A Tuesday Morning That Changed Everything

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.

You could feel it in the air: the tight shoulders, the clipped tones, the way each avoided eye contact with the other across the circulation desk. Nothing catastrophic had happened. Just the slow accumulation of tiny hurts, assumptions, and mismatched expectations. The kind of conflict that creeps in quietly and then suddenly feels like it’s everywhere.

In academic libraries, this story is familiar. Not because our teams are flawed, but because they’re human.

Where Misunderstanding Meets Leadership

Conflict often begins with miscommunication or misunderstanding, especially in environments where people care deeply about their work and each other. I remember learning this early in my career and feeling both seen and responsible. Because conflict, no matter how small, is always a moment when leadership is being quietly tested.

And in that moment, Kari Grain’s idea of critical hope came back to me—the belief that even in messy, painful, or inequitable situations, people can act together to create something better. Critical hope isn’t positivity. It isn’t “We’ll get through this.” It’s the decision to stay with the discomfort long enough to transform it.

That’s what I needed to bring into the room.

Listening for the Grief Beneath the Frustration

I invited both staff members to talk—not together yet, but individually. Not to adjudicate, but to listen. To understand how the story looked from where they sat. And something remarkable happened: beneath their frustration was grief. Grief that the other person didn’t seem to notice how hard they were working. Grief that their contributions felt invisible. Grief that the trust they once had felt fragile now.

This is what kindness in conflict resolution looks like—not softness or politeness, but attentiveness. A willingness to hear the emotional truth, not just the operational one.

Most conflict begins in misunderstanding, and intentional listening—real listening, not listening for your turn to speak—can shift the entire dynamic.

Where CALM Becomes a Way of Being

The CALM framework showed up here not as a managerial tool, but as a posture.

• Communication became a practice of honesty without harm.
• Adaptability became the courage to say, “Maybe the way we’ve always done this isn’t working.”
• Learning became the gentle acknowledgment that conflict is a teacher.
• Management became the quiet work of holding a container safe enough for people to speak the unspeakable.

These weren’t steps. They were stances—ways of approaching the moment.

The Pause That Changes Everything

When we finally sat together, they didn’t jump immediately into solutions. They sat in what Grain would call the “productive tension” of critical hope: the belief that a better relationship was possible paired with the reality that it wouldn’t happen instantly.

One of them said, “I didn’t realize you were drowning. I thought you were judging me.”

The other replied, “I wasn’t judging you. I was afraid you thought I wasn’t pulling my weight.”

A pause. A breath.

And then something lighter.

Not resolution yet, but recognition.

In that moment, the work shifted from conflict management to relationship repair.

The Relational Heart of Library Work

This is where academic libraries often misunderstand innovation. We talk about new technologies, new systems, new services—but the most transformative work is relational. It’s in those small, painful moments when people decide to tell the truth about what they need.

Critical hope lives in those moments.

CALM offers the structure.

Kindness gives tone and texture.

Wellbeing offers recovery.

Emotional recovery, in particular, matters deeply. It’s not enough to “resolve” the issue if people walk away feeling diminished or unheard. Conflict can close a chapter, but wellbeing allows the next one to be written with clarity instead of resentment.

When Trust Begins to Grow Back

A few weeks later, I watched those same two colleagues share a joke at the desk. The conflict hadn’t magically disappeared; they were simply learning to carry it differently. To speak earlier. To check assumptions. To make room for each other again.

This is the part we don’t talk about enough: conflict doesn’t always get solved. Sometimes it gets metabolized. Sometimes it becomes a new kind of understanding. Sometimes it becomes the soil where trust grows back, slowly but sturdily.

What Critical Hope Really Looks Like in Libraries

Not optimism.

Not avoidance.

But the quiet, steady belief that people—when given time, space, and kindness—can build the culture they need.

One conversation, one Tuesday morning, one moment of courage at a time.