Shining light on the good, bad and ugly of bureaucracy in Tallahassee

Part 2 in a series

A research facility doesn’t create economic value by itself. It needs an ecosystem — private-sector firms, infrastructure, and capital — to translate science into jobs. Tallahassee has failed to build that. 

The reasons are structural:  

• Limited commercialization pipeline. 
  Florida State University has not established a robust tech-transfer process to consistently spin out companies from MagLab research. In fiscal year 2023, FSU generated just $251,000 in licensing and royalty revenue, a modest figure compared to top-performing research universities.

• Lack of a corporate cluster. 
  Unlike national labs such as Oak Ridge and Los Alamos, the MagLab is not surrounded by a dense network of R&D firms or advanced manufacturers. Even within Innovation Park, there is little evidence of a thriving private-sector ecosystem linked to the lab’s research. 

• Inadequate infrastructure. 
  Tallahassee’s electric grid, industrial land supply, and air travel connectivity are frequently cited by site selectors and business leaders as barriers to growth. The MagLab itself accounts for 7–8% of the city’s total electricity use — and reports suggest it has been asked to reduce load during capacity constraints. 

• No targeted incentives. 
  Unlike Oak Ridge, TN — where city and county officials have deployed tailored incentive packages to attract lab-adjacent companies — Tallahassee and Leon County have no specific economic development tools tied to the MagLab’s potential spinoffs or commercialization opportunities. 

• Insufficient marketing. 
  There is no dedicated marketing campaign to promote the MagLab to corporate site selectors, research parks, or innovation investors. Though the MagLab is featured in some general OEV (Office of Economic Vitality) materials, there is no sustained marketing outreach effort positioning it as a business development asset. 

• Community culture unfriendly to business 
  Tallahassee’s reputation precedes – it is widely known in business circles that the city is not easy to work with when it comes to permitting and economic development. OEV’s clunky structure prevents even talented leaders from succeeding.  

Despite the reality on the ground, FSU often touts the MagLab’s economic development impact on the community. But things aren’t as rosy as the picture that is painted.  
 

Economic ‘impact’ 

At first glance, the economic impact figures associated with the MagLab sound impressive. Florida State University and its supporters often cite large numbers — including a $325 million annual statewide impact. But these estimates rely heavily on internal modeling, and a closer look at the components raises questions about what kind of impact is really being measured. 

Let’s break it down. 

1. Who created the impact estimates? 

The most commonly cited impact numbers trace back to FSU-affiliated analysts (CEFA) and FSU publications, not an independent third party — e.g., $325M statewide (FSU BOT materials) and $221M Tallahassee / $325M Florida (MagLab “Economic Impact” PDF sourced to CEFA 2019). To date, there is no publicly available economic impact report on the MagLab conducted by an unaffiliated national consulting firm or neutral economic research organization. 

2. What’s actually included in the “impact”? 

The $325 million impact figure includes: 

• Salaries and benefits paid to lab and university staff; 

• Federal and state funding allocated to the lab; 

• Construction, equipment, and operational spending; 

• Indirect and induced effects estimated from lab visitors, vendor spending, and employee consumption. 

These are typical components of input-output modeling — they reflect the flow of public funds through the regional economy. In other words, much of the “impact” represents economic activity, not necessarily private-sector growth or wealth creation. There is little in the estimate to suggest substantial returns in the form of new tax revenue, private investment, business formation or job creation. 

Unfortunately, these numbers are usually lapped up or parroted by business advocates and the media. 

3. What’s missing from the equation? 

In economic development terms, the presence of a high-profile research facility like the MagLab would ideally spark spinoff companies, attract venture capital, support industry partnerships, and expand the local tax base. However, publicly available reports and presentations from the MagLab do not document a pattern of commercialization successes, private-sector relocations, or large-scale job creation beyond the lab itself. 

One exception is Danfoss Turbocor, a private manufacturer that has cited the MagLab as a factor in its decision to grow in Tallahassee — a point noted in an FSU Board of Trustees presentation.  

4. How does MagLab compare to national peers? 

Consider Oak Ridge National Laboratory (ORNL) in Tennessee, which has built a significant economic ecosystem around federal research. DOE’s Oak Ridge Reservation — which includes ORNL — generated $7.2 billion in economic impact and supported ~43,000 jobs in Tennessee in FY2020 (ETEC/Baker Center study). ORNL’s role is amplified by robust technology transfer and manufacturing partnerships. 

Now, again, to be fair, ultra-high field magnets (the Mag Lab’s primary focus) have limited manufacturing purpose right now. But that didn’t stop Danfoss from seeing the potential of an ecosystem forming and of the proximity to research. 

Even accounting for scale differences, the gap in economic reach and private-sector spillover is substantial. Despite being a world-class scientific asset, the MagLab has not yet catalyzed a broader innovation or manufacturing cluster in Tallahassee. 

Bottom line 

The MagLab’s economic impact claims are based on modeling of public spending and its local ripple effects — not on independent analysis of long-term economic transformation. While the lab clearly delivers scientific value and supports high-wage public-sector employment, the evidence for substantial private-sector growth around it is limited. An independent economic assessment could help clarify the lab’s true role in regional development — and what might be done to enhance it. 

Coming next: What could have been and could still be 

Introduction 

In the early 1990s, Tallahassee won what looked like a jackpot: the National High Magnetic Field Laboratory. With more than a billion dollars in federal investment, a dedication ceremony featuring Vice President Al Gore, and Gov. Bob Graham hailing it as a “lynchpin of economic development,” the MagLab was sold as Tallahassee’s ticket to a high-tech future. 

The promise was classic government pitch: build a world-class research facility and the private sector will follow. Startups will sprout, high-wage jobs will cluster, and a sleepy capital city will become a science and innovation hub. 

Three decades later, the private-sector return can be counted on one finger. Aside from oft-cited Danfoss Turbocor, there’s no visible cluster of spinoffs or manufacturing base tied to MagLab expertise. The only impact figures in circulation are FSU-affiliated: an earlier CEFA study estimated about $90 million a year in economic output for the Tallahassee MSA; newer FSU/CEFA materials scale that to ~$221 million in Tallahassee and ~$325 million statewide, numbers subsequently echoed in Board of Trustees decks and congressional letters. These are input-output accounting results built largely on university payroll and procurement, not independent evidence of new enterprise formation. 

This disconnect between the hype and the reality is exactly why Red Tape Florida exists. Too often, bureaucrats and institutions oversell projects, pocket the accolades, and move on — while taxpayers and communities are left wondering where the promised growth went. If the MagLab had landed in Austin, Raleigh, or Nashville, would it have been wasted potential or a genuine catalyst? Tallahassee’s record speaks for itself. 

The MagLab is an incredible scientific asset. And there are hopeful signs, including strong research performance and the return in 2026 of an important magnetics conference to Tallahassee. 

But as an economic engine, it’s a cautionary tale of bureaucratic inefficiency and missed opportunity. Over the next several installments, Red Tape Florida will dig into how this happened, what lessons can be learned, and what it will take to finally turn an expensive, underperforming government project into the spark of private-sector growth it was supposed to be. 

Part 1: Los Alamos vs. Tallahassee — A Tale of Two Lab Towns 

To understand what’s missing in Tallahassee, consider Los Alamos, New Mexico — home to another National Science Foundation-supported lab: Los Alamos National Laboratory (LANL). The contrast is striking. 

LANL has been a magnet for defense tech firms, manufacturing contractors, and federally funded spinoffs. More than 600 companies are part of the regional contractor network. The lab directly or indirectly supports over 25,000 jobs in the state — many in the private sector. 

Meanwhile in Tallahassee, the MagLab supports fewer than 500 jobs — most of them public university employees. There is no comparable cluster of firms, no surge of startups, no downstream manufacturing ecosystem. 

Why the difference? 

First, to be fair, Los Alamos and Tallahassee are not perfect analogs. LANL is a massive national security lab with a multibillion-dollar budget and a mission tied directly to federal defense contracting. The MagLab is smaller, academically focused, and funded by the National Science Foundation.  

But that doesn’t excuse the failure to build any real ecosystem around a world-class research facility. Other communities have done far more with less. 

Take for example the Sandia Science & Technology Park in Albuquerque  — 44 companies/organizations, 2,018 on-site employees (July 2025), nearly $500M cumulative public+private investment and 25-year impacts include $7.7B in wages and 6,500+ jobs tied to park companies 

LANL’s operator, Triad National Security LLC, actively recruits corporate partnerships and administers grants to private companies. In contrast, the MagLab is operated by a public university and has focused primarily on academic research — not economic development. The new regime in Wescott has promised more results in this area. So far, evidence is hard to find. 

In Los Alamos, the lab is an anchor for a private-sector ecosystem. In Tallahassee, it’s a silo. 

Basically, it boils down to leadership and collaboration.  

Coming next: The missing middle – why Tallahassee’s ecosystem never formed. 

Last night, Tallahassee International Airport pulled off the rare double-play of shutting down both of its runways — and its communications channels. One runway was already closed for construction. The other was blocked by a disabled aircraft that the airport apparently couldn’t move because they didn’t have the right equipment. The result: inbound flights were told midair to turn around and head elsewhere. 

One Dallas–Tallahassee flight got within minutes of landing before being sent all the way back to Texas, where passengers landed at 11:15 p.m. Eastern. From there, they were told to “sit tight” while the airline figured out whether to put them up overnight or send them back to Tally on another plane. 

You might think an airport with 58 full-time employees and a $19 million budget would be able to tell the public what was going on. You would be wrong. TLH’s social media feeds were a graveyard — the airport’s X (Twitter) page hasn’t posted since May, and not a single real-time update appeared last night. The only official, public-facing acknowledgment of the problem came from the FAA’s status page, which blandly reported a “disabled aircraft on the runway” with an end time around 10:30 p.m. Eastern. 

It’s not like the airport shouldn’t be able to handle communications with that budget, but even if they can’t, we respectfully point out that the City of Tallahassee Communications department has 9 staffers and a budget of almost $1.5 million. Surely between the 67 staffers in those two departments there is somebody who can alert travelers about a major disruption.  

If this were a one-off, maybe it’s just bad luck. But Red Tape Florida has reported before on operational gaps that go beyond the occasional mishap. In March, flight delays left planes sitting on the tarmac. One passenger said the pilot announced that: “Their one maintenance contractor lives 45 min east of town and has to drive in whenever there’s sign off needed.”  

Tuesday night’s silence is especially baffling given that TLH is in the middle of a major airfield rehab project — including work on Taxiway B approved this spring — which already reduces runway capacity. When you’ve only got one usable runway, you’d think “publicly explain when it’s closed” would be at the top of the to-do list. Apparently not. 

This isn’t about whether an airport can prevent a mechanical issue — it can’t, and no one expects it to. It’s about whether they can grab their phone, type “Runway closed due to disabled aircraft, expect diversions” and hit “post” before hundreds of passengers find out the hard way from a pilot in a holding pattern – not to mention friends and family waiting on the ground. 

If Tallahassee International wants to be taken seriously as a growing regional hub, it might start by proving it can communicate during the most basic of operational hiccups. Last night, runways for airplanes — and runways for communications — were all closed. 

A recent concept paper developed by Tallahassee State College and regional partners raises a vital question for those focused on growth in North Florida: Is the region’s energy infrastructure keeping pace with its economic ambitions? 

The document, titled North Florida Energy Futures and authored by Kyndra Light, Corporate Solutions Manager for Tallahassee State College, outlines a range of opportunities tied to manufacturing, logistics, and clean technology — but it also flags a significant limitation. Uncertainty around the availability and scalability of energy infrastructure, especially electricity, has already impacted the region’s ability to attract investment. 

In fact, the paper confirms that some prospective economic development projects have been lost as a result. 

In fact, just this week, power was cutoff and research suspended for an hour at the FSU National High Magnetic Laboratory because of peak power use during the recent heatwave. The MagLab uses as much as 8 percent of the city’s power. 

READ THE FULL DOCUMENT HERE

This isn’t alarmism. The report frames the issue as a solvable challenge, but one that requires immediate coordination. It calls for the development of a Regional Energy Readiness Plan that brings together utilities, local governments, workforce partners, and economic development agencies. The goal: to assess current capacity, streamline planning, and identify where gaps may prevent future growth. 

The report also hints at fragmentation. North Florida is served by a mix of municipal utilities, investor-owned providers, and electric cooperatives. Each has its own service territory and planning process. Without a shared understanding of regional energy availability, even the best-located sites may fail to meet the needs of modern industry. 

For regions competing to land high-wage, high-skill jobs, energy availability is no longer a behind-the-scenes consideration. It’s a deal-breaker. Whether the focus is electric vehicle supply chains, advanced manufacturing, or data-driven logistics, companies need to know they can power their operations on day one — and scale that power over time. 

The concept paper doesn’t point fingers. It offers a pragmatic roadmap for future coordination. But it does carry an implicit challenge to those in leadership: growth planning must account for energy planning. Without it, job creation strategies risk running into invisible walls. 

For economic developers, planners, and public officials, North Florida Energy Futures is worth careful review. It’s a reminder that in the race to attract business investment, infrastructure still matters — and energy is at the heart of it. 

Last week, Ghazvini Development posted an aerial photo announcing their newest residential project: the Summerhill development on the northeast side of Tallahassee. The tone was upbeat — “Exciting news!” — and the land was pictured in a sunlit overhead shot, ready for transformation. 

Then came the comments. 

“Why do developers clear-cut all the trees?” 
“So many trees…” 
“Oh, another subdivision, yay…” 

The outrage was fast, emotional, and utterly predictable. 

This is now a standard feature of local development in Tallahassee: post → outrage → assumptions → pressure → process gridlock. And increasingly, this is where red tape is born — not in some back office at Growth Management, but in the comment section of social media. 

Let’s take a closer look at that image. 

To many, it triggered sadness or frustration — a large swath of green space on the cusp of change. But to others familiar with land use and forestry in North Florida, it looked familiar: rows of evenly spaced trees, planted in straight lines, bounded by clean property lines. 

That’s the visual fingerprint of a managed pine farm, not a wild, old-growth forest. No one’s suggesting it wasn’t wooded. But the difference between a functioning timber tract and a natural ecosystem matters — and it’s a distinction lost in a digital environment where “tree = sacred” and “developer = destroyer” is the default. 

It also misses the larger point: this land is zoned for development. This project is legal. And this city is growing. 

According to the Tallahassee Board of Realtors, median home prices have surged nearly 40% in the last five years. Yet construction — especially of starter homes and workforce housing — has failed to keep up. The result? More demand, less supply, higher prices. 

When public outrage triggers more hearings, more delays, and more regulation, it doesn’t protect the environment. It chokes affordability. It drives up the cost of every permit, every foundation, every final inspection. It turns the middle class into renters and the next generation into transplants. 

And here’s the kicker: Tallahassee’s tree canopy is still over 55%, one of the highest in the country. That’s according to the city’s own Urban Forest Master Plan. In fact, many modern developments include mitigation requirements that replace more trees than are removed — just not in the exact place where someone used to jog. 

We’re not saying development is always perfect. Or that criticism is always wrong. But we are saying this: when every new project is treated like a public emergency, the only guaranteed outcome is more red tape. 

That’s bad for builders. But it’s also bad for neighborhoods. Because the more unpredictable the process becomes — the more it’s swayed by online emotion instead of transparent rules — the fewer people want to build here at all. And when they do, they pass the costs on to the very people who can least afford it. 

This isn’t about defending developers. It’s about defending process — so that rules mean something and growth doesn’t become a game of political dodgeball, which often puts commissioners and staff in a very difficult position. 

We can protect trees and build homes. We can plan responsibly without letting the loudest thread on Facebook become city policy. 

Because if we keep letting the Facebook mob write the rules — the same people who cleared forests for the homes they live in — we’ll be left with nothing but pine trees and the broken dreams of the families who want to live in Tallahassee, but can’t. 

Let’s start with this: Congratulations, Tallahassee! 

Earning the title of All-America City — not once, not twice, but three times — is a big deal. This is not a participation trophy. It’s not something you buy. It’s something you earn by demonstrating that a community knows how to tackle challenges, bring people together, and chart a path forward. 

That’s exactly what Tallahassee did. The Southside Action Plan. The Clean Energy Blueprint. The growing network of over 100 parks and public spaces. These aren’t just bullet points in a PowerPoint deck. They’re tangible investments in the kind of city we all want to live in. 

This isn’t about who’s on what side of what debate. It’s not about politics. It’s about community. And it’s right to pause and take pride in a moment like this. 

A spirit of collaboration 

Look at the effort that went into this award submission — the planning, the execution, the collaboration. City staff. Nonprofits. Neighborhood leaders. Civic groups. Everyone pulling in the same direction to solve big problems. 

It’s proof of something we sometimes forget: when Tallahassee aligns around a shared goal, big things happen. 

And that’s not just theory. It’s a fact. Winning this award three times puts Tallahassee in rare company nationally. That’s a reflection of a community that knows how to work together, even when we don’t always agree on everything. 

But what if we broadened our All-America horizons? 

Here’s a thought: what if the same commitment that went into these public initiatives was applied to the barriers that hold back our private sector? 

Because here’s something worth noticing. Every one of the projects highlighted in Tallahassee’s All-America application was a government-led effort. Not one featured the private sector at the center. 

That’s not a criticism. It’s an observation. The award judges were right to reward these efforts. But anyone who’s built a business here, developed property here, or tried to navigate City Hall knows another side of the story. 

For too many, navigating Tallahassee’s bureaucracy feels like a second job. 

This city knows how to mobilize when it wants to. Knows how to plan. Knows how to execute. The question is: when will that same energy be aimed at removing the red tape that holds back the private sector? 

And it turns out we’re not the only ones thinking about what’s next. Gus Corbella captured it beautifully in a recent column for the Democrat, writing about how much he loves Tallahassee — and how much more he wants to love about it. He’s right. The All-America award is a celebration of where we are. Now the challenge is deciding where we go. 

The next All-America chapter is ready to be written 

Imagine the next All-America application telling a story not just of government-led wins, but of a community that became the best place in Florida to start a business, to build a home, to invest in an idea. 

What would that look like? 

• A permitting process that takes days, not months. 

• Zoning and development rules that solve the housing crisis instead of compounding it. 

• A reputation as Florida’s most small-business-friendly city. 

• An attitude shift—from “how can we regulate this?” to “how can we make this happen?” 

This isn’t an either/or proposition. It’s both. Tallahassee can — and should — be a city that builds great public amenities and unleashes private-sector dynamism. 

This community knows how to win – let’s do it again 

The All-America award proves something important: Tallahassee knows how to collaborate, execute and win. 

Now imagine putting those same skills to work — not just to build parks and plans — but to build prosperity, unlock opportunity, and clear the runway for anyone ready to take a risk on this city. 

Yes, let’s celebrate this well-earned moment. And then let’s turn the page. 

Let’s make Tallahassee an All-America city for entrepreneurs. For builders. For job creators. For anyone with a dream and the grit to chase it. 

How hot does it have to get for a fire station to cost $34 million? 

That’s the burning question after Leon County Commissioner Christian Caban called for a formal vote on local fire projects, citing “staggering costs” that have quietly ballooned over the past few years. His concern comes as Tallahassee prepares to break ground on Fire Station 17 in the southwestern part of the city. The new station will clock in at $34 million — nearly four times the cost of similar fire stations in nearby Alachua County. 

Wait — four times? 

Yep. In 2022, Alachua County built Station 80 in Hawthorne for just $7.7 million. The following year, it added Station 33 in East Gainesville for $9 million. That means the average cost of a new fire station in Alachua is under $9 million — and Tallahassee is spending nearly $25 million more for Station 17.  

Now, to be fair, one could argue that costs vary depending on size, staffing, and equipment — and that’s true. So, let’s look at the most basic metric of all: how many households each station is expected to serve. 

Station 17 in Tallahassee is projected to serve about 11,500 households. That’s not insignificant — in fact, it’s nearly twice the number served by some rural stations. But it’s not dramatically more than what Alachua’s stations cover: Station 33 in East Gainesville serves an estimated 8,600 households, and Station 80 covers around 7,400. 

So, while Tallahassee’s Station 17 serves roughly 35% more households than the average new Alachua station, it costs nearly 300% more. 

“Where there’s there smoke, there’s fire and there is definitely smoke when it comes to the fire services fee and how it’s being spent,” Caban told Red Tape Florida. “It’s unacceptable for us to be paying $34 million for a single fire station when surrounding counties are paying a fraction of that cost.  

“These fire service fees directly impact the cost of living in our community and we cannot just rubber-stamp them without serious due diligence.” 

Meanwhile, Alachua County continues to build functional, efficient firehouses that meet basic public safety needs without blowing through taxpayer funds. Gainesville isn’t exactly known for its fiscal conservatism, so when it’s making Tallahassee look like Dubai, something’s off. 

Commissioner Caban has emerged as the leading voice raising red flags, asking for transparency and accountability before more millions are committed. He’s also said what many in the community are quietly thinking: Why does everything the City of Tallahassee builds seem to cost double, triple, or quadruple what other cities spend? 

While city officials might defend the fire services fee by noting it’s “only a few dollars a month,” that phrase has become the oldest trick in the local government playbook. Whether it’s stormwater, garbage, fire service, or a thousand other line items, those modest monthly charges quietly stack up — and for working families, they eventually hit hard. 

According to the latest budget projections, the fire fee will generate more than $40 million this year alone, paid directly by homeowners and businesses — on top of their property taxes. And if you live in Leon County but outside city limits? You’re still paying. That’s because a sizable portion of county fire service is now contracted out to the city, with the county transferring nearly $10 million of taxpayer dollars to fund it. In short, everyone’s paying — even if you don’t vote for the commissioners making these decisions. 

It’s a shell game that hides the true size of local government. Instead of raising the property tax millage, which would be politically unpopular and more visible, officials slap fees on your utility bill or create special assessments that rarely get the same scrutiny 

Fire protection is not a luxury — it’s one of the most basic and essential functions of local government. The price tag should reflect that, not some grand vision that prioritizes bells and whistles over core service. 

Commissioners owe it to their constituents — especially in lower-income, high-need neighborhoods like those served by Station 17 — to explain why the city is spending $34 million for a firehouse when neighboring counties are doing it for a fraction of the cost. 

Kudos to Commissioner Caban for not letting this one slip quietly through the consent agenda.  

Firefighting may be expensive. But it doesn’t have to be extravagant. 

So, you want to open a coffee shop in Tallahassee? You’ve got a lease, a business plan, and some solid beans from a local roaster. Should be easy, right? 
 
Cue the circus music. 
 
Before you serve your first oat milk latte, you’ll need the blessing of a dizzying array of government entities, each with its own forms, timelines, and “standard review windows” that make continental drift look speedy. 

Let’s start local. You’ll need: 

• Business Tax Receipt from the City of Tallahassee 

• Certificate of Occupancy from Growth Management 

• Health inspection 

• ADA compliance 
   

But we’re just getting started. For civil review, you’ll need even more: 

• Land Use Compliance Certificate 

• Natural Features Inventory Exemption 

• Traffic Concurrency 

• Site Plan 

• Environmental Management Permit 

Then, if triggered, you may also need: 

• Right-of-Way Permit 

• Letter of Agreement 

• Parking Standards Review 

And if the state is involved, the project may also trigger a FDEP water permit DEP sewer permit. That’s all civil. For building, you need a building permit, which is no simple task. 

Next up: A visit to the Sign Police. If you want to do anything the least bit creative with your sign – including anything to do with its size, location, illumination, location on the building, etc. – you may need a variance from a board of volunteers, which meets on a monthly cycle that may or may not fit your project timeline. 

Want outdoor seating? Heaven help you if your space’s espresso machine is interpreted to mean your coffee shop is located in a non-retail, making it a “non- conforming use.”  That kicks it to a different zoning code altogether — possibly requiring a new permit and perhaps even a public notice to neighbors, who may suddenly discover they’re deeply offended by caffeine. 
 
Now zoom out. You’ll also need: 

• State license from the Department of Business and Professional Regulation (DBPR)Florida Sales Tax Certificate 

• Federal EIN registration 

• Music license 

• Workers’ compensation coverage 

How long does all this take? Officially: “Depends.” 
 
Unofficially: anywhere from 10-12  months, assuming you don’t run into a reviewer on vacation or a missing document that mysteriously got “kicked back” into the void. And, of course, given that you are moving through the building department, the growth management department, the traffic department, the electric department, the underground utilities department, public infrastructure and more, it’s not exactly a system set up to be business-friendly. 
 
And the kicker? After all this hoop-jumping, no one — not a single agency — can tell you what your total startup costs will be. Each fee is siloed, and there’s no master checklist. 
 
This isn’t just a Tallahassee issue. It’s a Florida issue. But as the seat of government, the capital should be a model of streamlined small-business support. Instead, we’ve created a permitting gauntlet so cumbersome it rewards only the well-connected or the well-lawyered. 
 
So the next time you walk into your neighborhood café, tip your barista. And maybe also offer condolences to the owner, who probably aged two years before opening day — all because they had the audacity to sell muffins and macchiatos in the Sunshine State. 

The green T-shirts will be out in force at City Hall this week — a visual show of concern, conviction, and community spirit. These neighbors care deeply about Tallahassee’s future, and that deserves respect. 

But passion, no matter how well-intentioned, must still be weighed against facts, data, and consequences. And the truth is: opposing this Comprehensive Plan means saying no to the very kinds of growth that can make our city more affordable, inclusive, and resilient. 

It’s time to take a hard look at what this debate is really about — and what’s at stake if we let fear win out over thoughtful planning. 

The proposed Comprehensive Plan update is the product of years of work — workshops, studies, legal review, and public input. Its central goal? Encourage smart, sustainable development inside the urban service area, where infrastructure already exists. That’s not sprawl. That’s the opposite of sprawl. 

Urban infill has long been championed as the antidote to environmental degradation and costly, inefficient growth patterns. Yet somehow, even this approach is now under attack. 

Some of the loudest critics claim to support “smart growth,” but what they oppose is precisely the kind of development that allows for vibrant neighborhoods, shorter commutes, and more housing options for working families. The contradiction is clear: you can’t be against sprawl and against infill — unless you’re against all growth entirely. 

Let’s be honest about what that means. 

Cities that refuse to grow — or make growth virtually impossible — tend to struggle with increasing poverty, higher crime, and declining opportunity. You can find that pattern across the country, from California to the Rust Belt. The economic research is clear: places that stop building start falling behind. 

We see that impact locally, too. Tallahassee has actually lost population in recent years. Its housing supply is tight, prices are rising, and families are getting squeezed out. Killing this plan won’t solve that — it will make it worse. Even first-year economics students understand what happens when supply is restricted: costs go up. Way up. 

That brings us to equity. Many of the arguments against the plan are wrapped in language about neighborhood “character” or “charm.” But we should pause and ask: who benefits when we prevent new housing or retail from entering a neighborhood? Too often, it’s those who already have comfort and access — not those who are still trying to get a foothold. 

“Not in my backyard” may sound like a local planning issue. But it often functions as a wall — one that keeps out people who don’t look the same, earn the same, or live the same way. That’s not how vibrant cities are built. 

Then there’s the claim that this is all moving too fast. The reality? The process has been unfolding for nearly five years, with more than 50 public meetings, extensive public comment, and expert input throughout. This isn’t a rushed job. It’s a careful, deliberate process — and now is the time to move forward. 

If we cry “too fast” every time something changes, we risk dulling that phrase into background noise — which is dangerous when something actually is rammed through without scrutiny. This plan doesn’t deserve that label. 

It deserves support. 

The bottom line is this: the proposed Comprehensive Plan doesn’t force growth. It simply allows it — in the right places, in the right way, and with the right priorities. 

To those in the green shirts: your advocacy matters. Your voices matter. But this time, you’re fighting the wrong fight. The stakes are too high to cling to the status quo. 

Tallahassee must be a city that welcomes new families, builds for the future, and creates opportunities for everyone — not just those who already have them. 

Standing still isn’t safe. It’s costly. Let’s not let good intentions lead us to bad outcomes. 

In a May 29 Tallahassee Democrat op-ed, a local resident laments Tallahassee’s new growth plan, wringing hands over trees, neighborhood “character,” and supposed flows in a new Comprehensive Plan. But strip away the foliage and euphemisms, and what’s left is a familiar chorus: “I’m not against all growth—just this growth.”  
 
We’ve heard this tune before, and it’s getting old. 
 
Let’s call this what it is: the Smart Growth Shuffle. It’s performed by people who claim they hate sprawl, but also oppose urban infill. Who say they support affordable housing—just not here. Who support more density—just not next door. What they really support is nothing at all changing within their line of sight. 
 
It’s time to make these folks own their true belief: They don’t want any growth at all. 

This new comp plan, which encourages development within already built environments and reduces bureaucratic red tape, is the very definition of “smart growth.” It promotes infill, encourages mixed uses, and supports a more sustainable and efficient pattern of development. And yet, it’s being opposed by the very people who claim to support those principles.  
 
So which is it? Do you want growth that is denser and more environmentally conscious, or do you want to keep the city frozen in amber? Because you can’t have it both ways. 
 
Spoiler alert: this is not about trees. This is NIMBYism with a nice haircut and a compost bin. 

Meanwhile, the consequences of this “keep it just the way it is” mentality are already playing out. Leon County has actually lost population in recent years.  

That might be fine if you’re protecting some sleepy mountain town. But this is Florida’s capital, home to two major universities, a state college and a regional economy. Growth should be a feature, not a bug. And when people can’t find housing—because the same people shouting “no sprawl!” are also saying “no apartments!”—they look elsewhere. 
 
The result? A shrinking tax base, fewer young professionals, and more pressure on existing services. Over time, that erodes opportunity and leads to exactly the things people say they want to avoid: poverty, inequality, and crime. 

And those trends are already visible. Leon County’s poverty rate sits at 17.6%, well above the Florida average of 12.3% (U.S. Census). Its violent crime rate is 34.3, compared to a national average of 22.7 (Best Places). That’s not just an economic concern—it’s a quality of life concern. 

Want to improve public safety? Build stronger neighborhoods. Want to reduce poverty? Attract employers and workers with housing options they can afford. That starts with embracing policies that allow our city to grow responsibly. 
 
This plan does that. It’s not perfect—no plan ever is—but it represents a good-faith effort to address Tallahassee’s growth challenges. It streamlines overly restrictive policies, encourages development near existing infrastructure, and lays the groundwork for more housing choices across the economic spectrum. 
 
The people standing in the way of this plan aren’t trying to “protect” Tallahassee. They’re trying to preserve a narrow slice of it, usually one that benefits them. And they’re doing it at the expense of younger families, renters, students, and workers who are just looking for a place to call home. 
 
If we let that mindset dominate, Tallahassee won’t stay the same—it will slowly decline. That’s the real threat to our community character. 
 
Let’s stop mistaking obstructionism for wisdom. It’s time to grow—smartly, sustainably, and unapologetically.