The Inner Monologue

Antivaxxers love to talk about freedom. They wrap themselves in a flag they don’t understand, quoting science they’ve never studied, while treating modern medicine as though it were a conspiracy hatched in a basement by Bill Gates and the lizard people. And yet, beneath all their bluster, the only thing their freedom guarantees is loss. Loss of health, loss of family, loss of the things they take for granted every day.

So let’s remind them of what they will miss.

Taste—Your First Casualty

You know that bite of your favorite burger, the one dripping with grease and joy? Or the warm sweetness of a peach on a July afternoon? Commit those tastes to memory. Because the day you contract COVID and it burns through your nervous system like a torch in a library, you may never taste them again. Your tongue will still move. Your teeth will still chew. But food will be as blank as cardboard. Your “freedom” will have stripped you of flavor itself. And it won’t be the government who took it—it will be your own stubborn stupidity.

Laughter—Your Next Funeral

Then there’s the sound of your child laughing. That perfect, golden noise you swore you’d do anything to protect. Except, apparently, vaccinate them. When the coughing starts, when the fever won’t break, when polio or measles or some other eradicated specter comes clawing back from the grave because you invited it in—what will you hear then? Not laughter. Just wheezing, crying, the sound of machines keeping breath in lungs you failed to protect. You’ll sit there, wringing your hands raw, pretending to pray, while every doctor in the room knows the truth: you killed your child with your selfishness.

The Future You Chose

Antivaxxers like to sneer at history, but let’s remind them: vaccines erased smallpox. Vaccines crippled polio. Vaccines turned deadly childhood plagues into footnotes. And now, because you needed to feel special, you’ve chosen to bring those monsters back. Your legacy won’t be one of freedom. It will be one of tiny coffins and mass graves, of broken families remembering the exact moment they listened to you instead of reason.

A Simple Request

So here’s the only advice worth giving you now: keep your memories close. Burn into your mind the taste of food, the sound of laughter, the touch of a hand you love. Because you are gambling them all away. And when they’re gone—when your child lies pale in a hospital bed, when your favorite meals taste like ashes—don’t you dare blame the government, or doctors, or vaccines. Blame yourself. You opened the door. You held it wide. And what comes through will never leave.

Because science doesn’t care about your opinion. Disease doesn’t care about your freedom. And death doesn’t care about your excuses.