On April 1, 2025, the Department of Health and Human Services issued broad Reduction in Force (RIF) notifications that wiped out entire divisions at federal health agencies, like the CDC. The author of this piece serves at one such agency and describes their experiences on that day.
[NOTE: This is another in our series Nerdy Notes: Science in Story & Verse. In these posts, our Nerdy Girl scientists and clinicians share personal stories, insights, poetry, and more. While these posts may be lighter in terms of numbers and figures, they are still rooted in our tradition and commitment to providing accessible and trustworthy information.]
I can still hear the cries of devastation when I walk down the hallways sometimes. A morning that started off so normal turned out to be one of the most heartbreaking days of my career. I drove to work listening to my “Powerful Women” playlist, flashed my ID at the gate, then parked my car in the garage. Just like every other day. But when I finally had a chance to look at the notifications on my phone after parking my car, I had several messages from a colleague: “Our branch was RIF’d”; “It’s not just our branch, another one was RIF’d too”; and the last message: “Our whole division is gone.” The words hung in the air. I couldn’t believe it. My eyes already stung with tears. I felt numb. I knew I had been protected from the devastation only because of my hiring code with HR. I don’t remember the walk from my car to the building where my office is located. I do remember getting on the elevator. I pressed the 6. Another woman got on and pressed the 8. That was all it took for me to know she was also impacted. We looked at each other. Both teary-eyed. I looked at her and all I could say was: “I am so sorry this is happening to you. You did not deserve this.” She replied back: “Today’s my first day back after maternity leave.” I hugged her and we cried together as the elevator slowly moved us up to our respective floors. I never caught her name.
When I stepped off the elevator, I steeled myself for the chaos. It was eerily quiet, but also deafeningly loud. But maybe that noise was only in my own head. Nobody really seemed to know what to do, where to go, or what was happening. Most people were crying. Some people were directing others. It felt like the scene of a massive explosion. I made my way to my desk to drop off my things and to check my emails. There was a soft knock on my door, and the colleague who had been texting me updates while I drove in peeked their head in my office. We hugged. A really tight hug. And we cried. I was glad I had forgotten to put on mascara that day. I asked what we were doing to help, since we had both been spared. The response was to standby for a Center-level meeting in a few minutes. We would surely get more information about what was going on from our Center leadership. Little did we know, they were learning of our fate in real-time, too.
“Have you heard from your team lead?” was the next question I registered. My team lead was supposed to be on vacation. I sent them a text message that went unanswered. Finally someone made contact…my team lead had been RIF’d. The panic washed over me like a tidal wave. As the next person in line, I was now acting team lead. I began to mentally make a list of all the projects I knew I needed to immediately get started on. The list quickly became too much, so I had to write it down.
At the meeting, we learned that those of us who were not impacted would be acting to help those who were, as they were expected to leave the premises as quickly as possible. We must collect their government issued devices and ID cards, then help them pack up their personal belongings along with the pieces of their broken hearts. All while dealing with our own broken hearts. The major question we all had was: why was our division cut? Nobody could answer. The best they could figure is that it was solely based on HR codes. That didn’t really offer us any comfort.
I don’t remember how many colleagues I cried with that day. I don’t remember how many boxes I assembled and filled, or how many elevator rides I took to help my coworkers get their things to their cars.
I do remember walking past a closed office door and hearing a woman crying in agony that she did not understand why this was happening.
I do remember rushing to copy important documents from colleagues before they lost access to the network so that we could continue the work they were being forced to leave.
I do remember a brief moment of levity when I had a big belly laugh with a departing colleague that turned into sobbing and holding each other as we said goodbye.
I do remember that the security team had to lock the doors to the balcony to prevent further tragedy.
I do remember stealing quiet moments alone in the bathroom to cry when I would allow myself to feel the heaviness of the day before rushing out to help once again.
And as the day came to a close, I remember walking around with the same colleague who had messaged me in the morning, looking at the empty desks and cubicles, saying the names of our friends, no longer colleagues, and silently thinking of the good memories of our professional days together.
April 1, 2025, left me with a great deal of trauma. It felt as though a bomb had exploded and taken out multiple floors of our building. The chaos and confusion of that day were very much like the scene of a disaster. Every day after that felt like a funeral, grieving the loss of our friends, colleagues, and programs.
The heavy burden and agonizing guilt of being one of the people who remained was and is a constant part of my days now. It is a kind of trauma that most don’t understand. I hope they never do. It is the kind of trauma that makes it impossible to discuss with people who were not there.
There are no real words you can use to describe what we, your federal workforce, have been through. It’s hard for us to talk about what has happened and is happening to us.
The remaining 20 or so members of our division would spend the next several months talking about next steps, closing out projects, honoring the work and legacy of our colleagues, and that some were even told to proceed with “business as usual,” whatever that meant.
Eventually, some of the RIFs were reversed, and many of my coworkers returned, but not all. Several found other jobs, many retired. Our division was forever changed.
One thing persisted, and still remains constant, even amongst those who moved on: our commitment to our mission and to the American people cannot be shaken.
This is not a sprint.
This is not a marathon.
This is a relay.
Carry the baton for as long as you can, and then pass it to the next person while you rest.
When you’re ready, take it back up and keep going.
