Recently, I learned from a friend that, as a mother of two special needs children, I qualified for the COVID-19 vaccine in our state’s 1-A group. I was overwhelmed with emotion. This vaccine could enable my family to venture out again, provided my kids are masked and keep their distance. We could reconnect with friends outdoors and inch toward a semblance of normalcy. Given that both my husband and I have preexisting health issues, we’ve been in social isolation since March 13, 2020. A vaccinated adult would profoundly impact our children’s lives.
I reached out to every mother I knew in a similar situation, excited to share the news. Everyone, you’re in the 1-A group! I provided links and screenshots of our state’s vaccination sign-up information. Many moms were almost moved to tears. But then one asked, “What’s 1-A?”
Some Friends Were Declining the COVID-19 Vaccine
“You’re in 1-A,” I explained. “That means you’re first in line for the vaccine!”
“Oh, we’re not interested in that,” she replied, adding a laughing emoji. My heart sank. This was someone I respected, someone I thought was rational and informed, turning down a vaccine that could save countless lives—especially the elderly and vulnerable. It’s crucial for reducing deaths in minority communities, already devastated by this virus. It can even prevent children from developing MIS-C, a serious inflammatory condition linked to COVID-19.
All the safety information from our government, Pfizer, and Moderna is readily available online. But she still chose to reject vaccination.
Then another friend expressed her refusal. This was particularly painful. I admire her deeply; she’s intelligent, compassionate, and embodies the kind of mother I aspire to be. Yet, she also said no to the vaccine.
I felt tears welling up.
I’m Canceling Friends Who Decline the Vaccine
Yes, if either of those friends reads this, they know who they are. Publicly canceling people isn’t cool, but I feel compelled to do it anyway. If you refuse to get vaccinated against COVID-19, you’re no longer my friend. We can share polite nods and engage in light conversation, but don’t be mistaken—we are not friends. Our kids won’t have playdates, and I won’t reach out to you.
You might as well unfriend me first. Then you can complain about what a terrible person I am.
I’ve dealt with acquaintances who disregarded quarantine measures, attending pool parties while our state grappled with skyrocketing COVID-19 rates. I watched as they sought playdates while my children cried, lamenting their isolation. My 11-year-old even chose to end a friendship because he felt his friend wasn’t taking the virus seriously enough.
There is one exception: If you have a valid medical reason for not being vaccinated, you are someone I aim to protect through my own vaccination. But that likely excludes most people. Doubts about vaccine safety are not legitimate excuses. I have written extensively about vaccine myths and safety. You can find credible information on clinical trials and transparency regarding the COVID-19 vaccine. It’s all out there for you to read.
According to the CDC, severe reactions to the COVID-19 vaccine occur in just 11.1 individuals per million.
Why I Cut Ties with Friends Who Refuse the Vaccine
When individuals decline to be vaccinated, they are actively choosing not to save lives. These aren’t abstract lives—they are real, living people.
By refusing the vaccine, these individuals, often white women, are indirectly suggesting that Black lives don’t matter. Data shows that Black individuals are 3.7 times more likely to be hospitalized and 2.8 times more likely to die from COVID-19 compared to white individuals, regardless of socioeconomic status. Other BIPOC communities face even worse statistics. Refusing vaccination reveals a disturbing privilege.
Widespread vaccination slows the pandemic. Each shot saves lives, especially if you’re sending kids to school or not practicing social distancing. When you decline vaccination, you put everyone at risk, particularly those with preexisting conditions like my husband and me.
I follow a Facebook friend whose son recently battled MIS-C. I watched her struggles with a mother’s empathy, fearing that could easily be my own reality. When you refuse the vaccine, you convey that you don’t care about her pain or her child’s suffering. That thought ignites a fury within me.
Refusing the COVID-19 vaccine is rooted in ignorance and misinformation. It’s a display of privilege at the expense of the vulnerable, and it perpetuates this pandemic.
After ten months of isolation, I’ve reached my limit. It looks like I’ll be losing some friends along the way.
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