Ivory Towers and Burnout: What Toxic Work Culture Really Looks Like

This one isn’t polished. It isn’t meant to be. It's not another awareness month post or a curated look at what “support” should be. It’s just me—venting, processing, unpacking years of silent damage from a place that never actually saw me.

I gave Cincinnati Animal Care everything I had. I started on Day One, August 1st, 2020, and I showed up fully—brain, body, heart, and soul. What I got in return? Wasn't leadership. It was management. And not the good kind.

The executive leadership team stayed locked in their ivory tower, clueless about the reality on the ground. Their decisions were based on hearsay from poorly chosen hires—many of whom didn’t last more than six months. Just in the dog care department alone, there were eight management changes. Eight. In under five years.

Every time, they'd hire someone new, someone "promising," and every time, those of us actually doing the work were left cleaning up the mess. But no matter how many safety protocols I wrote, programs I built, or hours I gave… I was still seen as the problem. Not because of my performance. But because I didn’t “fit.” Because I dared to advocate—for myself, for the team, for the animals.

You want to know what got me fired? Not hanging kennel cards—while on light duty due to a documented spinal injury. I asked for help. No one took it seriously. No one accommodated. I was left hanging—again.

And that’s the thing. This wasn’t just about this one moment. This was about being disabled in a system that pretends to care, but really just wants silence. They talk the talk: “mental health matters,” “diversity and inclusion,” “core values.” But when you need accommodations? A proper desk for a herniated disc? You get laughed at. Sarcasm. Dismissal. "Do you feel accommodated?"—asked with a smirk.

That’s not leadership. That’s cowardice with a clipboard.

For five years, I babysat bad managers. I stepped in when they disappeared. I taught when they failed to show up. I built programs that got handed off without credit. I poured my passion into training, structure, and safety—and watched it all get tossed the moment someone with a higher title decided they didn’t like how I asked questions.

And when I stopped masking, when I finally let myself unmask and advocate as an AuDHD adult—it made them uncomfortable. My emotional reactions, my direct communication, my exhaustion? They took that as insubordination. Not the cry for help it actually was.

I wrote letters. I explained RSD. I laid myself bare in ways I never had before. I made crystal clear what I was struggling with. They ignored it. Or worse—twisted it.

I wasn’t included in conversations. I was jerked around, “held” on light duty while they secretly determined I’d go back to full work without ever involving me. Then came the retaliation: being told I was going to be doing dishes for an hour a day. Real subtle.

Let me be very clear: they didn’t drop me when I stopped performing. They dropped me when I stopped masking. When I stopped pretending everything was fine.

I thought I had found my next step. I thought “Animals First” meant something. I wanted to teach, to lead, to build something better. Instead, I got thrown out like trash the second I couldn’t physically lift anymore. No coaching. No mentorship. Just silence—until the moment they decided I wasn’t useful anymore.

You know what’s the final insult? Staff being asked to leave positive Indeed reviews to cover the real story—the revolving door of managers, the ignored accommodations, the dehumanizing disregard for anyone making under $30K.

They brag about “core values” from their six-figure offices and vacation homes. Meanwhile, the people doing the real work are expected to suffer in silence. Be grateful. Don’t complain. Smile through it.

But I’m done being quiet.

If you’ve ever felt the slow burn of being gaslit by a job that claims to support you—only to tear you down the moment you ask for something real—I see you.

This isn’t just my story. This is what happens when organizations confuse optics with integrity. When they punish passion and reward mediocrity. When they preach inclusion but practice exclusion the moment it gets uncomfortable.

And yeah, writing this does feel good.

Because even if they never listen, at least now, someone will.