“The Kudzu Clause”

Years ago, in a quiet Southern town, the roadsides were lush with green. A local council, inspired by a popular agricultural initiative, voted to plant kudzu along the highways to fight soil erosion. It was hailed as a brilliant, low-cost solution. “Let nature do the work!” they said, smiling in press photos, standing beside their fresh plantings.

And at first, it worked. The hills held their shape, the dust settled, and nature seemed to cooperate.

But kudzu doesn’t stop.

It doesn’t ask permission.

And it doesn’t stay in its lane.

It crept beyond the roadside.

It strangled trees.

It smothered barns.

It blanketed power lines and blocked the sun from native plants trying to breathe.

What started as a well-meaning fix became a slow-motion disaster.

The irony? Kudzu was once called “the miracle vine.” But in trying to solve one problem, it created a dozen others, all harder to uproot than the original erosion.

Legislation can work the same way.

A bill may be written with the noblest of intentions, to protect, to support, to streamline but without careful thought, public input, or clear definitions, it can grow wild.

An added clause meant to “clarify” suddenly excludes thousands.

A line of text tucked into page 73 of a 400-page bill shifts funding away from the people it was meant to help.

A policy designed to solve one issue ends up quietly choking out existing supports somewhere else.

Like kudzu, unintended consequences of legislation often aren't visible right away — they creep in over time. And by the time the damage is noticed, it's tangled in red tape, entrenched in bureaucracy, and expensive to fix.

This is why we advocate, we question, we testify.

Not because we’re trying to uproot progress, but because we’ve seen how fast well-meaning vines can overtake the landscape.

Let’s plant policies with roots that nourish, not vines that devour.