I had not truly realised how profound an impact Covid-19 has had on us as a nation. I lived through the pandemic, of course, but it did not change me. It taught me two lessons: how much I cherish my family and friends, and need their physical presence; and how fortunate I am. While life was far from normal for my eldest daughter, she was still allowed to attend nursery; she played with other children. We had our home and some outside space. My husband and I both worked throughout that time; I continued to travel into London to work at the BBC. In the years since, I have tried my best to try to forget those strange years.
But the response to the Kent meningitis outbreak has brought home how those two years changed society. This was not just the first major test of public health communication and response since Covid but also an illustration of how the public understands risk in a post-pandemic Britain. Covid-era fear still shapes collective response to even relatively rare diseases. We are “on edge” on a national scale.
As news of the outbreak spread, television screens were plastered with pictures of students in masks. Many did not want to go to school or university, too frightened to leave their bedrooms. Some placed themselves in self-imposed social isolation, though there was no official requirement for them to do so, no strict medical need for most. Theirs is a scared generation.
Meningitis B – the strain of the disease identified in Canterbury – is dangerous. It’s estimated that one in ten who contract it will die. Unlike with Covid, young people are at greatest risk. Fear is, therefore, understandable. But this disease is not Covid. It is far less contagious; transmission requires close, prolonged contact. While this outbreak has baffled public health experts with both its speed of transmission and the numbers infected, generally speaking, meningitis is well understood.
What has felt so reminiscent of the pandemic is not the disease itself but the reaction to it: panic, speculation, the rapid spread of misinformation on social media, the need to attribute blame. When the Kent outbreak is controlled and over, perhaps it will transpire that the UK Health Security Agency (UKHSA) could have acted differently. But the initial view from many in public health is that it responded well.
“What the critics don’t understand is the time it takes to recognise you’ve got a cluster,” Robert Dingwall, emeritus professor of sociology at Nottingham Trent University, told me. Dingwall advised the government during Covid and sat on the Joint Committee on Vaccination and Immunisation (JCVI). It takes time for a pattern to emerge, he explained. Patients present separately to healthcare facilities – one might go to their GP, another to A&E. In this case, one saw doctors in another country.
For those who were at the heart of the UK’s Covid response, it’s clear that we are still seeing its reverberations. According to Lucy Easthope, an adviser on emergency planning to government and the UKHSA, public fear is higher, and trust lower, than it was pre-pandemic. This is not without reason. But it makes the job of those dealing with major health events exceptionally difficult. Unreasonable expectations are placed upon them. And, Dingwall argues, there is a misplaced belief that medicine can eliminate all risk.
Small meningitis clusters of two or three cases are not unusual in student populations. Universities run exercises on how they would respond to a worst-case scenario, where there are dozens of deaths. Since the late 1990s, annual cases have fallen from more than 2,500 to around 350 in the UK, largely thanks to vaccines. It is a major medical success story. But there are still between 30 and 40 deaths on average per year. When the Canterbury outbreak ends, there will be further, sporadic cases of MenB – because there always are.
The challenge is not just medical. It is communicative: how to convey seriousness without unnecessarily frightening people; how to speak about risks that are serious but rare. “What we keep forgetting is how different the 2026 world is,” Easthope said.
This is perhaps best illustrated in the debate over the MenB vaccine. First introduced in 2015, it is routinely given only to babies – not to teenagers or young adults, despite their high-risk profile. Independent, scientific experts on the JCVI concluded broader rollout would not be cost-effective. The vaccine for MenB differs from the other vaccines that tackle different strains: it’s less effective; it doesn’t prevent transmission (but helps individuals from becoming seriously ill), and protection appears to wane after a few years.
Decisions based on cost-benefit analysis are a standard feature of healthcare policy. Before the pandemic they were “non-controversial”, Easthope argued. Resources are finite, and funding one intervention often means diverting money from another. The JCVI will now review its guidance in light of the Kent outbreak, but it is highly possible its advice will remain the same.
When disease causes the death of a loved one, such calculations can feel abstract, irrelevant, even insulting. But the tension between individual suffering and population-level decision-making is unavoidable. The government, and those who advise it, must weigh benefits across society, even when the consequences are personal. No amount of planning or medicine can prevent every tragedy. When Covid struck, no one could anticipate so many deaths, such disruption. But we must remember that meningitis is not Covid. We cannot allow fear to stop us living.
[Further reading: Liz Truss is plotting her comeback]
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This article appears in the 25 Mar 2026 issue of the New Statesman, Easter Special
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