Academic libraries often pride themselves on collaboration, curiosity, and supporting diverse learners. But even in mission-driven environments, neurodivergent library workers frequently find themselves misunderstood, misinterpreted, or mislabeled—especially when their identities are invisible. Neurodivergence, like queerness, chronic illness, mixed-race identity, or trauma history, often operates as an invisible marginalized identity. Dannie Lynn Fountain’s Harvard Business Review article describes such identities as “walking like you have dynamite in your pocket”—a vivid metaphor for navigating spaces where your difference is real but unseen.

Academic libraries often experience turbulence because you work inside one of the most complex political ecosystems in higher education. Bureaucratic processes, internal power dynamics, and hierarchical decision-making structures shape nearly every aspect of your daily work. The politics of change manifests deeply in the internal dynamics of your library—determining whether your organization remains adaptive, collaborative, and student-centered, or whether it slips into dysfunction, frustration, and burnout.

Academic libraries—especially small ones—often operate in conditions that are far from ideal. Staffing is tight. Budgets stretch thin. Responsibilities keep expanding while teams shrink. Many librarians know this reality intimately.

When a library invites us in, our goal is simple: help staff and leadership build a healthier, more supportive workplace culture. But what does that actually look like? Here’s a general overview of an engagement with us:  Before We Arrive

The moment I knew something had shifted in our library wasn’t during a big meeting or a strategic planning retreat. It happened on an ordinary Tuesday morning, when two staff members—people who used to laugh together over coffee—walked into my office separately, each certain the other was the problem.

Jen never meant to replace anyone. In Nomadland, she stepped into a role she loved—supporting a school district’s library systems, helping teachers navigate their tools, and doing the quiet, careful work that kept digital learning afloat. She was good at it. She cared. And yet, the moment she realized her boss—an experienced professional with a master’s degree—had been pushed into retirement so the district could save money, something inside her shifted.

I’ve often been told after presentations or in response to articles, “That’s great—but I can’t do that here at my institution.” My answer is always the same: Yes, you can—but you have to build the culture, bit by bit, and it’s slow.

Every professional relationship requires reciprocity, but few are as fundamentally important as the one between employee and supervisor. When that relationship functions well, it becomes a source of growth, clarity, and professional satisfaction. But what happens when the support simply isn’t there, when communication falters, feedback disappears, and the supervisor becomes more absent than present?

In boardrooms and faculty senates across America, a question echoes with increasing urgency: What does it mean to be a values-based organization when external pressures challenge those very values? This question has taken on particular weight regarding equity, diversity, and inclusion (EDI) initiatives—three words that organizations once proudly proclaimed but now increasingly whisper or erase entirely.

Supervisors often carry an air of authority that can make them seem unapproachable. Employees may hesitate to knock on their door, send a message, or share a concern, even when it would be helpful. But why do supervisors look this way?

Libraries thrive on collaboration. Yet too often, our ability to work well together falters not because of skill gaps, but because of how we communicate. Words, tone, timing, and unspoken assumptions can create friction that undermines trust. To counter this, many library leaders are experimenting with tools and frameworks that put communication, empathy, and psychological safety at the center of workplace culture.

Supervisors don’t always realize how intimidating they look to their team. Even if you see yourself as open and collaborative, your employees may hesitate to share concerns, ideas, or feedback. Why? Because the role itself carries power, and power creates distance. The good news: supervisors can actively close that gap. Here’s how.

In today’s academic workplaces, leaders often talk about inclusion, respect, and collaboration. But one of the most overlooked foundations of all three is the ability to set and honor boundaries. Boundaries are not walls that divide us; they are commitments that define how we work together with clarity, respect, and care.

You’ve asked for more help—more staff, more resources, more time—again and again. You’ve presented data, shared reports, explained trade-offs, and documented the risks. Yet the answer often comes back the same: a sympathetic nod, maybe even an “I’m sorry,” but no real relief, no action, no remedy, nor a solution. If this sounds familiar, you’re not alone. Many employees live in this cycle, where overwork becomes normalized and requests for support fade into background noise.

In many academic libraries and workplaces, “niceness” is a celebrated trait. We want to be approachable, collaborative, and supportive of colleagues. But there’s a shadow side to this cultural value: when the desire to be liked outweighs the need to lead effectively. In toxic dynamics, niceness can mask conflict, stifle honest communication, and leave teams without the guidance they need.

When you work in a library—especially a smaller one—it’s easy to feel like you’re talking to yourself. Ideas swirl around in your head, problems are mulled over on repeat, and solutions echo back without fresh perspective. Over time, that echo chamber can become isolating. Without input from others, it’s harder to grow, harder to adapt, and harder to feel connected to the larger profession we are all a part of.

In academic libraries, communication is more than just information-sharing—it is the foundation for belonging. For librarians who balance multiple priorities and often work in hybrid or dispersed teams, digital tools and platforms are not simply conveniences; they are lifelines for connection, collaboration, and inclusion.

As a library administrator—associate university librarian, associate dean, department head—you’ve probably experienced this: you send an email about a difficult decision, such as reorganizing desk schedules or shifting budgets, and… silence. No one replies. Or, you notice that some staff avoid initiating emails on sensitive topics altogether.

Every organizational survey seems to tell the same story: employees want more communication. Yet when leaders respond with regular updates, open-door policies, and multiple channels for information sharing, the complaints persist. Staff members continue to feel left in the dark, suspicious of hidden agendas, and frustrated by what they perceive as a lack of transparency.

Leaders in academic libraries and higher education often emphasize the importance of “listening” to employees. Staff surveys, open office hours, and town halls are all designed to create the sense that leadership is paying attention. Yet many employees report a gap between being heard and being truly understood. The difference lies not in the act of listening itself, but in how leaders respond.

On some days, leading a library feels like living several professional lives at once. Some days, balance feels impossible.

Toxic workplaces in academic libraries often share the same roots: lack of communication, absence of trust, and exclusion. The consequences are predictable—burnout, disengagement, and diminished scholarly output. Yet, the opposite is also true. When trust, inclusion, and even laughter are present, library teams thrive. Scholarly productivity grows, relationships deepen, and the workplace feels lighter.

Setting the StageAcademic library administrators often carry the weight of two jobs: managing their own heavy workload while supporting the well-being of their staff. The irony is hard to miss—leaders are expected to shield their teams from burnout while quietly experiencing it themselves. The result? Exhaustion, disconnection, and a creeping sense that no one is winning.

As a library director, I see firsthand the toll that toxic culture and burnout can take on academic librarians. The signs are often subtle at first—a colleague skipping breaks, staying late too many nights in a row, or withdrawing from discussions they once led with energy. Over time, those small signals accumulate into disengagement, frustration, and, eventually, burnout.

The beginning of a new academic year often feels like a sprint—orientation sessions, library instruction, committee meetings, and the rush of new responsibilities. But the truth is that the academic year is a marathon, not a sprint. Without mindful pacing and care, librarians can find themselves exhausted, disillusioned, and burned out before midterms arrive.

Healthy organizations thrive when leadership is not concentrated at the top but shared across all levels. Senior leaders set the tone through vision, trust, and empowerment. Middle leaders bring that vision to life by connecting strategy to practice, fostering collaboration, and guiding teams through change. Together, these roles create an environment where innovation and resilience flourish.

In a healthy organization, a new leader acknowledges the past, then focuses on building the future. Criticism may surface during a transition, but it should fade as trust and direction take root.

What does it really take to move forward in academic librarianship? To find out, a recent study of 200 academic library professionals (link) explored the barriers and supports librarians encounter on their career journeys. The findings were clear: many librarians feel stuck. Promotion and tenure criteria are often unclear, tenure itself is out of reach for most, and workplace cultures sometimes undervalue critical contributions like service, mentoring, and DEI work.

The one thing I ever agreed with a former manager on was this: when a new administration arrives, its first move is often to criticize the old one. In higher education, this dynamic plays out regularly. A new president, provost, or dean steps in and quickly distances themselves from their predecessor’s vision. Sometimes it’s framed as “We’re moving in a new direction.” Other times, it’s sharper—“We’re fixing what they broke.”

Receiving a Performance Improvement Plan (PIP) can feel like the floor has been pulled out from under you. For many employees, it’s a moment filled with anxiety, self-doubt, and fear about the future. In a truly supportive workplace, a PIP should function as a roadmap—a structured opportunity to get back on track, clarify expectations, and strengthen professional growth. At its best, it’s a signal that the organization values you enough to invest in your improvement.

Libraries are more than repositories of information—they are communities where people learn, grow, and find belonging. For student workers, interns, and even new staff members, the first days in a library role can shape their confidence and engagement for years to come. At Inclusive Knowledge Solutions, we believe that fostering strong, supportive relationships through mentorship, buddy systems, and sponsorship transforms onboarding into something deeper: a foundation for growth, belonging, and equity.

Roy Wagner (Invention of Culture) once warned:

In academic libraries—where change is constant, resources can be tight, and collaboration is essential—it’s easy to default to problem-solving through a deficit lens. What’s not working? What’s broken? What’s falling behind?

Sasha Costanza-Chock once warned:

Academic libraries are often framed as neutral spaces—repositories of knowledge, service points for students, and support systems for faculty. But beneath this surface lies an often-overlooked force: emotional culture. How people feel at work—what emotions are expressed, encouraged, or suppressed—has a profound effect on performance, retention, collaboration, and institutional trust.

In today’s academic library landscape, many of us spend just as much time pinging, emailing, Slacking, and Zooming as we do curating collections, teaching research skills, or building partnerships with faculty. Yet so often, our messages are misunderstood—or worse, ignored. You might send a clear, concise message about a collaboration or event and receive silence. Or perhaps a carefully worded update yields only a single emoji response.

After nearly three decades in academic libraries—starting in 1997 and graduating from my MLIS program in Wisconsin 20 years ago—I find myself reflecting more and more on what it means to be successful. Not in the abstract sense, but in the personal, lived-in, late-career, what-was-it-all-for kind of way.

"We're like a family here." It's one of the most common phrases you'll hear in corporate culture, often uttered by well-meaning managers and featured prominently on company websites. While the sentiment behind this language is generally understood—leaders want to convey warmth, support, and unity—it's time to retire this metaphor once and for all. Your workplace isn't a family, and pretending it is creates more problems than it solves.

In a moment that quickly went viral, professional tennis player Amanda Anisimova stood at the mic after a crushing loss, fought back tears, and thanked the crowd with unflinching honesty. For many, it was a moving act of vulnerability. For Harvard Business School professor Amy Edmondson, it was something else: a rare, generous act of courage after a devastating failure.

When you're down two colleagues, buried in reference requests, and still expected to run instruction sessions, social media, and assessment reports, it’s natural to ask: How can I keep doing all this?

We've all seen it happen: the manager who consistently misses targets gets promoted to director. The executive who oversaw a major project failure becomes a vice president. The leader who struggled with team management suddenly finds themselves running an entire division. Welcome to the phenomenon of "failing up"—where mediocre or poor performance seemingly gets rewarded with greater responsibility and higher positions.

The job search process can be nerve-wracking enough without employers making it worse through poor communication practices. Unfortunately, many organizations leave candidates hanging in limbo, creating unnecessary stress and anxiety while potentially damaging their own reputation and ability to attract top talent. When employers fail to communicate effectively during the hiring process, it often signals deeper organizational issues that candidates should take seriously.

Middle managers occupy one of the most challenging positions in organizational hierarchies—serving as the critical bridge between senior leadership and frontline staff while often feeling they cannot satisfy either group. Success requires embracing the role as a strategic conduit, not a people pleaser.

In academic libraries, lean staffing has long been portrayed as efficient, necessary, and even virtuous—something to endure quietly, even as we're taught to continue advocating for more support, more staffing, and more recognition. But what if this austerity model is quietly eroding the very foundation of our impact? What if the cost of lean staffing isn't just current stress—but future lost sales?

We often celebrate the idea of transformation in academic libraries—rebranding leaders as innovators, change agents, or visionaries. But not all transformation leads to healthy outcomes. What happens when a transformative leader enters an academic library, only to find that their vision doesn’t fit the institutional culture? Or worse, when transformation becomes disruption without direction?

In academic libraries, overwork is often described in terms of hours logged, tasks juggled, or meetings survived. But these symptoms distract from the deeper cause: power inequities and systemic unfairness. As Brigid Schulte argues in Overwhelmed, work stress flourishes in cultures that mistake busyness for worth and devalue care, rest, and equity.