& remember, loneliness is still time spent with the world.
–Ocean Vuong, Night Sky With Exit Wounds1
Editor’s note: We are pleased to welcome Caelin Ross to the ACRLog team. Caelin is the Performing Arts Librarian at Arizona State University Library. She earned her Master of Science in Library and Information Science from the University of Illinois at Urbana-Champaign. With fifteen years of experience in academic libraries and non-profit organizations, Caelin’s interests include collection management, community engagement, and exploring emotional labor, grief work, and performance in libraries and archives. As the curator for the Theatre for Youth and Community Collection, her projects aim to create meaningful ways for students to engage with performing arts resources while supporting the documentation of historically marginalized perspectives.
People often ask what made me want to be a librarian. The answer might surprise fellow academic librarians: I discovered the career pathway after nearly dropping out of college.
It took me over 15 years–starting as a college library assistant in undergraduate school—to reach this point in my career. I think if they had attended a conference like ACRL Annual 2025 in Minneapolis, they would understand why I chose this path. Being an academic librarian offers an opportunity to work alongside curious, disruptive, and thoughtful people. The work shared at this past conference demonstrates this beautifully.
Attending my first ACRL was both bittersweet and profoundly validating. The programming was incredible. It was rewarding to have been on three separate planning committees to select presentations and to see folks proudly share their work. I learned so much from evaluating submissions, and encourage folks who are also early career to volunteer on an ACRL conference committee. It is an excellent way to know what makes specific presentations stand apart and better understand the research process. Some submissions would have been better as a paper, while others may have been better as a panel.
Lightning talk
My talk was scheduled on Friday, which I imagined would be a reasonably quiet event. However, I was shocked to attend fellow participants’ lightning talks and see the room packed with over a hundred attendees. While I waited outside the conference room, several Arizona State University Library colleagues who were also presenting at the conference stopped by to stay with me. One colleague, Anali, said, “You’re on our team. Of course we’re here for you.”
As I headed up onstage, the nerves kicked in full throttle. I met two excellent presenters who were also presenting for the first time! We gave each other encouragement and high fives and shared how nervous and excited we were.I saw a former colleague from my previous institution and waved–I was so glad to see a familiar face. I looked out in the crowd and saw nine of my colleagues from ASU all seated together, waving and smiling.
I could have lit up the entire city.
The talk went by quickly, but that feeling of being truly seen and listened to was everything. I created a tight five-minute presentation focused on developing partnerships with community organizations to document youth experiences, supported by concrete examples from my experience. I prepared thoroughly, timing myself to ensure I wouldn’t run over, but approached the process with the calm assurance that comes from knowing your material and your worth.
The Year Was 2010…
I have wanted to be a librarian since I was 21. As an undergraduate at an R1, major public research university, I struggled to find a sense of belonging on campus. College Library became a sanctuary for me, and to this day, is the best job I have ever had. I stumbled through my early 20s in various non-profit employment and continued to find part-time library jobs, then made the life-saving choice to move to Chicago. I didn’t have a job, but had an opportunity to live with a cousin, so at least I had housing. A few weeks later, a temp job opened at Northwestern University Library, and I took it– even though it meant getting home at 1am. That job led to a promotion, which led to me enrolling in the iSchool at University of Illinois at Urbana Champaign.
After graduating with my MSLIS in 2020, landing my first academic librarian role took nearly two years. I was 34. Despite working full-time in academic libraries for almost a decade, completing my graduate degree, and interning while keeping my 40-hour-a-week library job, I was rejected countless times.
The call arrived on a Friday afternoon. After hundreds of applications and dozens of interviews, I was offered the academic librarian position as a Performing Arts Librarian I had hoped for. I should have felt nothing but elation—this was my career goal. Yet alongside the excitement came a sudden weight: accepting meant leaving behind the community I had built over the years. Little did I know that this bittersweet moment would be the first step in an unexpected journey through grief, loneliness, and, ultimately, rebuilding.
The Invisible Loss of Relocation
When we talk about grief, we usually associate it with losing someone or something. Rarely do we acknowledge the profound grief that comes with voluntarily choosing to leave a place. Yet that grief is real—a complex tapestry of emotions that doesn’t always make rational sense when you’ve made what appears to be a positive career move.
In those first weeks after relocating, I found myself experiencing the most intense loneliness of my life. I had never lived alone and was over 1800 miles from friends or family. I mourned routines I had taken for granted: the barista who knew my order before I spoke, taking my dog, Pasha, on his morning walk, since he stayed behind in Chicago with my partner.
The Academic Bubble Challenge
Academia presents a unique paradox when it comes to community building. You’re surrounded by people devoted to knowledge and sharing ideas, yet the structures can feel impenetrable to newcomers. Faculty established relationships, students focused on their studies, and I felt like an imposter.
As an academic librarian who works with archives and special collections, I occupy an interesting intersection. My role involves supporting everyone’s research and learning needs, yet initially, these interactions remained largely transactional. I helped locate resources, organized archival collections, and assisted with reference, but these initial encounters made me feel more isolated. When the spring semester ended, the campus community disappeared, leaving for cooler weather in the brutal desert summer.
Small Steps Across the Grief Threshold
It has taken more than two years to begin to accept this change. I lost family, relationships, and pets. I stopped expecting my new city to replace what I had left behind. Instead of seeking exact substitutes for what I had lost, I began approaching community-building as creating something entirely new.
Some strategies that helped me cross this threshold:
1. Embracing the “beginner” status: I started asking for recommendations rather than trying to discover everything independently. This vulnerability opened conversations and positioned me to receive rather than always provide help.
2. Leveraging library connections: My role gave me a unique vantage point. I created recurring opportunities to develop relationships beyond one-off interactions by developing training programs and student employment opportunities.
3. Acknowledging the grief: Rather than dismissing my feelings of loss as self-indulgent, I allowed myself to miss my former community while building a new one.
The irony that I struggled to navigate my new social terrain as a librarian—someone who helps others navigate information landscapes—wasn’t lost on me. Yet, slowly, the scattered connections began to form patterns.
Over time, I discovered that building community in a new city isn’t about replacing what was lost but creating space for what might emerge. The grief doesn’t completely disappear but becomes integrated into a more complex story that honors what was left behind and what has been discovered.
For Fellow Academic Nomads
If you’re an academic librarian (or anyone) who has relocated for a position, know that your experience of grief amid professional advancement is valid. Community doesn’t happen overnight, and the particular structure of academic institutions can make the process even more challenging.
Some practical takeaways from my experience:
- Give yourself at least a year before making judgments about belonging.
- Create small, sustainable routines that put you in the same places consistently.
- Look for interdepartmental committees or university-wide initiatives that connect people across silos.
- Remember that your expertise as a librarian—finding connections between seemingly disparate elements—can serve you in community building, too.
The stacks that once felt like barriers between me and potential connections have become the architecture supporting my new community. Between the books, across database training sessions, and through research consultations, I’ve found my people—different from those I left behind but no less meaningful.
The grief hasn’t vanished. Some days, a song or memory will bring a sharp pang of loss. But now those moments coexist with the warmth of new connections—proof that our capacity for community isn’t limited, but expansive, growing with each chapter of our lives.
With Gratitude
For now, I want to thank my ASU Library community. Your spirit of collaboration, empathy, and curiosity shines through in everything you do. Thank you for sharing meals, celebrating with drinks, and for bringing your absolute best to this conference. Working together with colleagues like you is all I have ever wanted.
This solidarity is my hope for our field. When we come together as a community we remember our collective power. Never underestimate the power of just showing up.
Notes:
- Vuong, O. (2016). Night Sky with Exit Wounds. Copper Canyon Press. ↩︎
Special Thanks: Anali Perry, Matt Harp, Rachel Fernandez, Cami Garland, Vina Begay, Eric Prosser, Cat Dinh, Karalyn Osser, Olivia Sparks, Eric Hardy, Nataani Hanley-Moraga, Alex Soto, Yitazba Largo-Anderson, and Gina Peterson. Special shout out to Jamie Diermier and Neah Ingram-Monteiro.