EDITOR’S NOTE: Here’s an installment from Tillamook County’s State Representative Cyrus Javadi’s Substack blog, “A Point of Personal Privilege” Oregon legislator and local dentist. Representing District 32, a focus on practical policies and community well-being. This space offers insights on state issues, reflections on leadership, and stories from the Oregon coast, fostering thoughtful dialogue. Posted on Substack, 4/22/25
By Cyrus Javadi, State Representative District 32
Because the people who need help don’t care which side of the Snake River their therapist is from.
Let’s start with a mental image: You see a neighborhood on fire, but the local fire department is short-staffed and can’t contain the blaze. Out-of-town firefighters arrive, hoses ready, only to be met with locked gates and an official who says, “Sorry folks, you’ll need to fill out fifty forms and wait for approval before you can help.” Meanwhile, the flames spread.
That, in essence, is Oregon’s approach to licensing out-of-state mental health professionals. Instead of rolling out the welcome mat for qualified workers who could help douse our behavioral health crisis, we’re telling them to cool their jets until they navigate a bureaucratic obstacle course. It’s borderline madness—pun intended.
Qualified, Willing, and Waiting at the Border
If you’ve spent even five minutes at a hospital ER in Portland or in a rural clinic near the coast, you already know Oregon is in a full-blown behavioral health emergency. Our communities are feeling the strain, from overflowing waitlists for counseling services to schools grappling with student mental health challenges. We don’t have enough professionals to meet the needs of our most vulnerable, and every day we delay finding real solutions, more people slip through the cracks.
We can’t just hope to solve this crisis by politely asking our existing providers to work harder, longer, and—while we’re at it—maybe hire a few clones. We need reinforcements.
Driver’s Licenses Cross State Lines. Why Not Mental Health Credentials?
In the simplest terms, a licensure compact is a multi-state agreement that allows professionals—who are already licensed and in good standing in one member state—to practice in another without jumping through the usual regulatory hoops. It’s a lot like having your driver’s license recognized nationwide. (Imagine taking a road trip from Oregon to California and having to retake the driving test at the border. Ridiculous, right?)
For social workers, the Social Work Licensure Compact is that golden ticket. Over two dozen states have already joined or are on the cusp of joining. If Oregon signed on, social workers who meet our standards could practice here—whether in person or via telehealth—without retaking every test or waiting for a stack of paperwork to be processed by overworked bureaucrats. It’s not a radical idea. It’s common sense.
Welcome to Oregon. Now Please Wait Six Months While We Verify You’re Not a Witch.
Let’s get real: We have a workforce shortage in mental health, especially in rural parts of the state where you’ll find exactly zero professionals available for miles. Zip. Nada. Some of these places struggle to attract local talent, so they rely on new arrivals or out-of-state telehealth options. Right now, our licensure rules turn that “Welcome to Oregon!” sign into a “Proceed at Your Own Peril” caution tape, making it far harder for folks who want to help to actually show up and do so.
And we aren’t talking about second-rate practitioners with questionable credentials. We’re talking about qualified, licensed professionals—some with decades of experience—who simply happen to have a license from “somewhere else.” Perhaps they lived in Colorado, Florida, or Idaho before deciding to move near the scenic Oregon coast. Maybe they’re active military or veterans’ spouses relocating to a base in our state. Or they might be seasoned telehealth providers who want to expand their services to Oregonians in crisis. Yet, our current system treats these folks like potential snake oil salesmen until we slowly, painstakingly verify they meet standards we already know they meet.
Smarter Regulation Isn’t a Trojan Horse for Anarchy
For those clutching their pearls about Oregon “watering down” our regulations, rest assured: this isn’t the Wild West of healthcare. Compacts include strict safeguards. Providers must have a clean disciplinary record, hold an accredited education, and pass a national criminal background check. If they mess up or face disciplinary action in one state, that information is shared across the network. This isn’t about throwing open the doors to quacks and con artists. It’s about recognizing that the licensure process in other states—especially ones with comparable requirements—is sufficient. After all, a skilled social worker doesn’t lose their competence when they cross the Snake River.
Paging Milton Friedman: We’ve Got a Monopoly Problem
In times like these, I can’t help but imagine Nobel Prize-winning economist Milton Friedman raising an eyebrow and pointing to his well-worn playbook on regulatory overreach. His view? Occupational licensing often protects the licensed more than the public. In plain English, these rules can turn into protectionism, creating artificial shortages and driving up prices for everyone.
In Oregon’s case, the real price is measured not just in dollars, but in human lives. Every day someone with a serious mental health issue waits for treatment is another day of potential crisis. For people in rural areas—where “behavioral health provider” might as well be Bigfoot—it’s an even graver situation. When professionals are scarce, waitlists grow, crises escalate, and the costs—emotional, financial, societal—spiral upward.
This Bill Didn’t Die—It Was Buried Under Bureaucracy
Recently, my colleague Representative Ed Diehl and I backed a bill to bring Oregon into the Social Work Licensure Compact. It was a bipartisan, no-nonsense proposal designed to tackle our workforce shortage head-on. He did his homework, built a broad coalition, and made a rock-solid case. But we hit a wall of procedural inertia, and the bill didn’t advance. One would hope that when people are literally begging for mental health support, we could skip the belt-and-suspenders approach to regulation. Alas, it wasn’t meant to be—this time.
But the fight isn’t over. We can still choose to move forward in the next session or through separate legislative efforts. The point is, we should not give up on something that directly addresses a glaring problem just because it got caught in the crossfire of standard political gridlock. We owe it to our neighbors, our veterans, our school kids, and our seniors to keep trying.
Oregon Exceptionalism Is Not a Get-Out-of-Reform-Free Card
Some will say, “But what about Oregon’s unique approach and values?” To that, I say: Oregon values its communities. Oregon values accessibility. Oregon values doing what’s best for people who are struggling. If our laws don’t reflect those values—if they actively hinder delivering care—maybe the laws need a tune-up. “Local control” is all well and good, but it can’t become a convenient shield to justify making it harder for people to get the help they need.
It’s Not a Panacea—It’s a Lever
Look, no one’s arguing licensure compacts are the magic wand that will fix everything overnight. We’ve got bigger issues that also need tackling—funding, insurance reimbursements, comprehensive data sharing, and so on. But adopting the compact is a crucial step in the right direction. It’s one lever we can pull, right now, to address one of the most pressing concerns in our state. And it costs us very little to do it.
If we can’t even say yes to letting qualified professionals work here more easily, how are we going to tackle the more complex, deeply entrenched challenges of our behavioral health crisis?
Stop Playing Border Patrol With People’s Lives
The next time someone wonders why Oregon’s mental health services are overstretched—why the ER can’t cope, why families can’t find a therapist without a three-month wait, or why rural communities are left high and dry—we might consider our own role in this fiasco. Playing border patrol with mental health licenses isn’t just illogical; it’s dangerous. So let’s stop locking the door when the house is on fire.
