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It’s one thing to bake cupcakes for the school fundraiser. It’s another to find yourself explaining your Facebook posts to a judge. Yet that’s precisely where Kari Cochran, a Wyoming mother with a stubborn streak and a social media account, ended up. Twice.
For the uninitiated, Kari isn’t your run-of-the-mill parent who just grumbles in the car line. She once sat on the Sweetwater County School Board, where she learned that speaking your mind can make you the most talked-about person in the faculty lounge.
Her habit of asking uncomfortable questions about district leadership might have made her unpopular, but it also made her the kind of parent who doesn’t disappear quietly when things get messy.
Cochran’s online posts, sharp enough to make a superintendent wince, were her way of keeping the school district accountable. “Publicly accused [the] petitioner of unprofessional and unethical conduct,” one court filing complained.
In other words, she said things out loud that people in small towns usually only whisper over coffee at the diner.
Her criticism didn’t sit well with everyone. Two people connected to the district, Assistant Superintendent Nicole Bolton and Laura Libby Vinger, the wife of Superintendent Josh Libby, decided the comments had crossed into stalking. They filed civil petitions to try to stop her from speaking.
It didn’t work. Both cases were tossed out this year. Circuit Court Judge Michael Greer dismissed Bolton’s petition in August, reminding everyone that public officials are “subjected to public scrutiny.” (If you’re paid by taxpayers, you don’t get to hide from them.) A magistrate later dismissed Vinger’s case, too.
Cochran was, understandably, relieved. “Parents, students, or staff members should never feel that they should be silenced or punished for standing up for what’s right,” she said to The Center Square.
Her lawyer, Parker Jackson of the Goldwater Institute, had a less sentimental view.
If Cochran had lost, he explained, she might have been banned from attending district events or even school board meetings. “It essentially would’ve turned these school officials into roaming censors where, wherever they didn’t want Kari to be, they could show up and force her to leave,” Jackson said.
Cochran’s battle didn’t begin with Facebook posts. It began with heartbreak. Her son Joran, a graduate of Rock Springs High School, died by suicide in 2023 after being bullied.
It’s the kind of loss that rearranges your life completely. She resigned from the school board afterward, but she didn’t stop pushing for better mental health support and accountability in the district.
When she asked to see her son’s school records, the district refused. Then, as if to make her point for her, the board introduced a rule restricting what topics citizens could address during public comment. So Cochran did what most parents do when the microphone is taken away: she turned to Facebook.
Her posts gained traction. They also drew ire. The day a sheriff showed up with not one but two stalking petitions, Cochran said she felt “complete fear,” unsure what she’d done wrong.
“Complete fear” seems like an understatement for having your free speech hauled into court by the very people you’re criticizing.
The rulings didn’t erase the months of stress. Cochran said the ordeal drained her and took away time she wanted to spend with her daughter before high school began.
But her victory sends a message: criticizing your school district may make you unpopular, but it isn’t a crime.
As Cochran put it, she hopes no other parent has to go through the same ordeal. Which, knowing how most school board meetings go, might be optimistic.
Still, in Wyoming this year, one mother’s persistence reaffirmed a very old idea that the right to speak up, even loudly and inconveniently, is still worth protecting.
