I’ve gone back and forth on writing this.
For months.
Some days I thought this belonged in a private journal.
Some days I thought I should never say anything publicly.
And some days I felt strongly that people deserved context—not because anyone is entitled to every detail of my life, but because stories have a way of becoming something else when the people living them stay silent. I’ve shared bits and pieces from time to time, but never this.
The Library Voices: Unfiltered series started because I believed librarians deserved a place to tell the stories that don’t fit neatly into annual reports, board packets, conference presentations, or polished social media posts.
I never expected I would eventually write my own.
But this post exists for several reasons.
For librarians who carry similar grief.
For the people in my community who I feel I abandoned.
For families who trusted me with their children.
For anyone quietly trying to survive a workplace they once loved.
And for myself.
This is my story.
This reflects my recollection and understanding of events based on records maintained at the time, including emails, letters, reports, calendars, public records requests, agency correspondence, and contemporaneous documentation.
There is more to this story than I am choosing to share publicly.
That decision is intentional.
The post is long. Please read it to the end.
Before December 2024
Building a Career and Building a Community
I worked at the library for seven years, but my relationship with that building began long before employment.
I grew up there, and lived across the street.
My mother worked there and later served as director.
That library was part of my childhood. Staff members were like family.
Years later, after working for almost 20 years in the private sector, I returned to the library as an employee in 2019 and eventually became the Youth Services Librarian in 2021. I truly believed I had found the place where I would build a new career. A place where I would retire.
I fell in love.
Youth services became my world.
Over the years, my role expanded far beyond programming.
I managed:
- Collection development
- Purchasing
- Budget lines
- Summer Reading
- Family programming
- Teen services
- Outreach
- Grant writing
- Marketing
- Department planning
- Community partnerships
- Reporting
- Social media advertising
And I built something I was incredibly proud of.
Together with staff, volunteers, families, and community partners, we created experiences that became traditions.
Programs that were once ideas became annual events families planned their schedules around.
We built partnerships.
Expanded services.
Experimented.
Tried unconventional ideas.
Advocated for children.
Made room for creativity.
Much of this work heavily supported kids who I watched grow up within the library walls. Many of the initiatives I created were in response to community needs.
Phonics collection and Reading Readiness Kits
LGBTQ Pride Club & programming
Teen Advisory Board & Volunteer Opportunities
Some of that work eventually reached beyond our community.
Programs and initiatives received national recognition. My work was highlighted through professional publications and library organizations. Ideas developed in our department were shared and adapted by librarians elsewhere. I received messages from librarians across the country. Indiana University later featured my professional journey. (You can read more about me, here).
That recognition mattered—but not because of prestige. It mattered because it showed that meaningful work was happening in our small library. In our small town.
I share this because I want something documented clearly:
There was joy.
There was innovation.
There was good work.
There were children who grew up there and relied on it.
There were families who returned year after year.
And I am proud of that.
December 2024
Asking for Help
Coming into the role, I had no experience and received no training. But, by 2024, I was really into the swing of things. I had developed a number of large scale events, new programming and initiatives, redesigned the department for easier browsing, and introduced brand new collections. It was remarkably successful, but I was beginning to feel overwhelmed. Toward the end of 2024, after having an in-person conversation, I was instructed in an email from the director to prepare a letter to the board outlining challenges within my department and explaining what additional support might be needed. Writing that letter was one of the most difficult professional tasks I had ever been asked to do.
My assistant had decades of service and value. I wanted that reflected, and it was. A third of my letter was about how much I respected her and wanted her work highlighted.
I intentionally wrote carefully and respectfully. My concern was not replacing people. My concern was sustainability. Growing my department.
Expectations had shifted. Needs had changed.
I outlined concerns regarding:
- Capacity
- Department growth
- Long-term support
- Operational realities
I specifically requested discretion in writing because I recognized the sensitivity of personnel discussions and wanted to protect our relationship.
At the time, I believed I was participating in a normal administrative process. After all, I was instructed to do this.
I expected discussion.
I expected collaboration.
I expected leadership.
That never happened.
At the time, I had no reason to believe this letter would later become connected to allegations about my conduct.
Spring–Summer 2025
Achievement, Hope, and the Beginning of Uncertainty
Spring of 2025 should have been one of the happiest periods of my career.
I was finishing my Master of Library and Information Science (MLIS) through Indiana University. I had worked toward that degree while working full-time, raising a family, and managing a department.
I maintained a 3.98 GPA.
I wasn’t pursuing the degree because I wanted a title. I pursued it because I believed professional growth mattered. I believed in libraries. I believed investing in myself would allow me to better serve my community. I put myself into debt for this job, because I believed in it that much.
I was also told that completing the program would be the only way a salary increase would be considered.
At the same time, youth services continued growing. Programs expanded. Families continued showing up. Attendance increased. Partnerships continued.
From the outside, it looked like momentum.
But things had begun to feel different.
Following earlier conversations and requests for support, communication became increasingly limited.
I formally requested a compensation review.
That request included:
- A summary of responsibilities
- Department accomplishments
- Educational achievements
- Future goals
I was later asked to provide additional written information to the board and a specific request.
I did.
After that process, communication shifted.
A meeting was scheduled to discuss concerns.
Then canceled.
It was never rescheduled.
At first, I assumed people were busy.
Libraries are complicated. Boards are volunteer positions. Administrators carry a lot.
So I waited.
And then I followed up.
Then I waited again.
Eventually I started documenting.
Not because I anticipated termination. Not because I was preparing for conflict.
But because I genuinely could not understand what was happening.
I asked for updates.
I asked for meetings.
I wrote letters.
I documented accomplishments.
I communicated concerns.
I tried to move conversations forward.
I continued believing there had to be a misunderstanding.
One of the hardest parts to explain is that there was never a moment where someone sat me down and said:
“This is the concern.”
“This is the issue.”
“This is what needs to change.”
Instead,
there was silence.
Silence that would end up lasting until my termination.
Summer–Early Fall 2025
Trying to Solve a Problem I Didn’t Understand
As communication continued to feel limited, additional processes began.
Outside professionals became involved. Not the director stepping up. Not the board president stepping in. Contractors. Hired by the board.
Staff participated in interviews. Concerns were discussed. I participated fully.
At the time, I viewed outside involvement as positive.
I believed additional perspectives would create clarity.
I answered questions honestly.
I shared concerns.
I offered ideas.
I wanted solutions.
During this period, I also continued carrying my normal workload. Nothing slowed down.
That included:
- Professional development
- Large initiatives
- Planning and running a large-scale fundraiser
- Building relationships with the school systems new superintendent and its administrators
- Plus everything else necessary to keep the department running
I kept showing up.
I kept producing.
I kept assuming things would improve.
Internally though, I was struggling.
The uncertainty started becoming difficult physically and emotionally.
I used sick time. A lot of sick time.
There were many days I left work crying.
There were days I questioned whether I belonged there anymore.
Not because I didn’t love the work.
But because I didn’t understand where I stood. I didn’t understand what was happening.
At one point, I started writing directly to the board, expressing how difficult the lack of communication had become and how much the uncertainty was affecting me.
I also included examples of work completed because I wanted to make something very clear:
My passion for the work had not changed.
My commitment had not changed.
I was still there.
Still trying.
Still hoping.
November–December 2025
The Final Months
Looking back now, this section is one of the hardest for me to revisit because I didn’t realize I was approaching the end of my employment.
At the time, I believed I was helping build the future of the library.
I was still planning.
Still investing.
Still showing up.
Still assuming there would be another summer, another round of programs, another year of growth.
In addition to my normal responsibilities as Youth Services Librarian, the supervising staff had been tasked with participating in organizational improvement efforts following involvement from yet another outside consultant hired by the board. This time, to assist and advise the director.
I participated fully because I genuinely believed things could improve.
I desperately wanted them to improve.
As part of that process, my supervising co-workers and I were asked to contribute work that extended well beyond our regular positions.
This included helping:
- Review and rethink organizational structure
- Draft and revise job descriptions
- Discuss role expectations
- Develop recommendations
- Participate in planning meetings
- Create materials intended to support organizational improvement efforts
- Contribute ideas regarding operations and future direction
- Salary schedules
At times, it felt like we were being asked not only to continue doing our existing jobs, but also to help redesign the systems around us. Work that seemed more appropriate for the director and administration.
I did it anyway, and I took that responsibility seriously.
I spent hours preparing materials, doing research, thinking through ideas, participating in conversations, and trying to contribute in a meaningful way because I still believed we were working toward resolution.
At the same time, my normal work never slowed down –
but I began taking a lot of work home with me to keep up with all of the demands.
Youth services continued.
Programs continued.
Collection responsibilities continued.
Community partnerships continued.
Families continued showing up.
And although I was falling apart inside, I continued trying to give my patrons the same experience they had always received.
During this same period, concerns also developed regarding conditions in the building during a renovation.
Staff raised concerns and conversations began around the environment and the impact it was having on day-to-day work.
One of the hardest decisions I made during this time was canceling a family event because I personally did not feel comfortable inviting families into conditions I had concerns about.
I communicated my reasoning and explained my decision.
I continued moving forward.
I began researching and submitted requests for professional development opportunities for the following year. After one particular request submitted early December, On December 30th, I was told that the budget for 2026 would be reviewed to see if I could participate.
I was ecstatic because this was the first time I had received any sort of positive news in months.
So, I continued planning future initiatives.
I continued operating as though I would be there to carry those plans out. Nothing in my mind suggested the chapter was ending, which is part of why looking back on this period feels so difficult.
I wasn’t withdrawing.
I wasn’t disengaging.
I was still investing in a future that, at the time, I believed I was helping create.
January 8, 2026
The End of Employment
Just nine days after receiving that email about professional development opportunities, my employment ended. After seven years.
No evaluation.
No corrective action process.
No conversations.
No indication at all this was coming.
The evening of January 8th, 2026, a special board meeting was held. At the recommendation of the director, and without discussion in a meeting lasting only 1 minute, the board members voted unanimously to terminate my employment effective immediately. They sent police officers to my home to deliver my termination letter which listed no reasoning.
“Please be advised that the Board of Trustees of the Whiting Public Library terminated your employment at a special meeting, on January 8th, 2026, effective immediately.
Consequently, you are not to report to work on or after January 9th, 2026. A formal letter with details regarding your final pay and benefits will follow by mail.
We will arrange for the return of your personal belongings. To facilitate this, please provide by mail a list of any personal items remaining at the library to the Library Director.”
No letter followed.
Almost two months later, explanations were communicated through formal processes.
The board meeting following my termination: https://photos.app.goo.gl/u9BjNm8aJcwatFFa7
Winter 2026
When Communication Became Allegation
Looking back now, there is something I still struggle to reconcile.
At the time, I believed I was doing what employees are often encouraged to do: communicating concerns, documenting issues, asking questions, requesting meetings, proposing solutions, and trying to move difficult conversations forward.
I understood my actions as attempts to create clarity and improve situations that felt unresolved.
What I did not understand then—and still struggle to understand now—is that many of those same actions would later be interpreted very differently.
Most of those communications were written. Emails. Letters. Requests. Questions. Documentation. How words on a paper can be misinterpreted, I will never know.
I retain those records.
When I revisit them now, over and over again, I still see someone trying to communicate directly, advocate for support, seek understanding, and navigate uncertainty—not someone acting with harmful intent.
More than a month after my employment ended, explanations supporting the decision to terminate my employment were eventually communicated through formal processes connected to an ongoing investigation.
I had asked questions before that point and sought clarity, but these explanations were ultimately forced through that process.
For a long time, I debated whether to include this section.
Not because it isn’t easy to write—but because reducing years of work, relationships, and experiences into a list of allegations feels icky and humiliating.
At the same time, I know many people have quietly wondered how things reached this point.
Understanding my experience means understanding how my actions were later characterized.
I recognize others may interpret events differently.
What follows reflects the explanations that were communicated to me and my own understanding of those events.
Those explanations included allegations that:
#1 I discriminated against my assistant based on age.
This allegation referenced the December 2024 letter I had been instructed to write requesting additional support for my department.
That letter intentionally recognized my assistant’s decades of service and value while expressing concerns about capacity and operational sustainability.
I specifically requested – in writing – discretion, because I wanted to protect our relationship.
At no point did I believe I was criticizing age or advocating removal.
I understood myself to be discussing departmental support needs. I was instructed to write that letter.
#2 I harassed the director.
This allegation referenced written communication where I:
- Requested meetings
- Asked for updates
- Sought clarification
- Documented concerns
- Attempted to resolve issues
At the time those communications were written, my intention was never confrontation. In fact, it was the exact opposite. I wrote many times that I wanted it to be collaborative. I offered suggestions, constructive feedback, and examples. I have over a decade of experience managing mid-level professionals. I offered to help.
I believed communication was appropriate.
I believed unresolved issues should be addressed.
I believed asking questions was part of my responsibility as a department head and supervisor.
#3 I was insubordinate.
This allegation referenced declining participation in an additional meeting after communicating existing obligations and concerns about workload.
At the time, I believed I was communicating limits and capacity—not refusing participation.
By that point, I had already completed extensive work outside my normal responsibilities related to organizational improvement efforts. I was working a substantial amount of time from home to keep up.
The work I was being asked to do would typically fall on the director. The board had even pointed it out during a public meeting.
Again, I maintain extensive documentation connected to each of these events. I will not be sharing any of my documentation publicly to protect current and former employees who have no control of what is being shared.
I recognize others may describe these events differently.
But when I think back to that period, I don’t remember conflict.
I remember trying.
Trying to communicate.
Trying to improve things.
Trying to understand.
And trying to hold together something I still believed could be repaired.
What I keep coming back to is this: I wish that at some point, someone from the library had simply sat down and had an honest conversation with me.
Instead, difficult conversations were deferred to outside counsel and contractors. People who had clearly already taken the side of those who hired them. I understand organizations seek outside guidance—but I wish there had also been space for direct communication, clarity, and humanity.
More than anything, I wish I had been treated like a person trying to understand and improve a difficult situation, not someone to be managed at a distance behind closed doors, while slowly building a narrative.
Present Day
Why I Started Writing
For a while, I thought maybe I was done.
Instead—
I started writing more.
Youth Services Playbook became something different.
Not just program ideas. Not just resources.
A place to keep contributing.
To stay connected.
To process.
To create.
To help others.
Today:
- Librarians use my work
- Library associations have shared my work
- Students read my work
- Conversations continue
- Community continues
And I continue building.
Due to my work in this space, I’ve been invited to present the following later this year:
STEAL THESE IDEAS: A Teen Programming and Engagement UnConference, a virtual conference hosted by Library Journal & School Library Journal
Beyond the Ask: Grant Writing, Partnerships, and Funding Strategies for Libraries, a webinar hosted by the Indiana State Library
My story is still being written.
It is important to note: Investigations and documentation efforts remain ongoing.
Because this isn’t okay. Because policies should be upheld. For everyone. Because I’m setting an example for my kids to stand up for themselves and what they believe is right.
Because I didn’t deserve this.
Nor did the other two supervisors who were terminated. I was not alone. While their story is VERY similar, their story is not mine to tell.
But my life is not paused while I wait for outcomes.
I’m writing.
Teaching.
Creating.
Parenting.
Building.
And deciding what comes next.
To My Community
If you attended a program—
thank you.
If you trusted me with your children—
thank you.
If you quietly wondered where I went—
I’m still here.
Still believing in libraries.
Still believing children deserve joyful places.
Maybe one day, I can return to that space.
After all, everything I have done up to this point has been for you.
And now, from the outside looking in, and not completely drowned in anxiety and sadness, I still see opportunities for growth and innovation. I have so many ideas.
But for now, you’ll find me here. Don’t be a stranger.
Some of my favorite memories:
Share Your Story
Library Voices: Unfiltered exists because stories matter.
If you have a story you want to tell, I’d love to hear it.
Anonymous and attributed submissions welcome.
Get started HERE.
— Adrienne
Final Note:
This publication reflects my experience and understanding of events. Certain information has been intentionally omitted to protect current and former employees and maintain focus on my own account.
This story is not over.
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