Whistleblowing
Edward Snowden whistle blower hero
People often ask what someone like me could have in common with Edward Snowden, Jeffrey Wigand, Daniel Ellsberg, or Chelsea Manning. Our worlds look different on the surface — national security leaks, corporate corruption, classified documents. But the truth is simple: we are all whistleblowers. We are the ones who expose what others would rather keep hidden. I joined that list in the mid‑2000s, not because I wanted to, but because my sense of duty and outrage left me no other choice.
I was a credentialed substance abuse counselor in New York State for a couple of decades and also trained to gain my certification as both a peer specialist and a recovery coach. I have had the pleasure of working in halfway houses, outpatient and inpatient facilities, and county jails. I loved the people I served — alcoholics, addicts, inmates, men and women clawing their way toward recovery. (It answered the question I pondered: why did I survive years of drug and alcohol addiction and severe domestic abuse? It was to provide a deep compassion and understanding of those I served.)
I was in recovery from addictions myself, attending AA and NA, Al-Anon, and I took professional ethics seriously. The client always came first. If your own baggage interfered with your ability to do no harm, then it was time to step back and get help. I made that promise to myself from the very beginning—my own, personal Hippocratic Oath. Do no harm.
Like many in the field, I was a “two‑hatter”: someone in recovery who also sat behind the desk as a professional counselor. That made boundaries essential. I worked on my own trauma, attended Al‑Anon, and kept myself accountable by working with agency supervisors. I was known for my work ethic and my clear, unwavering lines.
So when the rumors started — and when they came from people I respected — I couldn’t ignore them. The allegations were about a coworker I had known for years. I had worked with him in three different settings. He had even been at my wedding (much to my dismay). He was my then‑husband’s best friend, a “father figure” to him. And yet the stories kept coming: vulnerable women, blurred boundaries, predatory behavior.
One day, I ran into a former client, two years after she had left my caseload, and I was no longer at that agency. (It wasn’t inappropriate to have coffee with her) She sat across from me, tears streaming down her face, and told me what really happened the night of a Narcotics Anonymous Conference. I vividly remembered that night and found myself questioning what the truth really was. I had heard rumors and felt concerned, but at the time, she had refused to speak to me, her counselor. I trusted that she would process whatever had happened with her therapist at the outpatient clinic.
I was both shocked and horrified to hear from her own lips what had transpired that night of the conference. I thought he had “rescued” her from a compromising situation in one of the hotel rooms where she and several male attendees were “spending time” at the conference. I believed that the “two-hatter perp” rescued her and saved the day. Yes, he had taken her out of that hotel room. But instead of bringing her safely back to the halfway house, he drove her to a dark parking lot and propositioned her for sex.
Everything I had heard from my trusted friend — my “informant” — came flooding back. I remembered the allegations from several other women. Allegations of threats to be sent back to jail or prison unless they provided sexual favors. I then asked her about the other women. She shared what she knew. I felt sick.
Driving home, I felt frantic. What do I do with what was just revealed? I called my “informant friend”. Although I guarded her identity, he guessed immediately who the woman was. He recalled the rumors; he was there that night and had heard stories about the shared graphic images of what had happened in that hotel room with her and those men. I asked him about the several women who had been threatened by “two hatter perp”. One had died by suicide. Another had relapsed and disappeared into the city. Others had stopped attending meetings altogether because of him.
We decided to take what we knew to my former supervisor, who was also his current supervisor. She listened, but said her hands were tied unless the women themselves filed complaints. It would be their word against his. And he was a pillar of the recovery community: respected by many, well known for always being available to help. Nice guy, community-focused, would give his shirt off his back.
But he was also a two‑hatter with poor boundaries and a dangerous lack of ethics.
Shortly after that meeting with my former supervisor and my informant friend, I attended an ACEs conference. (Adverse Childhood Experiences) I had lunch with another former supervisor, a man with a master’s in social work and a mandated reporter. I poured out my concerns. His response stunned me: “Everyone knows he’s been doing this for years.” Then he looked at me and said, “You know what you need to do. Someone has to blow him into the credentialing board.” Coming from a man who was bound by professional ethics and a mandated reporter, I was stunned.
That was the moment everything crystallized. The good‑old‑boys network knew. They all knew. And they had done nothing, even though they were all mandated reporters.
The next day, I still felt shaken and prayed for guidance. I found myself in an elevator with not only a former co-worker, who is now the new director of the halfway house, but also the former director of that same halfway house, who used to be my supervisor. As I stood there, holding my breath, memories flooded back of former clients who had approached me in public to discuss the boundary issues they experienced with the current director. Her choice of work attire was questionable and concerning. Additionally, the way she interacted with male residents became the subject of gossip, which was later confirmed when she was caught in a compromising situation with a former resident from the very halfway house she directed.
As I stood in silence in the elevator, I looked both of them in the eye; they looked away. It was very uncomfortable and left me questioning myself. I felt the old shame return. It whispered to me, "You aren't good enough”.“After all the years you worked in this field, you still aren't good enough."
Gaslighting at its finest.
Ambivalent feelings dominated my thoughts as questions flooded my mind about why I was there at that ACE conference and what purpose it served.
I offered a prayer to the Creator and then approached one of the conference speakers. I had attended previous conferences years ago where he was the keynote speaker, so I was familiar with his work. I knew he was deeply involved with his clients and genuinely cared about them. I invited him to lunch, and I sensed that God was at work when he accepted.
As we sat at the table in the busy hospital cafeteria, I shared everything with him. He was taken aback by my co-worker's sexually predatory actions and suggested that I contact the credentialing board, as it was the professional and ethical course of action. So I did.
I became a whistleblower.
I knew the risks. I knew word would eventually get out. I knew I might never work in that town again. But those women deserved protection. They deserved justice. They were too ashamed, too afraid, too convinced no one would believe “a junkie” or “a prostitute.” But maybe someone would believe me, a credentialed professional colleague.
The credentialing board heard my concerns and committed to investigating. They expressed appreciation for my courage in coming forward, noting that they wish more individuals would do the same, as this issue is widespread in the field. As a result of my reports to both the former supervisor and the credentialing board, the “perpetrator” was terminated from the outpatient clinic and the drug court. However, he was later quietly rehired by the drug court under a new grant.
My soon-to-be ex-husband was furious and accused me of “getting him fired.” He was fully aware of his friend’s inappropriate actions, as he was part of the same good old boys' club. While I wasn’t surprised by his defense of his friend, I pointed out that he should be proud of me for having the courage to expose his friend's predatory behavior. I believed it was important to protect women from the threats of prison for not providing sexual favors, as well as from enduring sexual abuse by their own counselor. He didn’t seem to see it like that.
My father always told me, "Birds of a feather flock together."
My father was right about this. The distorted mindset of sexual predators operates within the same evil framework.
Several weeks later, I had lunch with my former supervisor, who mentioned securing a grant to hire full-time Recovery Coaches—one male and one female. Having just earned my New York State Recovery Coach certification, I expected her to offer me the female position, given my experience at the halfway house and in drug court. She knew my strong ethics, capabilities, and rapport with clients.
However, she proceeded to tell me, “You are not going to like this, but I need to inform you that we hired the perpetrator. Although you were the first female candidate discussed in our meeting, we chose a different woman for the other position.” My heart dropped. Although my former supervisor had assured me that the perpetrator would not be working with vulnerable women and that she would keep a close eye on him, I later encountered him at a Drug Task Force meeting I attended. He announced a new grant that provided him with not only an agency van but also a job description: to transport vulnerable addicts to detox and treatment.
The rooster was in charge of the hen house again, given full rein. He had the keys, gaining access to yet another vehicle he could use to proposition other vulnerable women.
The irony was sickening.
I took my own version of the Hippocratic Oath on the day I became a substance abuse counselor, and I have adhered to that oath throughout my career. There were times when I needed a break because I couldn’t be fully present for the individuals I was serving. My own personal struggles sometimes affected my ability to provide the support they needed. So, I made the ethical decision to step down and return to therapy to address life’s challenges. The divorce, the death of my oldest son, and other family issues became overwhelming while trying to manage a caseload of hurting individuals who deserved a fully attentive counselor.
I never worked in that town again. I never worked in the field again. I walked away, not from helping hurting people, but from a system that protected known predators, male and female. I could not walk among those I knew were preying on the vulnerable men and women who had some serious issues and needed people with solid professional ethical boundaries.
When I see the Epstein files, I’m reminded of what I witnessed on a smaller scale: small‑town America, the good‑old‑boys club, the silence, the complicity. I risked my career to protect women from a predator everyone knew about — but no one dared to stop.
And that is what I have in common with the whistleblowers whose names fill the headlines. We are the ones who refuse to look away. We are the ones who speak when silence becomes its own kind of violence. Like those that risked it all, some even their very lives, truth tellers pay a high price for walking in the Light…
Ephesians 5:11
Have nothing to do with the fruitless deeds of darkness, but rather expose them.
