Kennedy and Oz give voice to their audiences' frustrations with the insufficiency of our health care system to solve or address their most pressing problems
Neither Robert F. Kennedy Jr., President-elect Donald Trump's pick to lead the Department of Health and Human Services, nor Dr. Mehmet Oz, his pick to lead the Centers for Medicare and Medicaid Services, is a stranger to scandal. But it's their connection to "wellness" ideology, which includes the belief that health is holistic and that individuals are the most qualified experts on their own experience -- that should command our attention.
Kennedy and Oz are dangerous choices to lead major federal agencies because they amplify the worst aspects of that sprawling wellness culture: conspiracy theories, cheap hucksterism and an anti-institutionalism that undermines the very agencies they've been slated to run. But we must separate our justified outrage at Trump choosing them from two key truths: The health issues they discuss pose legitimate problems for many Americans -- that's how each became so popular -- and the wellness movement in which they participate has positively contributed to our understanding of health and well-being in the United States.
Kennedy made his name as an environmentalist legal crusader, but his passion for protecting all that is "natural" has led him to make arguments far outside accepted scientific opinion, most infamously in his championing the discredited theory that vaccines cause autism, but also that contaminated water can make people transgender, that 5G cell towers "control our behavior" and that raw milk is safe for consumption.
Oz, trained as a cardiothoracic surgeon, was affiliated with Columbia University (until it cut ties with him in 2022) but rose to celebrity as the host of "The Dr. Oz Show" (a spinoff of "The Oprah Winfrey Show"), where he offered mainstream diet, nutrition and sexual health tips interspersed with recommendations for unverified cures and supplements. It was those recommendations that landed him in a Senate hearing, where he admitted much of his advice doesn't "have the scientific muster to present as fact."
During his failed run for the U.S. Senate in Pennsylvania, we learned of his financial ties to the pharmaceutical companies that manufacture hydroxychloroquine, a drug he'd recommended to treat Covid while downplaying the medication's risks, casting further doubts on his credibility.
Kennedy and Oz developed such a large audience because they speak constantly to issues such as obesity, anxiety, autism, chemical dependence and chronic pain that truly do trouble Americans. The two also give voice to their audiences' frustrations with the insufficiency of our health care system to solve or address their most pressing problems. The belief that our health care system isn't keeping us well is held across the political spectrum, but while many seek improvements to this system, Kennedy and Oz typically attack the institutions and the prevailing approaches themselves.
These messages especially resonated with Americans during the pandemic. Kennedy and Oz took aim at how the government handled it -- and rose to new heights of popularity. Many of their statements were unhinged and inflammatory. Kennedy called Covid vaccines the deadliest yet and mused that the virus had been designed to spare Ashkenazi Jews and Chinese people, whereas Oz pushed hydroxychloroquine and, while cases were skyrocketing in April 2020, called reopening schools an "appetizing opportunity." This was long before even open-schools advocates thought this was a safe idea.
But when we zero in on the duo's most outlandish claims, we may lose sight of why many Americans who were not necessarily conspiracy theorists were drawn to their critiques. For example, when public health authorities quickly mandated masks, vaccination, closures and isolation -- and dismissed those who questioned these disruptive measures, even to raise reasonable health concerns about issues such as sedentariness and social isolation -- the ideas Kennedy, Oz and their fellow travelers circulated were understandably attractive.
They continued to promote exercise and nutrition as a way to mitigate comorbidities. They asked questions not only about how rapidly the vaccine was rolled out, but also about the apparently arbitrary metrics such as the 6 feet of social distancing we were told to observe or the 14-day quarantines those infected were told to endure. Those questions, including the ones they raised about the origin of the virus itself, were (mostly) reasonable but largely unwelcome in public health discourse.
When Oz said that the lockdowns that shuttered schools and separated people from their loved ones was "not a healthy way to live," he articulated a sentiment that was in many ways unremarkable, but sounded like brave truth-telling in a context of suppression.
It is this skepticism and an emphasis on holistic health and individual agency that has made the "wellness" outlook not only appealing but often a positive force in improving people's lives. In the early 20th century, those who evangelized about diet and exercise were dismissed as "health nuts," (and some of their ideas merited this label). But after World War II, when more Americans than ever before enjoyed relative prosperity, the World Health Organization adopted a newly expansive definition of health: "a state of complete physical, mental and social well-being and not merely the absence of disease or infirmity."
The word "wellness" didn't come into circulation until the 1970s, but when it did, Americans across the political spectrum embraced the idea that body and mind are interconnected and that it is up to individuals to take control of their health.
For those who embraced the counterculture and civil rights movements, "wellness" meant self-determination: rejecting the mainstream Western medical establishment that often diminished the concerns of marginalized groups like women and Black people. To conservatives, "wellness" meant elevating the values of personal responsibility and discipline, rather than relying on government handouts, the quick fix of a pill or succumbing to the cultural permissiveness they despised.
By the turn of our century, the idea of purposefully investing in one's wellness was widespread and commercialized. Consider expensive organic foods, environmentally sustainable apparel and appliances, yoga studios in affluent neighborhoods, and slogans such as "Thrive, don't just survive," the ubiquitous sorts of cliches printed on cushions and coffee mugs. If wellness totems like "self-care," organic food and yoga were generally coded as liberal, the political cast of this world was largely latent until the pandemic invigorated its more libertarian, conspiracist and anti-establishment side.
While many of the most visible practices and products of wellness culture were considered consumer indulgences, or modern-day snake oil enabled by a lack of regulation, the sensibility shift it brought about has positively shaped our understanding of health in deeper ways. Once-fringe ideas about "integrative health" and alternative medicine have been institutionalized in mainstream medical facilities that offer meditation and preventive health advice. Some insurance policies now cover chiropractic care, acupuncture, massage and doula services. Public schools teach yoga and mindfulness, while farmers markets accept food stamps.
We have a long way to go, but our gradual social acceptance of the importance of holistic well-being, and willingness to challenge the biases of the medical and the pharmaceutical establishments, largely issue from these critiques.
The wellness movement has always had its conspiracists and hacks, and unfortunately Kennedy and Oz amplify some destructive ideas. But to protect our civic and personal health, it is crucial to understand why this side of the wellness movement is so resonant right now. And as we work to separate fact from fantasy, we also need to remember and resurrect the wellness movement's most positive legacies.