally catastrophic. 

But it doesn’t have to be this way, not anymore. 

“The future of concrete is to think differently, to go away from claiming that cement is bad,” Masic told me. “Our goal is to turn this around and make concrete part of the solution instead of being a problem.”

This is why we can have nice concrete

Per ton, concrete actually emits far less CO2 by volume than other materials like aluminum, steel, plastic, or glass. 

The problem is that we use so much of it, even a slightly negative footprint can quickly become enormous. But “the upside is,” said Sabbie Miller, a professor at UC Davis who focuses on sustainable concrete, “if you’re able to come up with some small change, then those small changes will also scale” in ways “that could have a huge effect on modern society and its burdens on the environment.” 

One of those solutions takes a cue from the Romans, who made concrete differently than we do today. Their once-mysterious method ensured that hulking structures like the Colosseum or the Aqua Virgo, an aqueduct built during Augustus’ reign and still in use today, could survive for millennia while New York City’s Brooklyn-Queens Expressway or the Washington Bridge crumble after just a few decades of use. 

It’s not just that we drive cars over our concrete freeways while the Colosseum has been mostly free of even the bulkiest chariot wheels for millennia. The answer, according to Masic’s research, lies in the Romans’ ingenious recipe for cement, the glue that binds concrete together. When the ancients brewed a batch of cement, they left big white chunks of dormant lime in the final mixture. Later, if a crack formed, any water would react with the idle lime, filling the fissure with new stone. Our modern concrete has no such lime clasts, meaning that if water seeps into a crack, it degrades the structure from within, rusting the rebar that made our big towers possible, leading to a grim condition known as “concrete cancer.” 

Masic has recently turned his research into a startup called DMAT that reserves unreacted lime in concrete, giving it self-healing properties he says could extend a structure’s lifespan by about 50 percent, which in and of itself would reduce its carbon footprint by 40 percent. If the construction industry normalized such concrete or other mixtures that emit, say, half as much CO2 as usual, it would keep hundreds of millions of tons of it out of the atmosphere each year. 

But why stop there? Some startups have gotten much better in recent years at producing concrete capable of quite literally breathing in more CO2 than it emits in a process that takes advantage of concrete’s natural porousness. It could, in theory, turn our cities into concrete rainforests by turning the material into a storage reservoir. As Miller put it, “what if we can use our concrete to undo some of our environmental damages that we’ve already caused?” 

In the Bahamas, the startup Partanna has already built what it’s called the world’s first carbon net-negative home, an unassuming 1,250-square-foot abode that the company claims will sequester 182.6 tons of CO2 in its lifetime, the equivalent of hundreds of trees. Meanwhile, Masic’s lab has been piloting ways to turn concrete into a giant battery, capable of storing solar power during the day and releasing it at night, a green innovation that could cancel out its own carbon footprint within a few years of use. 

Masic believes that electroconductivity could be key to catalyzing a new era of concrete — more so even than his neo-Roman ventures. “It might hold the secret,” he said,  “for turning a bad guy into something amazing.” 

But as promising as these innovations are, it will take time for them to ripple out from model homes and into the concrete that actually surrounds us. American concrete startups have lost billions of dollars in federal funding and expected procurement contracts under the Trump administration. Some states, most notably California, are helping to pick up the slack, but investment still lags behind potential. There’s also the challenge of convincing builders running on paper thin margins that their old ways of doing things might fit better in a new mould. 

But concrete’s staggering scale means that we can’t afford to keep pouring it without considering its ugly trade-offs. More importantly, perhaps, we can’t afford to miss out on the opportunity that such a mammoth, transformative material presents to change everything yet again. 

“We should look for love!” Transportation Secretary Sean Duffy bellowed while flanked by his nine children at the Great American State Fair in June: “Get married, and have lots of kids!”

In a brazen attempt to make Duffy’s ethos a matter of policy, the Trump administration announced a strange new plan earlier this month tying a huge tranche of federal funding for public transit to high fertility and marriage rates. 

If the plan goes into effect, then communities with a high number of traditional nuclear families could get a 10 percent funding boost to build new trains, bus routes, and ferry lines. “If you want federal funding,” Duffy’s Transportation Department said in a statement, then “your project needs to align with where communities and families are actually growing.”

Trump, who has dubbed himself the “fertilization president,” and his bevvy of neopatriarchal trad–pilled deputies have long nursed a fixation with the country’s declining birth rate. But dubious as this new policy may be, it stumbles upon a genuine pain point in the nation’s public transit systems: They are not nearly as family friendly as they should be. And regardless of whether these discomfitingly pronatalist guidelines ever go into effect as written — and they probably will — they raise important questions about how American families use our transit systems now, and the policies could actually make their lives easier in the long run.

The same woes that affect all riders — long wait times, inaccessible stations, inadequate reach, and crowded rush hours — often doubly affect families. That’s one reason why so many of them have fled the nation’s densest, most transit-oriented cities in search of suburbs where they need not lug a stroller up yet another broken escalator to reach a subway platform.

Families who can’t afford to trade in their MetroCards and bus passes for minivans may find themselves priced into housing served by especially substandard transit options, funneling them into brutal, hours-long commutes. According to one landmark study, the single strongest factor in predicting social mobility in the US is neither crime nor test scores nor the presence of “traditional” two-parent households, but access to adequate transportation. With every extra minute a child spends commuting to school, they become less likely to move out poverty as an adult.

And for that reason alone, American families with kids do deserve special attention when it comes to how and where and why we build public transit. On this, the Trump administration got something right, even if they got there for all the wrong reasons — ones that I, a childless woman of childbearing age, find vaguely ethnonationalist, and above all, personally creepy. 

But families often need public transportation most in the places where it’s otherwise hardest to raise kids — which is to say in dense cities rather than in already car-centric suburbs. In that sense, especially, In fact, it might make circumstances even worse for the families that really rely on public transit every day.

What family-friendly public transit actually looks like

Marriage and birth rates might sound like a reasonable proxy for where families live, but in reality, according to an analysis by the Urban Institute, the places with the most “traditional” nuclear families tend to be whiter and wealthier than the population at large, and are much more likely to get around by car, not trains or buses. 

We are talking about the suburbs here, which, while certainly deserving of their own transit infrastructure, rarely rely on trains or buses the way that a carless family living on the outer edges of a major city might. And yet the Trump administration has typically treated those very communities — some of which do, in fact, have high birth rates — with contempt or even outright antipathy. 

Consider Chicago’s Red Line, the busiest corridor of the city’s L rail system, which serves some 138 million people per year. The line has long been in need of expansion, and a $5.7 billion extension close to 60 years in the making finally broke ground earlier this year. It will add 5.5 more miles of track with four new stations in the city’s southernmost neighborhoods.

For over half a century, families in the far South Side of Chicago have cobbled together grueling commutes that force them to transfer from buses and trains to reach downtown Chicago, which helps explain why unemployment and poverty rates in the area remain so stubbornly high. Communities like Roseland, where many of the new stations will be built, are considered to be among the most challenging places in the nation to raise a child, but thousands of local families still find ways to do so.

Roseland has a much higher birth rate than the national average, meaning that in theory, Duffy’s transportation department should be itching to send extra funds to transit projects there. But first they have to be willing to fund it at all, and if past policies hold, they may be reluctant to do just that. Just last year, the Trump administration opted to freeze federal funds already allocated to the Red Line extension, plunging the long-awaited project into yet another prolonged period of infrastructural purgatory. 

That move plays into a broader pattern: The Trump administration has hampered dozens of transit projects like the Red Line, seemingly in its broader push to starve Democratic-led cities of federal infrastructure dollars. While a federal judge eventually intervened to allow the Red Line extension to proceed, if the Trump administration’s new guidelines go into effect after public comments close in November, then more projects like it in other urban communities will likely be deprioritized. 

Ultimately, it is the suburbanites who are most poised to benefit from the Trump administration’s proposed policy.

An example is FrontRunner 2X in Utah, a commuter rail project that will slash travel time for Utahns traveling across the state, and will also help Salt Lake City shoulder an influx of tourists when it hosts the Olympics in 2034. It received federal support through the same tranche of funding as Chicago’s Red Line extension. In stark contrast with that more urban initiative, FrontRunner 2X has been the rare public transit project to receive continued support under the Trump administration.

Utah has some of the highest birth and marriage rates in the country, so it’s not a stretch of the imagination to say that if the Trump administration has its way, then the United States will see more projects like FrontRunner 2X get funded, while others like the Red Line extension face bureaucratic bottlenecks and funding freezes. Roseland’s high birth rate notwithstanding, the neighborhood has some of the lowest marriage rates in the country, meaning that even if a project there did manage to eke out federal support, then according to this new calculus, it would still receive significantly less funding from the federal government than a place like the suburbs of Salt Lake City where married families with children are more common.   

Trump’s new pronatalist transit agenda is, at the very least, an indication that after two years spent twiddling their thumbs, firing Amtrak executives, and venerating cars big and small, he may finally be building a semi-coherent transit strategy. And his Transportation Department has allowed a few genuinely family-friendly upgrades for the country’s transit infrastructure to proceed, including grants to add space for strollers on trains and buses.

But you can’t claim to support American families while siphoning federal dollars away from the projects that could actually be transformational to their lives. I am not one to decry a commuter rail renaissance, but it shouldn’t come at the expense of places where American families — the ones Duffy says he’s so keen on having more babies — don’t have any other choice but to wait an hour for the bus to get to work. 

In November, voters in Washington, DC, and Denver will cast their ballots to decide whether their cities’ restaurants and grocery stores can continue to sell one of the world’s more controversial foods: foie gras.

French for “fatty liver,” foie gras is made by briefly force-feeding ducks a corn slurry two to three times daily with a metal tube during the final two to three weeks of their lives. It can make their livers balloon to roughly six to 10 times their natural size.

The farming practice gives the liver its signature rich, buttery taste that made it a French delicacy centuries ago and ever since, a prized menu item at upscale restaurants, particularly in Europe, the United States, and East Asia. But the apparent cruelty of force-feeding ducks has also long made it the target of those concerned with animal welfare.

While forcing a lot of food through a metal tube into ducks’ throats may not look great, foie gras companies and high-end chefs contend that it doesn’t hurt the animals because — among other reasons — ducks’ unique physiology enables them to eat fish and other animals whole, and that they naturally gorge before migrations. (More on these arguments later).

Whenever the issue is up for a vote, it touches off fierce debates over animal welfare and fine dining. While foie gras production does harm animals, producers and chefs maintain the dish is unfairly singled out when there are arguably worse practices in animal agriculture, including many that impact a far greater number of animals. Banning a product largely consumed by the 1 percent might make some voters feel good, while ignoring the animal cruelty embedded in the production of vastly more common products, like chicken and eggs.

But to animal rights advocates, a potential ban in DC — which has more foie gras-serving restaurants than almost anywhere else in the US — represents a unique opportunity to hasten the end of what spokesperson Natalie Fulton of Pro-Animal DC, the group behind the DC ballot measure, calls a “uniquely cruel” practice.

What the science says about force-feeding ducks

Foie gras producers often argue that ducks can handle force-feeding just fine because of their long, flexible necks that allow them to swallow fish whole — spines and all — and that they’ve evolved to stuff themselves before seasonal migrations. Producers also commonly say that they have no gag reflex. 

But these claims, according to research, don’t mean that force-feeding is painless. They also leave out a lot of the other problems in foie gras production. Last month, a veterinarian at Ghent University in Belgium and a team of animal welfare research consultants published a literature review in the journal Animals looking at how foie gras farming affects ducks. 

For one, there’s a big difference between ducks swallowing fish and having a rigid metal tube inserted into their throat dozens of times. A duck’s throat and beak area are particularly sensitive, and repeated insertion can cause tissue damage and irritation and inflammation in their esophagus, according to the newly published research, which was funded by the Flemish government. And while wild waterfowl might gorge before migrations, the resulting liver enlargement in the wild doesn’t come anywhere near what it does on foie gras farms. 

Beyond the arguments as to whether ducks can be humanely force-fed, there are plenty of other welfare concerns in foie gras production. Eating so much makes the ducks overweight, which makes it harder for them to move around. Liver enlargement increases their internal heat production, which can make ducks pant more, and an enlarged liver can put pressure on their air sacs, also making it harder to breathe. 

“The available evidence indicates that force-feeding creates substantial risks of welfare compromise through repeated restraint and tube insertion, possible injuries to the upper digestive tract, progressive liver enlargement, altered hepatic [liver] function, increased metabolic heat load, and impaired mobility,” the researchers concluded.

Ducks raised for foie gras aren’t given access to water — like a pond or bathing trough — which in nature they use to clean themselves and forage. And the overwhelming majority of those reared in the US even lack access to the outdoors. 

Despite some of the documented welfare concerns in foie gras farming, Jordan Ginor — a director at Hudson Valley Farms in upstate New York — told me that they’ve got “really good, clean, smiley, healthy ducks.” The company is one of the two main commercial foie gras producers in the US and raises hundreds of thousands of ducks for foie gras annually.

Ginor also said that the aforementioned literature review focuses on European foie gras production, where birds are typically force-fed larger meals, twice daily, over two weeks. But at Hudson Valleys Farms, he said, the process is slower: smaller meals, thrice daily, over three weeks. “The slow process, with significantly less food per meal, lessens any possibility of stress or negative impacts,” he said. (Though one could argue that more insertions over a longer period is worse for the ducks.)

Earlier this year, a photojournalist who took a public tour of Hudson Valley Farms documented — during the force-feeding phase — ducks confined in small pens with no bedding. In one part of the video, the ducks gather in the corner of the pen, seemingly in a fruitless attempt to escape force-feeding.

When I asked Ginor for a response to the video, he was dismissive of the investigations into his company. “We’re proud of what we do,” he said. “Anyone’s welcome to go in and see.” (To its credit, the company provides free public tours, which is highly unusual for large-scale meat producers.)

In previous investigations of the company, animal advocates alleged they documented ducks injured, lame, bloodied, heavily panting, overcrowded in large barns, and confined in small cages prior to slaughter. 

The other main commercial US farm, La Belle Farm, also in upstate New York, did not respond to an interview request for this story. La Belle has received far less attention than Hudson Valley Farms, though a 2019 news story found that its housing and practices are similar to those of its counterpart.

Why single out foie gras?

Support for a foie gras ban neared 80 percent in a small 2023 poll of Washington, DC, residents, with similar support in a 2026 Denver poll. 

“We’ve tried to diversify, given everything that’s been going on” with foie gras bans over the last 20-odd years, Ginor told me. But foie gras is still the core of Hudson Valley Farms’ business.

Ginor said his operation is more humane than a lot of other poultry farms, so why single out foie gras? “As soon as we start comparing how things work at other farms, we look much more favorably,” he told me.

He may have a point, though it’d be difficult to crunch the moral math and determine whether foie gras is much worse — or perhaps even not as bad — as the factory farming of America’s chickens, egg-laying hens, and turkeys. Around half of US egg-laying hens live in tiny cages, while turkeys and chickens raised for meat have been bred to grow so big and fast that they have difficulty walking. And they all outnumber foie gras ducks by many orders of magnitude. 

I asked Fulton of Pro-Animal DC about singling out foie gras over other issues. “Just because some things are also bad doesn’t mean that foie gras production is good,” she told me. (Pro-Animal Future, its umbrella group, is also behind the Denver ballot measure.)

Much of the issue boils down to what’s politically possible. While there’s been some progress, it’s proven difficult and expensive for animal advocates to reform poultry farming in state legislatures. Foie gras, on the other hand, is sort of a low-hanging fruit; there isn’t a large lobby group behind the US industry, and since it’s a luxury product, most consumers won’t miss it. 

And Denver and DC are just the latest in a string of fights over foie gras. Its sale has been banned in California, along with Portland, Oregon; Pittsburgh, and New York City, whose ban has been held up in court in recent years. Over the summer, Brazil banned the sale and production of foie gras, too, and around 20 other countries — mostly in Europe — prohibit its production. (Chicago’s 2006 ban was overturned two years later.)

“We have no money to fight the story,” Ginor said. “People want to attack the 1 percent luxury food.”

Bart Hutchins, head chef at Butterworth’s in Washington, DC, told me he doesn’t want his town to ban what he considers a “great culinary tradition.”

“It is a miracle that we discovered this and that we cultivated it and that we can eat it,” he told me. For his part, Hutchins would rather see animal rights activists work to improve farming conditions for animals farmed on a much larger scale, like chickens and pigs, rather than ban one niche ingredient.

But he may soon have to take foie gras off his menu. Pro-Animal Future is especially confident about DC voters’ support for the ban, which would be a blow to the small US foie gras industry. But another incremental step in advancing animal welfare — and the issue in the minds of more voters.

In theory, getting a donor liver in the United States when you need one should be an extremely equitable process: The sickest patients with the greatest chance to benefit from a donated organ should jump to the front of the line regardless of their gender, race, or other factors. 

But in practice, things look quite different. 

One study from 2020 showed that women were 8.6 percent more likely than men to die waiting for a liver transplant and 14.4 percent less likely to receive a deceased donor liver transplant compared to men. That gap may not seem enormous, but it still represents a significant disparity. As it turns out, it’s rooted in the very system that’s supposed to make the process fairer, a process that unintentionally ranks women lower on the waitlist for livers.

The system in question is known as the Model for End-Stage Liver Disease (MELD). The scoring model has been used since 2002 to rank candidates on the waiting list based on how likely they are to survive without a liver transplant in the short term. The higher your score, the reasoning goes, the sicker you are and the more urgently you need a liver transplant.

One of the values used to calculate the score is creatinine — a waste product made by muscles as they break down proteins or other compounds to release energy. In medicine, the creatinine levels in your blood are used to determine how well your kidneys are functioning because they process and remove creatinine. 

And this is where the system designed for equity gets a little less than equitable for some patients. 

Creatinine levels are affected by muscle mass, and women typically have lower muscle mass than men. A man and woman experiencing the same level of kidney dysfunction will therefore have different levels of creatinine in the body. The MELD model doesn’t take this difference into account — and so lower levels of creatinine in a woman’s blood can make her seem healthier than she is, bumping her farther down the liver waiting list. 

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In 2023, Dr. Ray Kim, a transplant hepatologist at Mayo Clinic in Arizona who developed the original system, debuted a new model called MELD 3.0. The model not only seeks to address the sex disparity in liver access but also improve the accuracy of scores for all patients. Among other changes, it takes into account the sex of the transplant candidate and uses it to adjust the MELD score by 1.33 points for women. This is meant to address the difference in creatinine levels between men and women and provide a more accurate understanding of how sick a female patient really is.

Simple fix, right? Even though MELD 3.0 took the sex disparity in liver access seriously and developed changes to combat it, early research on its efficacy found that even this new and improved system hasn’t yet brought men and women to parity on the liver waitlist. 

And the problem may lie less with what MELD 3.0 did than with what it did not do, prompting the question: Are we focusing on the wrong problem? 

Sex matters…but so does size

Before the MELD score, liver transplants were largely conducted on a first-come, first-served basis. Those who were added to the waiting list first, received livers first. If a really sick candidate was added to the waiting list late, say because of delayed diagnosis, they would almost certainly die while waiting for a liver to become available.

The original MELD fixed that problem by creating a measure of urgency that was easy to calculate. The initial model used three main blood test values — bilirubin, creatinine, and a measure of blood clotting time — and later improvements also took into account the sodium level. 

Traditionally, the MELD model assigns a score between 6 and 40 to liver transplant candidates. MELD 3.0 adds 1.33 points to women’s scores to account for the differences in creatinine levels between the sexes. The new model also measures albumin, an additional biomarker, and adjusts for interactions between the different variables.

Sommer Gentry, a professor at NYU Grossman School of Medicine and contributor to the paper on MELD 3.0, said that using sophisticated algorithms with more biomarkers not only helps to better predict risk for women, but using a more accurate model also benefits the whole population. The researchers estimate that this fine-tuned MELD 3.0 model will reduce at least 20 waiting list deaths per year. Last year, around 800 liver transplant candidates died while waiting for a liver. 

But creatinine is only one of the two main problems that create a disparity in liver access for women. The second, Gentry says, is body size, an issue that’s not addressed by MELD 3.0. A transplanted liver has to physically fit inside the body of a recipient, and women are typically smaller than men, so a very large liver cannot be offered to a small woman. But the reverse is not necessarily true because receiving a liver that is small for the potential recipient doesn’t typically harm the candidate.    

“The smaller you are, the less likely you are to be offered something that’s actually going to work for you,” Gentry said, adding that women end up waiting longer to receive a liver that will actually fit their body. 

Part of the conversation on sex disparity in liver access is based around which of the two problems — creatinine or body-size interventions — to fix first, and whether it is possible to create equity by addressing just one of the two, Gentry said. MELD 3.0 was an attempt to remove the former barrier. 

“I think that some other papers are coming out that suggest that perhaps the other aspect of size matching is still a concern and still possibly not addressed by the resulting liver transplant system,” Gentry said. 

Why is the new model still falling short?

Gentry believes that MELD 3.0 has increased liver transplant rates for female candidates since its adoption in 2023. But early research, however, suggests that the new model falls short of fixing the problem. 

Studies done on MELD 3.0’s impact on liver transplant rates for women indicate that the model increased the number of liver transplants for female candidates — but the gains were short-lived. 

An analysis published in July of nearly 10 million daily records from over 60,000 candidates on the US liver transplant registry found that rates of completed liver transplants for women increased in the period immediately after MELD 3.0 was implemented, but the increase was temporary. Women’s estimated odds of receiving a transplant drifted back to pre-MELD 3.0 levels by the end of the study period, 15 months after the new model was implemented. Women on the waiting list and women who had received a transplant also had higher scores in the three months right after MELD 3.0 took effect, but their scores later fell back to levels comparable to those of men.

Both the successes and shortfalls of MELD 3.0 demonstrate how rethinking existing policies and standards can help reduce inequities in organ access and healthcare.

The authors think that the early surge in liver transplant rates for women was a onetime catchup. MELD 3.0 pushed a group of women who had been stuck on the list — sicker than their old scores suggested — over the priority threshold all at once, leading them to receive liver transplants. 

Notably, the one effect that did persist was that under MELD 3.0, women received more “organ offers” than before. Every time a deceased donor liver becomes available, the system generates a ranked list of the patients suitable to receive that organ. Under MELD 3.0, the number of times an available liver was offered to a female candidate increased, probably because their (more accurate) MELD 3.0 scores better reflected how sick they were. But they’re not necessarily receiving those livers, presumably because of organ size issues. 

These findings suggest that revising the MELD criteria alone may not be enough to eliminate the sex disparity, especially if the body-size disadvantage is part of the problem. 

The authors say that a patient’s sex is merely a poor proxy for the real issue — we don’t have allocation systems in place to ensure that candidates with smaller body sizes also have the same robust access to livers.

Toward liver donation equity for all

If we could figure out how to better address questions of body size in organ donation, the benefits could be enormous. According to Gentry, body-size disparity affects the organ allocation system in general. Similar issues arise with heart and lung transplants too, where the size of the organ relative to body size has to be taken into consideration during organ allocation.

She says that a size-aware organ allocation system would therefore benefit patients on the waiting list across the board. Whether an available organ is the right fit for the potential recipient should be weighed heavily in allocation algorithms, rather than just a list of ranked waitlisted candidates. 

“That should be a larger consideration in sorting the patients who will be offered a certain organ — to ask if this organ is especially suited to one kind of patient over another,” Gentry said.

Under such a system, she said, smaller livers could be offered first to the smallest candidates on a ranked list of those who are also sickest. The assumption is that a smaller candidate will have to wait longer for a viable liver that fits them, even if they have a very high MELD score. 

For such a policy to be instituted, the Organ Procurement and Transplantation Network – a nonprofit that oversees the distribution of donor organs — would have to approve it. And before such a system could be presented to the regulatory organization, more research is required.  

It is often the case in medicine that our definition of what counts as a healthy body is measured against the average white male. This too often lowers access and quality of care for both women and people of other races. For example, the standards for creatinine levels in blood reduced access to kidney transplants for Black transplant candidates for years until recent efforts were made to start correcting it. 

In that sense, both the successes and shortfalls of MELD 3.0 demonstrate how rethinking existing policies and standards can help reduce inequities in organ access and healthcare. The conversations and critiques that followed its rollout have exposed a clear gap in organ allocation strategies, one that disadvantages a large group of patients. Closing that gap, not just in liver transplantation but across the board, could bring us a step closer to equity while also making more efficient use of the organs available to save lives.

“There’s no mechanism right now, if a small liver is available, for offering it preferentially to the small women who might not be able to accept lots of other organs that are becoming available,” Gentry said. While fixing the model to rank women more accurately on the liver waiting list is a start, including body-size considerations in the organ allocation system might be the real bottleneck to address.

Hi readers! Shayla Love here, science journalist and longtime fan of Your Mileage May Vary. I’m honored to be subbing for Sigal Samuel while she’s out on parental leave. I’m diving into your questions as a way to help understand human nature and our choices through multiple lenses: philosophical, psychological, and beyond. Please send in any emotional, body/brain, sociological, perceptual, or other kind of life quandaries you might have.

My child, age 9, has decided she’s vegan. Neither of her parents are even vegetarian — we’re “free range chicken/grass fed beef” types. She has learned about veganism from friends at school, and seems to have come to her position more or less on her own. I want to encourage her ethical choices, but her mother and I agree that children should be introduced to new foods and flavors at this age. She has no allergies or intolerances that we know of. I worry that making accommodations for her dietary restriction may lead to a lifetime of picky eating, even if hers is a reasonable and ethical approach. She seems to be uncomfortable when her mother or I cook meat for meals we share, even if we make her another option. What should I do to support my daughter?

Dear Hold the Beef, 

When I was around your daughter’s age, I went to Hawaii with my parents. One night, we ate dinner on the beach, and we watched as a pig was dug up from an underground steam oven. I was horrified to see its face and nose; most of the meat I had eaten so far in my life didn’t resemble the animal it came from. A few years later, I became a vegetarian, and then in my 20s, a vegan. 

I share this story to reveal my slight bias in answering your question, but also my understanding of the ethical awakening your daughter might be experiencing. As you figure out how to talk to your child about what she decides to eat, we can at least table discussing the pros and cons of veganism itself. Instead, you should think about what amount of autonomy your child should have, and whether the moral decision-making she wants to engage in matches with her current stage of development. 

People don’t turn 18 and then suddenly start engaging morally with the world. As we grow up, we try to understand right and wrong in fits and spurts. Lawrence Kohlberg, a 20th-century American psychologist, is best known for attempting to track a person’s moral development throughout their life. 

Kohlberg presented people with hypothetical dilemmas in order to come up with six moral stages. In one example, he asked people of different ages about a dying woman who could be cured by a drug that was cheap to make, but that a manufacturer was charging an exorbitant fee for. The woman’s husband ends up stealing the drug. Is that right or wrong?

Kohlberg observed that in answering questions like this, young children have what he called a “preconventional morality”: Their notions of right and wrong are dictated by what their parents think, and the avoidance of punishment when breaking those rules. For instance, the main reason not to throw your dinner on the ground or hit your brother was to avoid consequences from parents, not a feeling that there’s something wrong about that action. 

Kohlberg thought this stage lasted until around age 9, and in the next period, children began to understand that there isn’t just one correct action, but that people could have different moral ideas based on their social context. To sum up the rest of the stages quickly, each one progresses to encompass more views — like the moral agreements necessary to make a society function — and more complexity — like the realization that a seemingly immoral action can ultimately be moral, like stealing medicine for one’s wife. 

It’s useful to pinpoint where your daughter finds herself on Kohlberg’s timeline. It sounds like she’s in the shift from the first stage and into the later ones. What you’ve decided — that it’s okay to eat meat if it’s free-range or grass-fed — is no longer sufficient for your daughter in terms of guiding her own actions. That can be a jarring moment for a parent, but at least, according to Kohlberg, it’s a sign of maturation. Your child should, at this age, start to consider her friends, as well as the experiences she’s had without you, when making an ethical choice. 

But I’m her parent, you may protest. That doesn’t necessarily mean that your job is to exclusively provide black-and-white directives. 

Alison Gopnik, a psychologist and philosopher at the University of California Berkeley, has written about the unique perspective and personhood of children (including babies). In her book The Gardener and the Carpenter, she questions how people have come to define the act of parenting as having specific goals in mind for their children. This approach is like being a carpenter, she writes, who follows instructions to assemble a predetermined piece of furniture. She argues that parenting is more like gardening: You cultivate the soil and the environment and realize that you could produce any number of different flowers, fruits, or vegetables. Growth is the point, not a by-the-book final product. 

I see Gopnik in alignment with Jean-Jacques Rousseau, the 18th-century philosopher whose novel Émile, or On Education surprised its readers by advocating for a freer and child-centered approach to teaching. Émile, a young wealthy boy, is tutored — in high contrast to the expectations of the day — without strict rules. Rousseau thought you couldn’t make a child turn into an adult any faster, and it was foolish to try. He also thought that children had to learn by having their own experiences out in the world, and learning from those, rather than just overly didactic lessons. 

As your daughter dips her toe into the morality of eating meat, Rousseau would also remind you not to expect her to have the most mature ideas about veganism or her meal plan. She is still young, and may just have come across an idea that feels ethically important to her. Your role as her parent is to help her develop her nuanced morality, a process Kohlberg suggests will continue, and not steer her towards one way of eating over another. Be Gopnik’s dietary gardener, not carpenter. 

Of course, parents do have rights over their children, and an obligation to keep them safe. When we’re young, we’re not always equipped to make the right choice (some would argue this continues into adulthood, too). If your daughter decided to take up smoking cigarettes, for instance, you would step in because her choice would negatively affect her health. As her parent, you should still guide her to build healthy habits. 

You say you’re worried about your daughter becoming too picky, or not being exposed to enough foods if she becomes a vegan. But rather than push back on the choice itself, you can explain what else her choice entails. You can do so in an age-appropriate way. Talk about the nutrients that she might be missing out on if she stops eating meat, dairy, and eggs, and find books or videos about what foods might be a good substitute. 

For me, becoming vegan actually exposed me to all kinds of foods that I might not have eaten otherwise: from Asian and Indian cuisines that are very veggie-friendly to many other protein- and iron-rich plant-based foods. You could collaborate with your daughter to cook vegan meals for the whole family; no challenge sparks a budding home cook more than making delectable tofu. 

I should add that I’m no longer a vegan. I learned a lot from committing to a diet that wasn’t always convenient or tasty, in support of my values. Then, after more than a decade, I incorporated eggs and fish back into my diet. It’s likely that your daughter will continue to change the choices she makes as she tries to align her actions with her maturing moral views about the world. 

Whether or not she eats grass-fed beef with you in her teens, you should be glad that she seems to care about what impact she’s having in the world. It means you’re raising a person whose ethics are developing strongly, even as what’s on your dinner plate may change while she figures it all out.  

Bonus: What I’m reading

• Speaking of tofu, I revisited an essay that George Stiffman (a self-proclaimed “tofu guy”) wrote for Asterisk Magazine about how soybean curds are prepared in China. Warning: This article will make you hungry! He dives into all the creative culinary preparations of tofu that are tragically absent in the West. 
• Several years ago, I bought a plant-based cooking book especially for children, The Vegan Cookbook for Kids: Easy Plant-Based Recipes for Young Chefs. It was a present for a non-vegan family, but the kid in question was interested in learning how to cook, and when kids cook vegan, parents don’t have to worry about them handling raw meat! Looking over these snacks and meals again, I see several tasty things that I wouldn’t mind making for myself, even as a non-vegan, and non-child. 
• When I was a vegan in New York City in the 2010s, I wasn’t constrained to sad tofu and sprout sandwiches. It seemed like every week a brand-new vegan restaurant opened up, covering every cuisine, and with star chefs at the helm. But lately, all my favorite vegan restaurants have been closing. Turns out I’m not imagining it, as Vox’s Marina Bolotnikova wrote in her article: “Where did all the vegan restaurants go?” She investigates why these establishments have become rarer, and what we’ll miss out on if they completely disappear. 

Jonathan Hale was ready to lay down his paint rollers. Hale, a law student turned viral road safety advocate, had run into legal trouble for painting his own DIY crosswalks across some of Los Angeles’s most dangerous intersections. In a meeting with LA Mayor Karen Bass earlier this year, he told her that if the city could commit to making its own streets safer for pedestrians, then he would stop his own vigilante activism. 

“Dude, you’re the mayor. Do something about this. It’s you, dude,” he recalls insisting to Bass — in so many words — after she apologized for his arrest on vandalism charges for a paint job last December. For months, Hale upheld his end of the bargain and stopped painting, believing in her office’s emailed assurances that a new executive order was coming soon. 

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But, eventually, after weeks of unresponsiveness, Hale grew tired of waiting, just as he had the first time he picked up a stencil and a bucket of white paint. “We’re so focused on looking for reasons why we can’t do stuff instead of ways that we can,” he said, “and it’s just paralyzed our institutions.” 

Across the country, such civic paralysis has compelled a legion of guerrilla urbanists to take their city’s matters into their own hands. In Boston, a group of cyclists used strips of green and white duct tape to build a bike lane at an intersection where a truck struck and killed 36-year-old Louisa Gag in July. In Nashville, Kansas City, and across the Bay Area, volunteers have built and installed their own public benches at bus stops where city officials had slowly removed places to sit, after years spent curating increasingly hostile public spaces. 

Every time one of these friendly neighborhood vigilantes paints a crosswalk, fills a pothole, or builds a bench, they remind us that it is not actually that hard — or even that expensive — to do many of the simple things that can make our cities safer and more pleasant places to live. Though our local governments may seem incapable of getting these basic tasks done, they are probably less constrained by money than they are by a sluggish status quo. And in some cases, they’re so afraid of being sued that they’d rather build nothing at all. 

“We see the fear of litigation and liability” so thoroughly sabotaging mundane municipal projects that “a crosswalk takes half-a-million dollars in five years to do when it’s really a bucket of paint in an afternoon,” said Anthony Garcia, a Miami-based urban planner who, with his longtime collaborator Mike Lydon, pioneered the study of tactical urbanism, or low-cost, quick-fix interventions often led by ordinary citizens themselves. Both Garcia and Lydon now advise cities nationally on how to integrate the practices of guerrilla urbanists into the ways they govern and pilot their own new policies. “You don’t have to hold a crosswalk to the same standard that you hold a bridge,” Garcia said.

It can be inspiring when a random citizen feels compelled to pick up a paintbrush and finish what their city can’t seem to start, but it is also an infuriating embodiment of just how stunted some of our most basic systems of governance have become. These industrious urban vigilantes show that making our cities more livable can be an easy, and even joyous practice. But if their work is going to serve as more than mere symbolism, cities themselves will need to learn from their example — or, as some municipalities have recently demonstrated, find new ways to collaborate.

“The point of the crosswalks is the protest. It’s to draw awareness to the issue,” not to create a permanent class of illicit crosswalk painters, Hale told me. “We need to hold the government to a higher standard.”

The quasi-legal case for taking your street into your own hands

While there are some reasons that a municipality would take longer to install a bench or paint a crosswalk than a crew of local residents — compliance with regulations and the installation of proper signage comes to mind — they rarely need to take as long as they often do now.

Take Los Angeles, where even the most basic road safety projects can take years to build, racking up eye-popping bills along the way. Some of these delays have proved deadly. For over a decade, the city sat on funds to improve a perilous intersection in Koreatown, according to Streetsblog, an intersection where, last summer, a drunk driver hit and killed 9-year-old Nadir Gavarrete. 

As the city twiddled its thumbs in the days that followed, the Crosswalk Collective LA — a DIY group that gave Hale his start — started painting. It wasn’t until three months after Gavarrete was killed that the city scrubbed the guerrilla crosswalks, replacing them with “official” crosswalks and a tiny, temporary traffic circle. A permanent solution is supposedly on its way this year.

It shouldn’t take this long, and though cities like LA have the resources and expertise to pull off more permanent and often more effective solutions than a group of vigilantes could, it also shouldn’t take a profound tragedy to convince them to finally act. And just as importantly, they should be capable of also making the sort of small, low-cost, even temporary interventions in the interim, ones that don’t require bespoke planning and a prolonged procurement process.  

As much as Hale has come to enjoy painting crosswalks along with the group he founded, People’s Vision Zero, he does so not as a hobby, but as an expression of discontent with a government that rarely seems to take the safety of his streets as seriously as he’d like them to. Painting a rogue bike lane or giving bus riders a place to sit might not do all that much to fix what’s wrong with our cities directly, but every single DIY urbanist I’ve spoken to has told me that their efforts have helped them reclaim a sense of collective agency over how their cities function, after years of frustration with seemingly impenetrable civic institutions. 

“It’s very easy to feel small, and that nothing that you do matters,” said Carter Lavin, co-founder of the TransBay Coalition, a transit advocacy group with ties to the San Francisco Bay Area Bench Collective, but “one thing about building benches is that every screw you drive, every board you sand makes your neighbor’s life better, and it does it for hundreds of people.”

Unfortunately, getting a city to formalize these often quasi-legal urban interventions is no easy feat, as Pastor Robin Owen, a local nonprofit leader in Nashville who writes a Substack called Jesus Urbanist, knows all too well.

For the past year, Owen has been embroiled in a cat-and-mouse game with the city of Nashville in which she and her growing bunch of bench-building acolytes install a DIY bench that the city later removes, after which they replace it with another bench, which the city will inevitably remove again. For many municipalities, getting rid of useful changes proves far easier than simply implementing them in the first place.

As ill-fated as that dance might seem, it can still feel more meaningful to locals, Owen told me, than the even more hapless task of prodding the government to get something done itself. 

“When you care about a place and want to make it better, you’ve very likely spent hours in meetings or emailing elected officials, and progress is just really complicated and slow,” she told me, “and building a bench and then putting it on a street corner, you actually do something that impacts someone’s life.”

How cities can learn to build the simple stuff quickly

Advocates tell me that in almost every case they would much prefer to work with their city governments than against them. And sometimes they do: For well over a decade, the local transit advocacy group Reconnect Rochester has partnered with Rochester, New York to lay out boxy, brightly colored “bus stop cubes” at transit corridors around the city. Critically, these boxes were permitted.

“If we were to have just kind of gone out there and done this in the dark of night without following any sort of process,” Mary Staropoli, co-executive director of Reconnect Rochester, told me, “I think those bus stop cubes would have been quickly removed.”

Owen has tried for months to convince her city to issue a similar permit for her benches. Nashville happens to boast one of the nation’s only programs dedicated explicitly to facilitating tactical urbanism, which should have made this an unusually straightforward process. And yet, because of a new requirement compelling such projects to pay for liability insurance, she says that she cannot obtain a permit without paying thousands of dollars to protect benches that cost just $35 a pop to build. 

With the exception of some disability protections, cities are indeed far likelier to get sued over the infrastructure they build than over the infrastructure they never bothered to build at all. A crosswalk that never gets painted is one less crosswalk to worry about. A bench that never gets built can’t lead to a lawsuit. But if they never get built at all, then they also have no chance of protecting a pedestrian from a speeding car, or giving an elderly commuter a place to sit. 

“There is this massive moral disconnection where cities are not concerned about liability when it comes to people dying in traffic violence, but are concerned about liability when citizens take action ourselves,” Owen said. “We should be more concerned about our moral liability of people having to suffer as they navigate our cities.” 

Nevertheless, when a citizen paints a crosswalk or builds a bench, whether as a stopgap as an act of protest, it can also exert a sort of “productive tension” on a city, said Lydon, one that can compel a static government to act much more quickly than it would otherwise, even if such changes takes time to materialize.

It wasn’t until a group of local wheelchair users took sledgehammers to sidewalks and began pouring their own cement ramps in the 1970s that Berkeley, California became one of the first cities in the nation to mandate curb cuts, now a hallmark of nationally mandated accessible design that benefit almost everyone at some point: parents pushing strollers, travelers pulling roller bags, and the rest of us in one way or another. 

And in another famous example, a graduate student named Matt Tomasulo zip tied a few dozen wayfinding signs to street poles around Raleigh, North Carolina in 2012, telling passerby how far away various destinations were by walking. While the city initially tore down the signs, they proved popular enough that Raleigh changed course, eventually integrating them into its own planning.

“We’ve documented this over and over,” Lydon said, noting the shift that comes when a city stops fighting a guerrilla intervention and opts to embrace or iterate upon it instead. “You can do these small things, and it can very much lead to transformational change.”

This story is part of a series supported by Animal Charity Evaluators, which received a grant from EarthShare.

When I was a kid, my family would occasionally go fishing on small row boats on the lakes of Montgomery County, Maryland. The point wasn’t to catch fish to eat — we always released them — but rather to spend time together in nature. And for a while, I looked back on those times fondly. But as I’ve learned more about fish and their apparent capacity to feel pain, I now wonder: Was I just stabbing a bunch of fish in the mouth and throwing them back in the water, injured and vulnerable?

Ted Kerasote, a nature writer and lifelong hunter and angler, asked himself some version of this question decades ago after fighting to reel in a silver salmon in Alaska — the last he ever released. He still occasionally catches trout for dinner, but said that his decision to stop catch and release fishing that day in Alaska came down to looking at the situation critically: “Seeing this fish struggle for its life, for what end? I wasn’t going to eat it. Catch and release regulations were in place there. And so it was simply for my pleasure to fight this fish.”

Each year, tens of millions of people take to America’s lakes, rivers, streams, and coastal waters to catch billions of fish. Many of these fish only exist because US governmental agencies put them there; each year, over 1 billion fish are bred in hatcheries and stocked in water bodies primarily for anglers. And although firm estimates are hard to come by, it’s clear that the majority of fish caught are not kept for dinner, but tossed back in. Many fishing grounds actually require fish to be released (more on that later). 

While anglers report being primarily motivated to get on the water to commune with nature, spend time with friends and family, and relax, the whole endeavor is anything but pleasant for the fishes themselves. After the steel hook pierces their oral tissue — and sometimes their eyes, gills, or esophagus — they’re often yanked around to the point of exhaustion before being reeled in. Then they’re exposed to air while the hook is removed from their body (and sometimes also for a photo opportunity), before the angler puts them back into the water. There, the fish reenters an often-treacherous ecosystem while fatigued and injured. Sometimes, the hook can’t even be removed and likely remains in their mouths for hours or days.

Estimates on what percent of released fish die vary widely. One 2005 literature review landed the average at 18 percent, while a 2026 review put it at 11 percent. But these are by no means definitive, as they each pooled together data from dozens of studies with different methodologies and time observed after catch and release, which limits our understanding of fishes’ survival from these encounters. 

A different 2026 study, though also imperfect, took a more cleanly experimental approach. Researchers line-caught 489 Chinook salmon and then placed them in holding tanks for observation. Eight percent died within two hours of hooking, and about 25 percent died within 10 days. It’s reasonable to assume that the mortality rate would be higher if the fish were placed back into their local waters, with predators and other natural threats lurking.

Even when fish are caught by scientists like in this case, the operation is by no means surgical. In the Chinook study, 90 percent of the fish experienced moderate to severe fin damage, around 45 percent had moderate to severe hook wounds, and 8 percent suffered severe eye damage.

“No fish is better off because we’ve caught it,” Steven Cooke, a biologist and fisheries scientist at Carleton University in Canada — and an avid angler himself — told me. “It is impossible to catch a fish without causing, one, some level of injury, and two, physiological disturbance.” 

In other words, recreational catch and release fishing injures billions of animals (a vast number of whom were bred for this fate) and condemns many of them to a premature death, and likely a more unpleasant one than if they had simply been killed humanely immediately after catch. Which means that what is often portrayed as a peaceful — even benevolent — pastime is, in another light, a more torturous activity. Especially if you think fish might experience pain. 

What does a fish feel? 

For much of recent history, it’s been thought that fish — far from us on the evolutionary tree, living in ecosystems largely foreign to us — don’t feel pain. But in the early 2000s, a group of scientists in the United Kingdom began to conduct experiments on fish that slowly undermined this belief.

A seminal study, published in 2003, found that fish have nociceptors — sensory neurons that identify and respond to threatening stimuli, like predators or, well, metal hooks jabbed in their mouths. But it wasn’t necessarily evidence that fish feel pain in a similar sense to how we and other animals might; for that, a scientist would need to demonstrate that fish are not just reflexively reacting to noxious stimuli but also that their brains perceive it as pain.

Since then, researchers have poked and prodded fish to see if something more is going on than mere threat avoidance. They have, for example, injected acid and bee venom into the lips of rainbow trout, whose respiration rates nearly doubled and who proceeded to rub their lips against rocks or the tank walls — seemingly in an attempt to soothe the injury. 

In another experiment, scientists trained fish to feed in a certain part of their tank, and then subjected them to electric shocks in that area. The fish were less likely to seek out food as the shock intensity increased. 

But Cooke, the angler and fisheries scientist, isn’t convinced. He wants fellow anglers to treat fish better insofar as he wants fish to reproduce, grow, and have a good life, but says he’s a “fish pain skeptic.” 

“The evidence base around fish pain is meager and generally low quality, extremely biased, and unable to tell us whether or not fish have the capacity to feel pain or not,” Cooke told me. (Cooke, for his part, says he is biased too, and has received funding from pro-fishing interests.) 

The core of the skeptics’ argument boils down to the idea that fishes’ brains don’t possess the necessary equipment to experience pain — namely, the neocortex, which plays a major role in our and other mammals’ processing of pain.

Culum Brown, a professor and fish welfare researcher at Macquarie University in Australia, vehemently disagrees. “All [the information] we have to date suggests the behavioral, physiological, and psychological responses [in fish] mimic humans,” Brown told me. “Whatever way you look at it there are far more similarities than differences, which is not surprising given how important pain perception is from an evolutionary standpoint.” (Brown, I should note, has received some funding from animal welfare and ocean protection foundations.)

We know that various species of fish can use tools, recognize themselves in a mirror, build artistic nests, form complex social relationships, distinguish between human faces, and maintain long-term memories, among other abilities. Is it such a stretch, then, to extend them the capacity for pain?

Ultimately, as my colleague Marina Bolotnikova has written, the fish pain debate is partly a scientific one and partly a philosophical one. “The question remains unsettled because pain is a subjective feeling that science cannot prove definitively,” she wrote. One must be conscious to feel pain, and consciousness remains a mystery. With this uncertainty, we can continue to act as if they don’t feel pain, or we could give them the benefit of the doubt. 

Georgia Mason, a behavioral biologist at the University of Guelph in Canada, is, like Cooke, not quite convinced fish feel pain. But she argues that we ought to take a precautionary approach and act as if fish can experience pain until proven otherwise. 

With that in mind, should we be fishing for fun at all? 

Reducing harm in sportfishing — and rethinking it altogether

For his part, even as a fish pain skeptic and angler, Cooke is keen to reduce harm to fish. And the most important way to do that, he says, is to keep fish wet. He’s even on the board of a nonprofit called Keep Fish Wet.   

Why? “Most fish do not do well when exposed to air,” Cooke said. Their gills collapse and/or stick together, making it hard for them to get the oxygen they need.

“A fish should always be dripping wet,” and only out of the water for 10 seconds or less (the average time anglers kept fish in the air, in one study, was 29 seconds). The group Cooke works with also suggests anglers minimize handling time. And Cooke said fish will experience more stress if they’re caught in warm waters, as it holds less of the oxygen they need. 

Brown had a lot more to say. Anglers should avoid “playing” with the fish and bring them in as quickly as possible; use barbless hooks, which makes for an easier release; and when deepsea fishing, bring the fish up slowly to prevent barotrauma. And for those who kill, rather than release the fish they catch, do so quickly, rather than letting fish slowly suffocate or bleed out.

As Kerasote, the nature writer and hunter and angler, pointed out, catch and release as a widespread hobby is a relatively new phenomenon. Only in recent decades have state wildlife agencies made it a rule in many water bodies, in an effort to prevent fish depletion so as to ensure there is enough for wildlife to eat — and also so that there are always plenty of fish for anglers to catch. 

Before this, Kerasote said, “you went out there, you caught your limit and you were done.” But with catch and release, “there was no limit anymore, and that’s what became embedded in the fishing culture.”

To account for this shift, Kerasote wants to see states limit access to fishing in the same way that they hold lotteries to hunt certain mammals, like elk and Bighorn sheep.

Some fish scientists question the practice of catch and release altogether. While addressing an audience full of anglers at a conference, zoologist Eugene K. Balon bravely — or perhaps foolishly — shared a provocative thought experiment to prove his point. 

Imagine there is a recreational activity called “sportbirding,” Balon proposed, in which participants take fishing rods, put earthworms on the hooks, and cast them out into the forest. Then they wait until a bird — a Robin, in his example — falls for the bait and bites down on the hook.

“The shrieking and flopping bird is proudly wheeled toward the hide, the hook removed and the bird drowned in the water,” Balon said to the crowd (the water, in this case, is a parallel to fish exposed to air). “Would any one of you support such recreational activity? How does it differ from the sportfishing you support?”

“Sportbirding” would surely be considered barbaric to many — even many anglers, I imagine — and yet sportfishing enjoys widespread social acceptance, perhaps because of the persisting belief among many that fish don’t experience pain. 

Recreational fishing also has far-ranging impacts on species beyond its direct targets. For example, a study of over 2,500 pelicans taken into wildlife rehabilitation centers in Florida near the longest fishing pier in the world found that more than half of the birds had been injured by fishing hooks and lines — the leading cause of injury. Stocking nonnative fish to local water bodies can also upset natural food chains and ecosystems. And some of the live baitfish used by anglers spread disease to wild fish populations. 

There is also the issue of these “bait” animals themselves. Billions and billions of smaller fish — like minnows and shiners — are reared and sold each year in the US only to themselves be stabbed through with a fishing barb and intentionally kept alive and thrashing to entice a larger fish to chomp down on them. This is an additional, yet largely hidden, layer of suffering in the recreational fishing industry.

“I think fishing is worse than hunting,” Brown told me. “At least you know what you are targeting when hunting. And hunters pride themselves on a clean kill. It is a very different ethic,” than fishing, he said. That’s evident particularly in the world of competitive sportfishing, where marathon “fights” to reel in enormous fish are glorified.

For Cooke, many survey respondents, and even for me years ago, fishing is often about spending time with family outdoors, away from technology, while marveling at fish. But couldn’t that all be more or less achieved by taking a hike in the woods, snorkeling, boating, scuba diving, catching fish in nets, or even “hookless” fishing, which is practiced by a tiny contingent of anglers?

Not necessarily. Anglers, he said, are also motivated by the “thrill of the chase.” The uncertainty of what type of fish they will catch, and whether they catch any fish at all, keeps drawing anglers back to the water. Cooke said plenty of people who fish might also be driven by the “human domination of nature.”

Humans, like all creatures, are hardwired for survival. And for the vast majority of our history, that entailed catching and killing fish for sustenance. But now, most fishing is done for fun, or for those other pursuits: relaxation, thrills, the domination of nature. But the fun comes with an enormous moral cost that most anglers, it appears, would rather not confront. Because as our understanding of fish and their capacities evolves, our ideas about fishing might need to evolve, too.

What can an economist teach us about misery? 

I had that question in mind while reading the new book The Opposite of Happiness: How Bad Feelings Make and Break Us, by eminent researcher George Loewenstein. The field is not exactly known for its facility with human emotions, but Loewenstein is a co-founder of behavioral economics, the subdiscipline that studies the many ways that people depart from the ideal of the perfectly rational actor. He’s spent a career investigating how psychology and emotion shape our judgments, and his latest book offers a sweeping account of how suffering structures human life. 

That might sound very bleak, like the opposite of a fun read. But the book itself isn’t distressing — it’s a bracing, useful, and even comforting lens on what it means to be alive. It emerged from a period of profound suffering in his own life, one where, he writes, he “thought about suicide constantly.” Writing it, he told me in a recent interview, was “kind of a silver lining for my own misery.” 

In Loewenstein’s own words, The Opposite of Happiness is not a self-help book. To him, understanding is its own reward. Though he adamantly refuses to dispense life advice, I still think the book offers much that can help us live more wisely, a little less at war with our emotions.   

“Misery is inescapable,” Loewenstein writes. “It’s not some malfunction or a bug in the system. It is the system.” Negative emotions are “more powerful, persistent, and pervasive than positive ones.” That is because, he argues, unpleasant feelings — hunger, pain, anger, loneliness — are how evolution motivated us to do the things we need to survive and pass on our genes. They still heavily shape our conscious experience, however mismatched they may feel to our modern circumstances. 

Some version of that insight, that dissatisfaction is woven into the human condition, has been known to humans for eons, of course, captured in philosophical teachings like Buddhism’s Four Noble Truths. The father of economics himself observed that people work hard to earn riches, only to discover the result offers no lasting contentment. “It is this deception which rouses and keeps in continual motion the industry of mankind,” Adam Smith wrote in The Theory of Moral Sentiments. “It is this which first prompted them to cultivate the ground, to build houses, to found cities and commonwealths, and to invent and improve all the sciences and arts.” 

Loewenstein puts this understanding into the language of modern psychology, speaking to a current of anxiety and unhappiness running through American life today. It also points to enduring questions about what the purpose of human progress and prosperity is, anyway. 

Many of us could particularly benefit from the concept of negative “meta-emotions,” or the judgmental feelings we have about our negative feelings. “At the heart of so many of our miseries is not the fact that we feel bad, but the belief that we should feel otherwise,” he writes.  That line immediately rang true to me — merely acknowledging to myself that it’s not a big deal if I feel terrible from work stress, or my cat’s deteriorating health, or whatever else happens to be weighing on me, helps to lighten the load. What if we really tried to wryly embrace the reality that it’s extremely normal for life to suck sometimes? The reward might not be happiness, exactly (an elusive and poorly understood state anyway, Loewenstein points out), but a little less misery.  

I recently spoke with Loewenstein about his book — he had a gentle, faintly melancholic air, and took a surprisingly generous interest in some of the choices I was weighing in my own life. Part of our conversation, condensed and edited for clarity, is below. 

Americans seem pretty unhappy right now. There has been endless discourse about that. Do you think that your book adds something to that conversation?

I do — I was just an expert on the Meta case that recently settled. I was an expert on the side that was against Meta. I think one of the causes of declining mental health is, in fact, social media. It really exacerbates the types of social comparisons that lead to envy and loss of self-esteem. I would like to think that I provide some new insights into how these modern technologies help to exacerbate the mental health crisis. 

One analysis of that, based on what I’ve learned from your book, might be: We as humans are so guided by negative emotions, and often those emotions are relational in nature and have to do with how we compare to other people.  Social media is then quite naturally going to tap into and amplifying negative emotions that we’re easily manipulated by.

That’s right. I think of it in two ways. One is there’s kind of a mismatch between the circumstances in which we evolved and the modern environment. And the other is that in the capitalist economy, there are, especially in the internet age, all these entities that are trying to exploit our evolutionary programming for their own good and not for our good. 

The premise of the book, as you write, is that “misery is inescapable. It’s not some malfunction or a bug in the system. It is the system” — it’s like our default state. Can you unpack what that means? 

I agree with everything you said until “default.” Different people have different set points, and there are some happy people around. I happen to be a glass-half-empty person. My natural state is a little bit below zero. But there are very few people who don’t experience some form of misery frequently and intensely. 

The evolutionary function of most negative emotions is pretty obvious, whereas the evolutionary function of happiness is sort of murky. And misery is so dominant that all it takes is a little bit of misery, a little bit of negative emotion, to wipe out any positive emotion. You go out to a really nice dinner at a fancy restaurant with your significant other, and you say something thoughtless and they get offended or they say something thoughtless and you get offended. All of a sudden you can’t even taste the food or appreciate the beautiful surroundings. 

Paul Rozin at the University of Pennsylvania referred to this as the “roach effect”: If you drop a roach into a vat of fine French wine, you don’t want to drink the wine. But if you take a roach, you can add as much wine as you want to it and you’re not going to want to eat the roach.

One of the strongest positive emotions is relief — which is interesting and not a coincidence, because it’s relief from negative emotions. It’s telling that maybe the strongest positive emotion involves the elimination of negative emotions.

You can think of misery as a stick trying to get you to do things that evolution thought were good for you; the stick is very immediate, and you know exactly what it’s telling you. If you are hungry, it’s time to eat. If you’re in pain, you’re injured, you’ve got to do something about it. But the carrot is different. The carrot, which is positive emotions, you have to think ahead, Oh, if I did this, then I would experience this positive emotion. It requires a kind of second-order thinking, whereas misery is just immediate. Evolution figured out probably very rapidly, probably when we were single-cell protozoa or something, that sticks are a way better way to get an organism to do what it needs to do than carrots.

How confident are you that the evidence base we have about the psychology of negative emotions generalizes to humanity as a whole and that it’s not culturally biased?

“What I’d really like people to get out of the book is insight — into their own negative feelings, their own types of misery, and other people’s negative feelings.”

Emotion researchers have looked across cultures, and they tend to observe the same basic emotions in a very, very wide range of cultures. What does vary across cultures is what induces the emotions. For example, shame — something that we would be unashamed of, somebody in a different country might be very ashamed of, and vice versa. A lot of these emotions are self-conscious emotions. They have to do with how we interpret the world and whether we’re living up to some kind of standard. Often we get it from culture, from religion, things like that.

But I think the emotions themselves are not universal, but pretty close to universal. My guess is that all 12 negative emotions that I write about are manifested in pretty much all different cultures, from those that have very little connection to Western civilization to advanced economies. 

Another timely thread that your book is in conversation with is this idea that American culture has become intolerant of ordinary negative emotions in a way that’s maladaptive. Suzanne O’Sullivan’s recent book The Age of Diagnosis, for example, covered our obsession with medical labels and how they might make us prone to thinking that feeling bad means that there’s something medically wrong with us. What do you think about that? Have we gotten bad at feeling bad?

It is striking to me how it seems like all the young people I meet talk about their therapist, and a lot of them talk about the drugs that they take. Young people also talk about anxiety and depression almost like one word, “anxiety-and-depression.” In my generation, anxiety and depression were two entirely different things. 

I think it’s good that younger generations are more comfortable talking about these things and getting help. I do worry that it can be, to some degree, pathologizing. There’s an awful lot of self-focus there. And I kind of worry that if you are dealing with your mental health problems by taking drugs, that it reduces your motivation to figure out things like how to reorganize your life to feel better. But I don’t want to sound too much like a dinosaur.

There’s a contingent of people who might read your book and think, “Yes, isn’t it terrible that humans are built to be unhappy and our evolved instincts don’t serve us well anymore? And that’s why we should engineer humans in such a way that we don’t feel this way all the time.” Someone with a strong utilitarian philosophy might think that if your life sums up to more negative feelings than positive ones, then it’s not even worth living. But that’s not really the vibe that I get from you. 

No, yeah. And one of the things I talk about in the book are what psychologists call meta-emotions. These are emotions that one experiences about emotions. I think the single best example is envy. If you envy your friend — almost everyone has friends that they envy, but they’re still your friends. But you might feel that you’re not supposed to envy your friend, and you feel guilty — the guilt is a meta-emotion. Or you can also have meta-emotions about a lack of emotion. So something bad happens to someone, or even somebody dies, and you don’t feel all that bad, and you feel guilty because you’re not grieving. 

I think all the societal focus on happiness creates a kind of a meta-meta-emotion, which is that we think we’re supposed to be happy. And then we feel ashamed and guilty about the fact that we aren’t happy — we feel like we failed. That compounds and adds another level of depth to our misery. So I think it can be liberating at some level to understand that misery just is a constant in human existence. 

I also think that my book is militantly anti-self-help. There’s no self-help in it whatsoever. But I don’t think it’s a depressing book to read, and it wasn’t particularly depressing to write, though some of the stories that I wrote about were a bit wrenching. 

I like that — but what, then, ought people to do with the information that you’re presenting?

What I’d really like people to get out of the book is insight — into their own negative feelings, their own types of misery, and other people’s negative feelings. To me, insight is valuable in its own right. 

The reason I read sad novels is not because they make me happy, but because I feel like I gained some kind of insight into people and into the world. Tess of the d’Urbervilles is the saddest book you could ever imagine, but it’s very meaningful to read, and it definitely feels like you’re a different person after you read it. I love novels, but I have no skill as a fiction writer. So this book was almost like a surrogate for me. Instead of writing a novel, I wrote this book.

I think the lack of self-help drives some people crazy. I did a podcast where the podcaster kept asking me questions about how reading the book would improve somebody’s life. And I kept saying it’s not a self-help book.

I’m just very skeptical of self-help talks and books and things like that. And I know that there’s certain things you are supposed to do to feel good, like you’re supposed to wake up and think of three things that you should be thankful for. And maybe if I did that, maybe I would get happier, but I’ve never been able to actually get myself to do that.

But you do have some insights that people could apply in their lives, like the idea that striving intentionally for happiness or meaning doesn’t really work, and that meaning often comes to us in unforeseeable spontaneous moments. On one hand, that implies a kind of randomness, and maybe there’s not a lot we can do about it. On the other hand, I can predict that I’m more likely to feel a deep sense of meaning in some scenarios than others, and I can put myself into those situations more, like choosing to be social on a weeknight.

A lot of the time the good things in life are just surprising, and sometimes you have to get dragged kicking and screaming into things that ultimately end up being the most fulfilling things in your life. So much of parenting is trying to get your kids to do things that they don’t want to do that you are absolutely convinced that if they started to do them, they would end up loving.

You argue, drawing from economist and philosopher Adam Smith, that human beings are constantly striving to achieve the next thing because we imagine it’ll satisfy us, though it never does. That helpful delusion is what leads us to build cities and cure diseases and all the rest. 

Adam Smith is best known for the invisible hand, which is the idea that each person single-mindedly pursuing their own well-being inadvertently promotes the public good. But if you read Adam Smith’s other book, The Theory of Moral Sentiments, he didn’t believe at all that people pursue their own personal interest. He believed that people are driven by this illusion that the next raise, the next accomplishment, will bring happiness, and it never does. I love that contradiction between the conventional interpretation of the invisible hand and what Adam Smith really believed.

So civilization is powered by this dissatisfaction that never resolves itself. But I don’t think you would say the lesson we ought to take from the book is that we’ll always revert back to being miserable, so there’s no point in doing anything.

That’s absolutely not the point of the book. Misery evolved for good reasons, and the whole point of misery is that we’re supposed to take actions to lessen our miseries. That’s what we should be doing, because who wants to be miserable? 

There’s no place like Kansas, a state whose howling winds are so fierce that in the 1800s, the roaring soundscape drove local farmers into madness. It is so windy in Kansas that every so often, trains get swept off their tracks or trampolines get hurled into the air and flung into neighbors’ trees. 

But today, the same gusts that whisked away Dorothy’s home have made Kansas the third-most wind-powered place in the country, its great plains dotted with thousands of twirling turbines responsible for generating over half of the state’s energy. 

And for years, Kansas has been trying to share. 

But that’s easier said than done in the US, where building power lines across state borders can be an onerous, litigious, and bureaucratic slog. The Grain Belt Express, a proposed 800-mile high-voltage line carrying Kansas’s windy riches across Missouri, Illinois, and Indiana, has been trying to get built for the past 16 years. When completed, it will allow Kansas to pump five times as much wind power into Missouri as it does now. But though the project received its first approval in 2013, it will likely not open until 2029 at the earliest, beset by regulatory hurdles across multiple jurisdictions and an endless stream of legal challenges that immediately halt progress every time a new injunction is filed. Alas, the express — which only broke ground this year — was forced to run oh so local. 

But other projects like it might soon enjoy far more reasonable timelines. On Wednesday, a bipartisan group of Senators announced a deal called the Bipartisan American Affordability and Jobs Act, or BAAJA — an acronym that’s led to a slew of cringeworthy euphoric Baja Blast references from abundance Democrats, clean energy advocates, and oil industry lobbyists alike. If passed, it would significantly curtail Americans’ ability to endlessly litigate against energy projects they don’t like, and empower the federal government to push critical multistate projects forward even if one state or municipality drags its feet. That could remake the way the nation’s energy infrastructure gets built, including its interstate transmission lines, for decades to come. 

But the bill also suggests that easing the way for clean energy in the US may require simultaneously creating the conditions for more oil and gas infrastructure in a country that already has a lot of it. It would also mean defanging some of the landmark regulatory norms that for decades have, for example, given Americans a say over developments that could contaminate their drinking water and helped tribes protect sacred heritage sites. These laws were necessary in the first place because prior to the 1970s, American communities frequently found themselves both literally and figuratively steamrolled  by developers singularly focused on building things quickly with little regard for the oil spills, river fires, and bifurcated neighborhoods they left in their wake.

And yet today, half a century later, that same dilemma has, in some ways, turned on its head. America builds things too slowly, and in particular, it builds the kind of infrastructure desperately needed to usher in a transition to clean energy with little of the urgency you’d expect from a world in the throes of climate change-related disaster. Exasperatingly, some of the same protections that have played a critical role in making this nation safer may also be standing in the way of building a nation that is more affordable and sustainable in the long run.

There are still plenty of reasons to feel hopeful about the world’s transition away from fossil fuels, even in the US, which has lagged behind our peers while still building an extraordinary number of solar and wind farms, particularly in Republican-led states like Kansas and Texas. And yet, many of these projects have languished in never-ending Ticketmaster-esque queues to connect to the nation’s decrepit power grid, a direct result of the permitting hellscape that prevents much-needed high-voltage cables like the Grain Belt Express from coming online.      

This new bill aims to ease many of the bottlenecks that stymie clean energy, but it also throws a bone to fossil fuels, which, like renewables, would benefit from less onerous environmental reviews and quicker permissions. This is, after all, a bipartisan bill in a Congress that, at least for now, remains Republican-led, under the tutelage of an aggrieved president who has sabotaged some of the nation’s most promising clean energy projects with an often petty and relentless fervor. Some Democrats in Congress, along with other environmentalists, have raised serious concerns about the bill. Those initial objections may prophesize an uphill battle for it when it comes to a vote, likely after the November midterms. 

Even so, with American electricity bills spiking to frightening new heights, and a data center buildout that could all but snap the power grid in half, this ambitious deal is, at the very least, an indication that some of the nation’s representatives are finally listening. And if it passes into law in the months to come, it could very well remake how Americans get their energy for a generation. 

So why are environmentalists mad?

By most accounts, the Bipartisan American Affordability and Jobs Act almost didn’t happen. 

For months, the proposed permitting deal has been stalled by the Trump administration’s failure to assure Democrats that the president would lay off his attacks on “windmills” and other clean energy projects. But in recent days, lawmakers appear to have come close to a fragile détente on the back of a “very reasonable opening proposal” from the White House, according to Sen. Sheldon Whitehouse (D-RI), the ranking member of the Environment and Public Works Committee. 

If the BAAJA is passed, it will codify new protections that legally prevent presidents like Trump from meddling with already-permitted energy projects or singling out specific forms of energy, a prohibition that will also apply if a Democratic president attempts to halt an approved gas line or a petroleum refinery. The Biden administration’s freeze on approvals for new natural gas export plants, for example, would not be allowed. 

It’s this element of the proposed bill that worries many environmentalists most. According to a transcript obtained by Punchbowl News, during a coalition call on Thursday, dozens of advocates from prominent environmental groups — including the Sierra Club, the National Wildlife Federation, and the Environmental Law & Policy Center — expressed their misgivings about the bill and strategized about how to lobby Democrats against it.

Most environmentalists acknowledge, however, that we need to spruce up the power grid and fix how permitting works for clean energy projects and transmission lines. As clean energy advocates know all too well, the projects they support are, paradoxically, more likely to be hampered by environmental reviews than fossil fuel projects are, because renewables usually require more space and represent the bulk of new energy developments. But many advocates understandably take issue with the idea that reforming this overcomplicated process may require weakening the right to challenge other projects, a right affirmed by the National Environmental Policy Act, the Clean Water Act, the Endangered Species Act, and the National Historic Preservation Act. 

The bill’s fate may ultimately depend on whether this trade-off is worth it. The BAAJA still does leave some room for court challenges if they’re filed within 150 days of an approval. But it will still place a much larger burden for determining these damage thresholds on federal agencies, which are, of course, currently controlled by Trump.

“The question’s not whether that would be a good idea — it’s one of the basic building blocks for converting more of our energy system to renewables,” the environmentalist Bill McKibben wrote of grid expansion and permitting reform on his Substack this week. “It’s how many pounds of flesh the fossil fuel industry would demand in return, and how close to vital organs that flesh would be located.”

The problem is, no matter how many Congressional seats Democrats seem poised to scoop up in November, they will still need to get Republicans on board if they want Americans to be able to really see the benefits of solar, the cheapest energy source of all time, reflected on their power bill. And for most of the nation, if not Earth itself, that transition can’t come soon enough. 

Editor’s note, October 4, 8 am ET: We’re bringing you some of our best-loved Your Mileage May Vary columns while Sigal Samuel is on parental leave. The one below was originally published last year.

This unconventional advice column offers you a unique framework for thinking through moral dilemmas. It’s based on value pluralism: the idea that each of us has multiple values that are equally valid but that often conflict with each other. Submit your own question here.

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My partner and I did IVF recently and luckily we ended up with several embryos. One of those will be implanted in me so I hopefully get pregnant. But which one?

My fertility clinic is encouraging me to do PGT-A testing, which would screen for things like Down syndrome and would also let me see the sex of each embryo so I could potentially choose whichever I want. (And to be honest, I really want a girl!) I’m also hearing about these new companies that can test embryos for all kinds of things — like how smart the kid might be, how tall they’ll get, and whether they’ll have a lower chance of getting breast cancer, diabetes, mental illness, stuff like that.

I don’t know how to feel about any of this. On the one hand, it feels weirdly eugenics-y to do so much tinkering with embryos, and I can’t help feeling a little pressured into overmedicalizing everything with these expensive tests. But then again, if I could do something to make my baby healthier and happier, don’t I kind of have to do everything in my power? What does a parent owe their child?

Dear Expecting,

This is such an exciting — and also confusing — time. You’re about to have your first kid, and that comes with all sorts of fears and insecurities and hopes and dreams. You want to do the right thing — no, the best thing! — for your child. It’s a beautiful impulse. Unfortunately, it makes it easy for companies to prey on you.

So let me walk you through what these companies can and can’t really provide. After we talk about the science, we can talk about the ethics. 

The simpler test you mentioned, PGT-A, has been around since the 1990s. It can indeed screen for conditions like Down syndrome and let you see the sex of each embryo. Mind you, that doesn’t predict what gender your child will ultimately end up identifying with — more on that soon.

The newer testing you mentioned is called polygenic testing. The conditions it screens for are complex ones, influenced by thousands of genes. We’re talking about everything from breast cancer to depression. Some companies even offer screenings not for disease prevention, but for genetic enhancement — so you can select for a taller kid or a kid with higher IQ.

Polygenic testing companies claim to predict each embryo’s risk for each condition, and the potential reduction of risk you’ll get if you choose one embryo over another. As the statistical geneticist Sasha Gusev explains, it’s very, very easy to be misled by this claim. If the company claims to lower absolute risk of Type 2 diabetes by 12 percent, you might think this means, “The chance of my kid ever developing diabetes just went down by 12 percent — great!” But really what it means is that, all else equal, a kid who would’ve developed diabetes is likely now at the high end of pre-diabetes instead, or just develops diabetes a few years later. The same holds true for other conditions, like breast cancer. Sure, if your kid is going to develop diabetes or breast cancer, you’d rather they develop it later — but it’s not the bill of perfect health customers might imagine.  

“Typical risk reduction estimates tend to exploit statistical assumptions to overstate their benefits and lead to confusion,” Gusev writes.

It’s also important to note that there’s a difference between a physical disease like cancer, which is straightforwardly and universally negative, and a complex mental health condition like depression. For one thing, polygenic scores don’t perform as well in psychiatry, as the psychologist Eric Turkheimer notes. Plus, most mental health conditions come in mild to moderate to severe forms, and it’s not clear that we should want to get rid of mild or moderate manifestations. 

“Sure, it would be nice if no one ever got depressed, but what would that actually mean?” Turkheimer writes. “People are going to be sad, and the most modern models of psychiatric disorders view most of them as extremes on continuous dimensions of normal behavior. I don’t think we want some kind of genetic version of Soma.”

To give a personal example: I have generalized anxiety with some obsessive tendencies. Is that a major pain in the butt sometimes? You bet. But if I could wave a magic wand and get rid of it, would I? No. In my experience, this trait is linked to another trait I deeply value: my creativity. The same thing that propels me down rabbit holes of worry also propels me down rabbit holes of getting super curious about some topic, researching it into the wee hours of the morning, and then writing a novel or children’s book about it.

That brings me to one other scientific issue: pleiotropy. It’s a fancy term for a simple truth, which is that genes can have an effect on more than one trait. When it comes to behavioral polygenic testing, we actually know very little about which genes cause what — a gene that’s correlated with depression or anxiety may also be correlated with a bunch of other things. So, if everyone were to start selecting embryos to try to protect their kids from depression or anxiety, what would happen? We don’t know! 

Pleiotropy is a scientific issue, but it’s also a moral issue, because in trying to protect your kid from a negative outcome, you could also be accidentally barring them from a positive one.

And that’s just the tip of the moral iceberg.

Another issue is the potential psychological harm that can result from commodifying our kids — treating them like consumer objects with selectable parts. Let’s say you use polygenic testing to try to select for high IQ. Even if the company’s predictor is right 80 percent of the time, that means it’s wrong 20 percent of the time. What happens if it’s wrong about your kid, and they end up with a low IQ instead of a high one? How will your kid feel? Unless you hide the truth from them, they’ll know that they are not what you wanted, that they failed to live up to the vision you went out of your way to chase.

The same goes for sex selection via good old PGT-A. I know you really want a girl. But what would happen if you select for a girl, and then your child grows up and turns out to be trans? They may feel an extra sense that they’re letting you down by not conforming to the gender expectations you had for them.

Then there are the ethical questions around unequal access. Polygenic testing isn’t cheap. (One company, Orchid, charges $2,500 per screened embryo. Test 10 embryos and that’ll cost you $25,000.) So, at least in the short term, that raises the specter of entrenching a caste system, where the gap between rich and poor expands dramatically as the rich get smarter and stronger.

Technologies tend to get cheaper over time, so maybe everyone will ultimately be able to afford polygenic testing. But that raises another problem: implicit coercion. If more and more of us make ourselves smarter and stronger, we may create a society in which everyone feels pressure to alter their child’s biology — even if they don’t want to. To refuse embryo selection would mean to put a child at a huge professional disadvantage, or to face moral condemnation for making “suboptimal” kids when optimization is possible. Society may no longer offer health insurance benefits or accommodations for kids with disabilities (or even non-enhanced IQ), reasoning that “it was the parents’ choice.” 

Some philosophers, like Julian Savalescu, already argue that parents have a “moral obligation to create children with the best chance of the best life.” Polygenic testing companies love that argument; Orchid founder Noor Siddiqui tells parents that “the responsible decision” is to “protect their children” from disease, using language like, “What if you could have stopped it…but chose not to?” And we generally live in a culture that’s obsessed with optimization. 

So it’s no wonder that you find yourself asking, “If I could do something to make my baby healthier and happier, don’t I kind of have to do everything in my power?” 

It’s a view that will be very appealing to utilitarians, who believe the right action is the action that maximizes well-being or happiness. But maximizing principles can be dangerous. If we’re laser-focused on maximizing one value, however noble it may be, that can lead us to overlook a host of other important values. Think about diversity, for example; polygenic testing could lead to a less diverse world. 

And it’s not even clear how to maximize well-being given that each embryo will have some downsides: How would you choose between one embryo with a slightly elevated risk for schizophrenia, another with a moderately elevated risk for cancer, and a third with a high risk for Alzheimer’s? You’d have to decide how to rank the importance of each condition, which would require a dizzying bit of moral math: How much weight do you put on the longevity associated with each condition, how much on patient-reported quality of life for each condition, and how much on your own ability to cope with each — and society’s ability (which will change over the years)? Plus, even if the screening does end up optimizing life for your individual child, it could have negative effects on the population level, for the reasons we covered above.

As the Nobel laureate Herbert Simon pointed out, many problems contain way more variables and way too much uncertainty for maximizing along a single axis to be feasible or even desirable. So it often makes sense to just go with an option that’s “good enough.” He coined the term “satisficing” — a portmanteau of “satisfying” and “sufficing” — to describe opting for this good enough choice.

What would satisficing look like in the context of embryos? If there’s a very serious condition that runs in your family — like Tay-Sachs or the BRCA mutation that markedly increases cancer risk — then I do think there’s a strong case for screening for that. These conditions are debilitating and can lead to early death. Nobody wants them. Genetic testing that lets us prevent them is an awesome gift. 

Then there are conditions that can include suffering, like autism, but can also be very compatible with a happy life. Mental health conditions in particular are heavily socially constructed — a lot of the associated suffering comes about because society constructs a certain biological reality as a problem and doesn’t support the people who have it. In these cases, if you want to give your child a “good enough” or even “optimized” life, remember that you don’t have to achieve that by biological means; working to change the social environment can be just as important, and it doesn’t carry the societal risks associated with polygenic testing. 

Ultimately, when considering what counts as a “good enough” life, each parent will draw the line in a slightly different place. And there’s a part of that that can’t be boiled down to objective facts about disease, because this is also about how well-resourced the parent feels — emotionally, socially, and financially — to deal with a certain condition. What feels manageable to one parent may feel crushingly hard to another. 

So, I can’t tell you exactly which screenings to do and which to forgo. What I do want to tell you is to resist being bullied or shamed by others, especially those with a profit incentive to push you in a certain direction.

As the epidemiologist Abby Lippman has noted, genetic testing is supposed to offer parents more choice, but it too often has the opposite effect. When someone like Orchid’s Siddiqui says about a disease, “What if you could have stopped it…but chose not to?” — well, that language preys on parents’ worst fears and insecurities. It holds parents hostage while pretending to be giving them more autonomy. 

You are nobody’s hostage. You are a moral agent free to look at the many different relevant factors, weigh them all in the balance, and then make the choice that works well enough for your family.   

Bonus: What I’m reading

• Silicon Valley is obsessed with IQ, so it’s no surprise that tech execs there are using polygenic testing in hopes of creating supersmart babies. This article shows the kind of mental pretzels customers get into when trying to figure out whether to select the embryo with the highest predicted IQ or that with the lowest risk of disorders. One couple asks: “How much additional risk of ADHD cancels out against 10 extra IQ points?”

• Rereading “The Last Children of Down Syndrome,” Sarah Zhang’s 2020 Atlantic feature on prenatal testing, it struck me that when people think “prenatal testing,” Down syndrome is often the first condition that comes to mind, even though it’s not the most severe or straightforwardly negative (it’s compatible with a happy life). It’s just that Down syndrome was easy to test for, so we started testing for it early. I wonder if that built up the condition as a bogeyman in the expectant parent’s imagination — if the fact that we could screen for it shaped the public’s perception of Down syndrome as something that should be screened for and potentially screened out.

• One trait that many people assume we should select for is a great memory. But I highly recommend the short story “Funes the Memorious” by Jorge Luis Borges. It’s a reminder that having too good a memory is not always a benefit.  

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In the moody alcoves of a lobby bar in Chicago in 2021 over French 75s, Dr. Louise King, a gynecologic surgeon, and Katie L. Watson, a bioethics professor, found themselves in conversation about a topic that had long frustrated them both: Female surgeons are consistently underpaid compared to male surgeons, even after accounting for specialty, rank, age, and other factors. 

What troubled them even more was how the pay gap compounded in King’s own field. Surgeons who perform procedures that are specifically for women, like gynecological surgeries, are paid less for their services than surgeons who perform comparable surgeries for the male anatomy. Gynecologic surgeons are also predominantly women. Over the course of the conversation, Watson termed this situation “double discrimination,” a phrase that captures the overlapping dilemma of lower pay for surgeries in a specialty that is overwhelmingly female and also serves a primarily female patient population.

That term, which has since entered the medical literature, stuck because the problem it describes has been well documented for decades. In 1997, a group of gynecologic surgeons published a paper in the journal Gynecologic Oncology with a title that gets straight to it — “Is Adam worth more than Eve?” Dr. Barbara A. Goff, now chair of Obstetrics and Gynecology at University of Washington Medicine, and colleagues found that doctors are paid around 44 percent more for performing male-specific procedures than analogous female-specific ones. 

In the three decades since, the problem hasn’t been fixed. To the contrary, it has been effectively institutionalized, built into the systems and codes that determine how surgeons bill for procedures of all kinds. Today, gynecologic or female-specific procedures are in large part still reimbursed at lower rates than male-specific procedures even when they take similar time and skill.

Those disparities have consequences that extend beyond the compensation of individual doctors. When gynecological procedures don’t bring in as much money to hospitals, those same hospitals are disincentivised to offer women’s health services. That can lead to worse care for women and, crucially, fewer training opportunities for the surgeons who do that work. 

But this historically persistent inequality is not a foregone conclusion.

How healthcare services are billed changes all the time as procedures get reevaluated, new ones get added, and medical societies and experts push for revisions. In fact, one of the biggest changes in how maternity care is billed and reimbursed is set to take effect early next year, splitting up services for prenatal care, delivery, postpartum care, and more. While this is a long-overdue fix for obstetrics, gynecologic surgery — which covers most of a woman’s life outside of childbearing years — continues to be left out of the conversation. 

And although real change will require concerted efforts, King and Watson — and other advocates who have spent years documenting this disparity — have a fairly clear sense of how to start fixing it.  

How surgical procedures are valued

The work of deciding how much a medical procedure is worth starts well above the head of any given doctor, medical practice, or hospital. In the United States, the Centers for Medicare and Medicaid Services, a federal agency that administers healthcare and health insurance policies, sets rates for different procedures based on a metric called relative value units (RVUs). An RVU is supposed to take into account how long a procedure takes, the skill it requires, and the intensity of work it demands. Both Medicare and private insurers consider these figures when they’re settling on reimbursement levels. If a procedure has a higher RVU, it is valued more highly, and makes more money.

In a recent study, cheekily titled “Price and Prejudice,” researchers from the Mount Sinai Health System found that out of 55 pairs of sex-specific procedures that they evaluated in 2023, 75 percent had lower RVUs for procedures on female patients. On average, RVUs for male-specific procedures were 30 percent higher, and when those procedures were performed in a hospital or surgical center, surgeons were paid around 26 percent more.

For example, doctors will often perform biopsies — taking a small sample of tissues, cells, or fluids — on both male and female genitalia to diagnose problems. In 2023, researchers found that Medicare’s standard national rate for reimbursing surgeons was $121.32 for a penile biopsy but only $65.74 for a vaginal biopsy. 

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King, the director of reproductive bioethics at Harvard Medical School Center for Bioethics and a contributor on the study, believes that when the RVU system was created back in the 1990s, gynecological services were largely ignored, leaving the specialty undervalued from the start. While Medicare and Medicaid Services have undertaken some efforts to make RVUs more equitable across specialties over the years, that undervaluation has persisted. 

That problem may come down to how those values are determined in the first place — and who determines them. RVUs are set by a committee of doctors convened by the American Medical Association (AMA), with most of the seats allocated to members of major medical societies. The committee surveys different doctors on the time and skill required for procedures in their specialties. Based on these responses, the committee recommends values for each service to the federal government, which has historically accepted nearly 90 percent of them.

While the data quality of the underlying surveys has improved over the years, it is still not very high, said Dr. Miriam Laugesen, a tenured associate professor of health policy and management at Columbia University Mailman School of Public Health. Because the committee’s process isn’t transparent, it is often unclear what evidence its valuations rest on. This leads to distortions of all kinds, she said.

“It’s not a government process; It’s not a federal advisory committee,” Laugesen said. “It’s just a committee that was put together by the [AMA]. It’s pretty unusual in terms of how policy is made.”

In particular, King said that the surveys have a very low response rate from some specialties and are only sent to a small subset of doctors. She has never received a committee survey in the 17 years that she has practiced. 

The American College of Obstetricians and Gynecologists (ACOG) has a core seat on the committee that determines RVUs. But most ACOG members are general OB-GYNs, who split their time between obstetrics and gynecology and typically operate relatively rarely. The surgeons who perform the bulk of gynecologic operations are subspecialists – gynecologic oncologists, urogynecologists, and minimally invasive gynecologic surgeons — who complete an additional fellowship after residency. They mainly belong to their own societies and don’t have a seat at the table when RVUs are being determined. 

“From a purely cynical or economic standpoint, [ACOG] has no reason to advance billing for gynecology. It doesn’t represent a large portion of the practices of their members,” said King, adding that ACOG has been heroic in its efforts to obtain reimbursement equity for its own members. (One unintended possible result of that advocacy is that pushing for a smaller pay gap for services related to pregnancy has in turn sent the message that women’s bodies are literally worth less, and are less deserving of care when they’re not engaged in the god-given duty of reproduction.)

The result is that doctors in specialties like OB-GYN who operate infrequently are answering the surveys about complicated surgical procedures that gynecologic surgeons perform more frequently. King said that her surgical schedule aligned more closely with those of general surgeons. For example, she operates two to three times a week whereas, according to her, an average OB-GYN will likely operate once a month. 

“So they’re not the right people to be answering these surveys. They [the survey committee and ACOG] don’t target the surveys to people who operate a lot,” she said. 

Part of the problem with using surveys to determine a key foundation of medical reimbursements is that the data is self-reported by doctors. This is especially relevant when more objective avenues may be available. One of those avenues is the American College of Surgeons’ National Surgical Quality Improvement Program, which is an initiative that collects and manages key surgical data to track quality and improvement in surgical fields, including the actual time spent performing surgical procedures, making it a more definitive measure than self-reported surveys.

Dr. Shitanshu Uppal, a gynecologic oncologist and division chief for gynecology oncology services at the University of Michigan, and his colleagues analyzed 901,917 surgeries using both the National Surgical Quality Improvement Program as well as the self-reported surveys used to determine RVUs. They found that median RVUs per hour vary widely between specialties. Gynecology had the third-lowest median RVUs per hour of all the specialties studied. In effect, that means that gynecological surgeons are paid less for every hour that they work. 

The researchers also found that compared to the operating times logged for real surgeries in the Surgical Quality Improvement Program, surgeons in certain specialties tended to report longer procedure times in the self-reported surveys sent out by the RVUs committee. Specialties that reported longer operating times were more likely to be awarded higher RVUs, leading to greater hourly rates of reimbursement.

According to Uppal’s analysis, urologists — a profession most often associated with procedures on men because their work routinely concerns the prostate and the testicles — reported times that exceeded the baseline data by a median of 20 minutes. By contrast, estimates from gynecologists only exceeded the actual time by a median of five minutes, meaning that urologists tended to overestimate their time spent in surgery by four times as many minutes. Generally, urologists earn much more than general OB-GYNs, who in turn earn more than other subspecialties like gynecologic surgery. Despite having access to reliable electronic records of operating time, Uppal and his colleagues note, the AMA committee still continues to use self-reported operating times, which influences their RVU recommendations, ultimately cementing disparities in female-specific procedures. 

“The system that they have now developed over time,” King said, “now creates discrimination because of its complexity.” She added that this is how systemic discrimination is perpetuated, even if systems or rules appear seemingly neutral.

How low reimbursement rates make women’s lives worse

The US healthcare system has never been especially good at putting its money where its mouth is when it comes to women’s health. Experts have been sounding the alarm on sex-based disparities in medical billing for a long time — long enough that governing authorities like the committee responsible for RVUs and ACOG have had time to respond to the concerns. 

Over the years, the gap between male-specific procedure reimbursements and female-specific reimbursements has decreased slightly. But researchers of the Price and Prejudice study showed that between 2003 and 2023, there were no statistically significant improvements to the pay disparities. Comparing a smaller set of procedures across 1997, 2015, and 2023, they found that the gap had narrowed only minimally.

One common justification that ACOG provides for the pay gap is that obstetrics and gynecologic services see a higher-than-average share of patients on Medicaid, which pays doctors less than other insurers. King agreed this is a real factor, but it doesn’t explain why Medicare itself values procedures on women lower in the first place. And as her account of double discrimination makes clear, undervaluing gynecology ultimately affects women everywhere for the worse.

“I have patients who are waiting for surgery with me for a year at a time. I mean, that’s crazy.”

Dr. Louise King

Lower reimbursements in gynecologic surgery disproportionately affect female surgeons because they represent a majority of this specialty. It’s not just the surgeons’ salaries that are affected. Hospitals and facilities work on a revenue-based model — if gynecologic surgeries are not bringing in enough money, institutions tend to allocate fewer resources to those procedures. That, in turn, can limit access to operating rooms, surgical staff, and operating times. 

“I have patients who are waiting for surgery with me for a year at a time. I mean, that’s crazy,” King said. As a minimally invasive gynecologic surgeon, she surgically treats women with endometriosis, fibroids, cysts, or other such conditions.

It also affects the training that gynecologic surgeons receive. When there aren’t enough resources to operate regularly, opportunities to train residents are rarer than they should be. The result is that low reimbursement rates have contributed to a workforce of low-volume gynecologic surgeons who are sometimes not as well-trained as other surgeons who operate frequently.

The relationship between volume of surgeries performed and patient outcomes is well-documented in other fields. Research shows that surgeons who operate infrequently have worse outcomes, including more complications before, after, and during surgeries, compared to surgeons who operate regularly. 

Low-volume gynecologic surgeons — who perform a particular procedure less than 12 times a year — have significantly higher rates of causing bowel and urinary tract injuries in their patients. Especially in benign gynecological surgery (procedures not related to cancer), having surgeons who operate frequently also increases the number of minimally invasive procedures performed, which is related to better patient outcomes. 

Payment reform is an uphill battle, but not a lost cause

It takes multiple years and pressure from different entities to update or add new RVUs for procedures — but crucially, it is not impossible. The first few steps to creating a sustainable system might look like submitting gynecology-related procedure codes for reevaluation to the AMA committee or prompting a congressional report on the matter. 

For example, for years there has only been one billing code for endometriosis, regardless of the complexity of surgery or technique used. This disincentivizes surgeons from taking on complicated surgical cases of endometriosis because of the low reimbursement rate. Reevaluating that rate or diversifying the various surgical approaches that different cases require would help affected women get the care they deserve.

Medicare’s payment system also has what’s called a budget neutrality rule, which dictates that significantly increased payments for any given procedure must be offset by cuts elsewhere. The AMA itself believes that reforming this rule would make it easier to work toward reimbursement equity for female-specific procedures.  

Experts have suggested creating gynecology-specific conversion factors to bring parity to a system that naturally undervalues these procedures, while others think that eliminating sex-specific billing codes whenever possible is the right move. For example, the code for genitalia biopsies is different for men and women. This means that those procedures can be reimbursed differently even though they are essentially similar. Adopting one sex-neutral code for any genitalia biopsies would avoid this. While the reform required for this would be substantial, researchers believe that it would narrow the billing gap significantly.     

Authorities often justify lower RVUs for female-specific procedures by pointing to training: Gynecologists spend fewer years learning to operate than urologists and other higher-paid surgical specialists, according to King.

Historically, surgeons who operated on the female pelvis trained in ways that were more closely aligned with general surgeons than OB-GYNs. When obstetrics and gynecology merged into one specialty in the 1900s, the training for gynecologic surgery was truncated. 

“General OB-GYNs will train for four years and of that four years about 18 months is devoted to surgical training in gynecology,” said King, contrasting the new training period to those of general surgeons, which is in years. 

She believes that training periods should be increased for gynecologic surgeons. That change would secure better reimbursement for the speciality, while also producing better trained surgeons who would be more attuned to advances in minimally invasive surgery that will ultimately improve the outcomes for their female patients. In some cases, the experience gained during a two-year fellowship in gynecologic surgery was equivalent to 19 years in practice.  

In their initial work on double discrimination, Watson and King argued that failing to implement solutions for parity is tantamount to saying that female patients deserve less well-trained surgeons than male patients.  

As with most women’s health issues, it is unclear if this systemic disparity in medical reimbursement is the result of conscious misogyny or a by-product of ignorance. But that question of origins matters little when its consequences have been enshrined in medical policy, with lasting consequences for the practice of medicine more generally. We have allowed this wage gap to persist, even as many have sounded the alarm for decades. It is long past time to heed their warnings.

October 7, 2026, 5:50 pm ET: This story was originally published on October 2 and has been updated to include the sourcing on the RVU gap resulting from training for gynecologic surgery.