By Natalie Zaffiro, Bill Emerson National Hunger Fellow
One day into my fellowship as a Bill Emerson National Hunger Fellow, the federal government shut down. What seemed like an inconvenience that might last a few days, or at worst, a couple of weeks, dragged on throughout my entire first month in the anti-hunger, anti-poverty policy space. Our cohort happened to be attending orientation in Washington, D.C. during the first week of the shutdown, and each day, the city grew a little quieter. The metro thinned out, offices and streets emptied, and a tension filled the space they left behind. What once felt like an occasional political hiccup had become part of a long stretch of “unprecedented” events. At this point, these “unprecedented” moments are beginning to feel anything but: they’re becoming routine, a kind of predictable chaos.
When I first learned that I’d be carrying out the first half of my fellowship in Oklahoma City, Oklahoma, I promptly opened Google Maps. Of course, I vaguely knew where Oklahoma was, but seeing it on my phone screen so central in the country and far from the coasts, and even farther from Washington, D.C., made the distance feel tangible. Driving from D.C. to Oklahoma made it real. As I passed through rural Tennessee, Arkansas, and finally into Oklahoma, I kept wondering whether the lawmakers in D.C. had ever driven these same roads. Had they actually seen the day-to-day realities of the people they write laws for, or have they only ever flown over them, miles above the ground, removed from the soil and substance of the people they claim to serve?
While the federal government was arguing over who was to blame for the shutdown, rather than actually ending it, Oklahoma’s state government was busy discussing gaps in childhood nutrition and ways to simplify benefit systems through two interim studies that I was able to attend. I found it genuinely encouraging to see representatives from across the political spectrum, along with stakeholders from across the state, coming together with a shared focus on strengthening social services and improving how government shows up for its people.
Coming from New England, the concept of an interim study was new to me. While it initially seemed like a promising way to gather different and new voices, I soon learned that these studies are often one of the only opportunities residents have to engage directly in legislative discussions. That realization struck me. How can we reduce the distance between people and the systems meant to serve them? And how can we expand opportunities for community members to participate in those processes in meaningful and accessible ways?
As an Emerson Fellow placed at Hunger Free Oklahoma, my daily work with the Lived Experience and Resource Network (LEARN) made these questions feel even more urgent. My role places me directly alongside people with lived experience of hunger and food insecurity. And as I engaged more with this work, the distance between the rooms where policies are drafted and the homes where those policies land seemed to widen, only to be exacerbated by the shutdown.
During our October LEARN Workshop, a monthly gathering focused on helping Tulsa community members craft and share their personal narratives to inform more equitable policies, we found out in real time that upcoming SNAP benefits would be delayed. I didn’t learn about the delays through a news article or press release. I learned it from people who suddenly had no idea how they would buy groceries for the coming month. It’s rare, and deeply upsetting, to witness a federal decision ripple directly into someone’s kitchen in real time. And while I felt honored to be in that space, it amplified the urgency and necessity of getting their voices into other rooms, into rooms where decisions are made.
These disruptions are just one example of how technical policy decisions layer on top of existing structural inequities, ultimately creating more instability for families who already face barriers to access. From a distance, these changes may seem procedural; up close, they determine whether a family eats that week.
Food insecurity is not a personal failing; it is the result of systemic ones rooted in structural inequities. In Oklahoma, for example, limited public transportation and widespread food deserts shape where people can live, work, and shop, often forcing residents to rely on cars or relocate to more expensive metro areas. These intersecting conditions often compound in ways policymakers rarely see up close. And that distance, between seeing and understanding, between intent and impact, is where harm takes root.
So far, this fellowship has illuminated the importance of proximity, whether it be physical, emotional, or practical, and more importantly, the importance of people. Policies may be written far away, but their impact is felt at dinner tables, in grocery store aisles, and in lines at food pantries.
As I continue this fellowship, I’m learning that closing these distances—between lawmakers and lived experts, between policy design and community reality—is not just important, but essential. Our systems work best when the people most affected can shape the solutions. When people with lived experience are invited into the process, not as stories, but as experts, policy becomes more responsive, more humane, and ultimately more effective.
Good policy begins with listening. And until we build systems that value and uplift lived experience as expertise, our “unprecedented” crises won’t fade; they’ll repeat.