ANDREA HUNLEY IS someone who stands out in a crowded room. From the way people talk to her to the way they talk about her, even from photos and articles, many find her just so—likable.
As the saying goes, you can be the sweetest peach on the tree, but some people just don’t like peaches. But the third-year Indiana state senator’s critics seem few and far between. When you meet her and speak with her face-to-face, you can’t help but be drawn in.
Amiable, poised, and beautiful, it doesn’t hurt that Hunley has a headline-friendly background. She entered the foster system in her native Fort Wayne at a young age and was adopted into a large, multiracial family with whom she felt loved and accepted (she is herself biracial, with one Black and one white biological parent). She married her high school sweetheart, and both attended Indiana University, where she earned a Bachelor of Education, before moving to Indianapolis. While teaching full-time, she earned a Master of Education in Teaching English as a Second Language and a Bachelor of Science in Secondary School Administration. In 2012, she became principal at IPS Center for Inquiry School No. 2, gaining a reputation as a focused leader who balanced support for her staff and students with a philosophy of firmness and accountability. After 10 years, she decided to run for office, sweeping her district thanks to the efforts of volunteers from her school.
Hunley has a knack for simultaneously championing people and rallying support, from her family to her professional community. While the secret to her winning approach—her powerful relationships—is obvious, it goes beyond what any headline can capture.
Hunley’s aim is not only to be worthy of others’ trust. It’s also to affirm her trust in those around her—and their trust in each other. She wants to build a culture founded on accountability.
At 9 a.m. on February 5, the Senate Utilities Committee, on which Hunley is the ranking minority member, convenes in Room 130 of the Indiana Statehouse. Whether to move House Bill 1368 forward with a new amendment is to be put to a vote.
Introduced in the 2026 legislative session by Rep. Ed Soliday, the amendment to HB 1368 proposes that the DNR be given permitting primacy over the EPA in approving carbon capture and storage, or CCS, projects in the state.
Testimony in support of the amendment comes from Soliday and industrial powerhouses like Heidelberg Materials and the Indiana Ethanol Producers Association, but a presentation by the DNR ignites the subtle drama of a day in the life of a policymaker.
Hunley zeroes in on the weaknesses in the DNR’s argument, launching into a polite but tough grilling concerning the department’s ability to adequately administer the permitting process. She ultimately expresses disappointment with the DNR representatives’ admissions of, “I’ll get back to you on that,” and, “I don’t know.”
The primary voice of opposition comes from an activist and representative of Concerned Citizens Against Wabash Valley Resources, a retired instructor in calculus-based chemistry and physics and former military engineer, who declined to be named for this story.
The activist speaks quickly, packing a wealth of information into his 13-minute testimony. He explains the high expense and low efficiency of CCS and the EPA’s failure to manage critical CO2 leaks in Satartia, Mississippi, and Decatur, Illinois. He opposes CCS altogether, but his concerns also regard local ability to regulate a practice that a federal agency struggles to control. The senators listen attentively, but the information is dense; many in the room stare at their phones.
When testimonies are done, Hunley gives a statement: “My past experience was as a teacher,” she quips before delivering a dressing down of the DNR, comparing the representatives’ simplistic vocabulary (“Geology, science, water table, pore space”) to the words her fourth-grade students learned in science.
“The only person who really walked us through the scientific components of this was [the gentleman from Concerned Citizens Against Wabash Valley Resources]. When I think about who has the ability to understand the complexities of this and who seems most prepared, it was the person who was in opposition. I just want to note that,” she says forcefully.
When the vote is taken, Hunley, along with Democrat J.D. Ford and Republican Spencer Deery, submits a no. The bill moves forward, 5-3.
Asked later about the discussion, Hunley reveals that she and Ford originally planned to vote in favor but were swayed by the DNR’s inability to defend its claim that it can handle permitting.
“I was so frustrated,” she says. “I was embarrassed of them.”
But Hunley adds that even though she came down hard on the DNR in the meeting, she later talked to the representatives privately, setting up a time to speak with them the following week. That’s at the heart of Hunley’s philosophy. She doesn’t want to just drop the hammer and walk away. She wants to problem-solve.
Carbon sequestration in Indiana, or anywhere, is a convoluted and dreary issue, but it’s one with far-reaching implications, from the integrity of deep earth aquifers that supply millions of people with clean water to industries that supply millions of people with jobs and goods. Decisions made in the space of an hour on a snowy Thursday morning can have impact that reverberates indefinitely.
But this is still just a Thursday morning for Hunley, packed with public appearances, lingering hallway conversations, and photo opportunities. Hunley is lucky to snag a cup of greens and mac and cheese prepared by students from Arsenal Technical High School’s culinary program who occupy a table in the Statehouse rotunda for Career and Technical Education Day. Otherwise, the only thing she eats is a Life Savers mint.
Yet, dozens of urgent bills cross Hunley’s desk every legislative session, giving Hunley and her peers in the General Assembly the power to make or break individual livelihoods, communities, and the environment at whim.
Hunley explains that though she reads through and makes notes on each bill personally, she relies on her policy team, who provide summaries and recommendations, to help her form opinions. She also leans on her caucus, subject matter experts, lobbyists, and citizens. The night before HB 1368 came to a vote, Hunley was on the phone with Utilities Committee Chairman Eric Koch until 9:30 p.m.
“It’s a lot of reading, asking a lot of questions,” she says. “I never promise my vote to anybody, because I really don’t know how I’m going to vote. I might walk in thinking one thing, but I’m really listening to what’s happening in the committee conversation or on the floor.”
Ultimately, she prioritizes the opinions and concerns of experts and average folks, highlighting her coffee shop conversations with people in her district—because they don’t get paid lobbyists to represent them.
Which is why it’s no surprise that on this day, her decision comes down to the testimony between a passionate, retired educator with an extensive background in chemistry, physics, and engineering and representatives of a government department who perhaps thought their position of official authority would speak for them.
WHEN HUNLEY first entered the field of candidates for the 2022 Senate campaign, she was something of a dark horse. District 46 was newly created and heavily Democratic, encompassing downtown Indy and most of the surrounding inner city south of I-70. She was one of five Democrats in the primary—and the only one with no political experience.
Hunley reached out to colleagues and experts for advice, but Michael Huber, formerly deputy mayor for economic development under Greg Ballard, now president of Indy Eleven, helped her make the final decision.
“I said, ‘Michael, do you think I can do this?’ and he said, ‘Hunley, it’s going to be really hard.’ … And I said, ‘Yes, but do you think I can do it? Do you think this is going to be white guy hard or Black girl hard? Because I’ve only known hard.’ And he kind of laughed and said, ‘Well, I guess you have your answer. Then go for it.’”
To the surprise of many, Hunley won the primary by a landslide, earning 43.9 percent of votes. The general election was a piece of cake after that; she won 72.9 percent of votes.
In an interview with Chalkbeat, she credited her win to a team of 275 volunteers who canvassed 42,000 homes.
“She had a huge team of teachers, of students, of parents going out and supporting her door-to-door, and I think that made a huge difference in what was a very competitive primary,” says Tina Ahlgren, a teacher at Harshman Middle School who worked with Hunley at CFI 2. “I think sometimes folks underestimate the power of relationships that stem from being an educator in the community.”
When Ahlgren first came to work for Hunley in 2018, she was a high school teacher with 13 years under her belt searching for a new job. Both attended Christ Church Cathedral. Though Ahlgren had never worked in a K-8 school, Hunley convinced her to come to CFI 2.
“As a veteran teacher, you’re like, ‘I know what I’m doing. I don’t want my principal bothering me,’” Ahlgren says of the transition. But younger students were a whole new ballpark for her. She acknowledges that she had a lot to learn.
“She was the perfect leader because she did a great job of giving me autonomy and freedom to do what I knew how to do well, but [she] was also incredibly supportive and good at holding me accountable.”
But Hunley admits that her first year as a principal wasn’t easy. “I come in as this ready-to-go administrator. The youngest person by far on staff, I had braces, I looked like a baby, and I thought I knew everything,” she says, chipper despite the fact she’s telling a story about a time she fumbled hard. “I had 11 people on my staff of 41 or 42 quit after my first year. I learned a lot.”
At the time, the district offered coaching, so she opted into the program and spent over a year with executive coach Jeff Hannah, who helped her focus on building a vision, bringing people on board, and helping people grow—not just handing orders down.
Hunley remembers a stand of tall trees that became a part of CFI 2’s property when the fence was moved. They were a welcome diversion to the 455 kids crammed into the small campus in the middle of downtown, but teachers and parents worried that kids climbing them would get hurt.
So Hunley met with the student council, which included representatives from kindergarten to eighth grade. Together, they created a list of essential agreements: No boost-ups (if you can get up the tree by yourself, then you can climb it). No more than three kids in a tree at a time. And you have to come down the first time the recess whistle blows.
“We only had one kid break their arm in eight years,” she admits. But that risk is a part of it.
The experience helped solidify Hunley’s desire to lead not from a place of control but from a place of trust and investing in others’ ideas, even if those ideas seem risky. Taking a chance on the kids’ collaboration paid off, and parents remained supportive. “The kids are helping make these rules. They own it, and when they have buy-in, they also enforce it with each other,” she says.
By the time Ahlgren joined Hunley’s staff, many of the mistakes of Hunley’s first year were well behind her.
“My previous principal was great in many ways, but he was very much a fear-based leader,” Ahlgren says, talking about the first time she planned a major, public-facing event for CFI 2. On the drive home after staying late at work preparing, Ahlgren came to a relieving revelation: “If it all falls apart, if everything goes poorly tomorrow—she’s not going to be mad at me. I’m not going to get yelled at. … That’s a huge difference in mentality as a worker, to be able to want to do good work versus being afraid to do bad work because you’re afraid of what will happen.”
IT’S 11:38 A.M., and Hunley doesn’t bother going up to her office to grab a coat before dashing across Capitol Avenue to the Indiana State Teachers Association building, where the Alpha Kappa Alpha Sorority is holding its annual Day at the Capitol.
“I hope they’ll give me grace and allow me to speak right away,” she says nervously as she steps into the elevator. She has to be back at the Statehouse for caucus by 12:30.
In the hallway, she’s stopped by women giving hugs, snapping selfies, and reopening conversations begun in previous interactions. Hunley obliges as if she has nowhere else to be. She doesn’t attempt the classic inch toward the door, nor does she cut them off, allowing them to end the conversation.
When she finally tears herself away, Hunley explains she doesn’t mind appearing overbooked. “I want to show up for people, and it’s OK to me that people know that. That I will check in on folks genuinely because I care about them,” she says.
So inside the ballroom, she deftly nabs an empty chair from a table and, without a hint of embarrassment, scoots it next to the last speaker. This is typical of Hunley, at the heart of who she is as both an individual and as a leader. She’s earnest. She treats quirks and mistakes like they’re matters of course, something to correct, if necessary, but not something to let paralyze you or slow you down.
As she takes her seat, Jennifer Crossley, councilor for District 4 in Monroe County, has the microphone. “Show of hands, how many people here have ever thought to run for office?” she asks. She follows up with a challenge: “Now ask your, ‘Why?’ Why not you?”
Hunley first considered running for office when she saw decisions on local and statewide education matters being made in the Statehouse without, it seemed, the input of the teachers, administrators, and families those decisions affected. She wanted to influence policy. Before she started making calls, she printed out a map of the new District 46.
“I was looking at the neighborhoods, and … I could see the faces of kids that live there. They were my students,” she says. “I’m like, ‘I think I am the one to represent these families.’”
Many teachers in Hunley’s orbit have also made the decision to run for office.
Standing in the bitter cold outside the Statehouse without a coat, Jason Anderson, a teacher in the culinary program at Tech High School, says he’s running to become a delegate to the state convention and precinct committeeperson for the Democratic party because of Hunley.
Anderson, who lives in Hendricks County, is a moderate and lifelong Republican but decided to switch parties after speaking with Hunley about HB 1423, which, if passed, would strip independent control from IPS and unite it with charter schools into one educational corporation. While Anderson couldn’t get an immediate appointment, Hunley’s assistant encouraged him to find her as she was making rounds in the rotunda.
“So I saw her, just walked up, introduced myself, and she was so gracious. She took time out of her very busy schedule to listen,” he says. “Some senators—I’ll leave the names out—I couldn’t even get the intern or legislative assistant.”
Anderson didn’t make the decision to switch lightly. A chef and missionary before going into education, he’s been feeling some frustration with the Republican Party for some time. He wants his voice to be heard when it comes to legislation that impacts his students.
Ahlgren, too, is running for delegate to the Democratic state convention and precinct committeeperson in her district.
Both teachers share the same sentiment about Hunley: “She cares.”
When Hunley is handed the microphone at the AKA luncheon, she starts by apologizing that she’ll have to sneak out early before she calls out, “Church! Turn to the person next to you and say, ‘You should run!’ Now turn to the other person next to you and say, ‘You should really run!’”
Like Crossley, she talks about her path to office. She highlights the overwhelmingly positive outcome, but she also points to her volunteers and donors—encouraging those who don’t run to get involved with the candidates they support.
“That is one way we can all come together,” she emphasizes.
THIS PAST January, Hunley announced she will not be running for a second term in the Senate. As of this writing, Hunley hasn’t revealed her next move, but she says she misses the executive side of leadership.
When asked what she would fix if she could fix anything, she answers: potholes.
“I say that a little tongue-in-cheek, but I really mean it. When I ask people, ‘If you had your magic wand, what’s the one thing you would fix about the city?’ everyone says potholes. … They’re indicative of a bigger problem. They’re indicative of poor management and spending. They’re indicative of intentional disinvestment in certain neighborhoods.”
She insists that it matters how citizens feel about their city. If everyone, from commuters, to cyclists, to wheelchair users, is complaining about potholes, then why aren’t potholes being prioritized?
It all comes down to creating systems for accountability and consequence, Hunley says.
“I have a philosophy that feedback is a gift. When you give someone feedback, you are saying to them, ‘I believe in your ability to do better. I believe in your ability to have a relationship with me, and in order to have a relationship with me, you have to do these things better,’” she says.
“We have to be bold, and brave, and firm about what we accept in terms of how people treat each other, how people treat communities, how people treat neighbors, and we need to say, ‘This is what we expect.’ If you’re not meeting those expectations, then we’ve got to hold folks accountable to that. A community sets the norms, and we can decide how we’re going to treat each other. We need to own that. We just need to own it.”
When Hunley decided to run for office, she was braced by the love, support, and trust of her parents, her husband and children, and her thriving school community. Her vision extends that love, support, and trust to everyone she touches. For her, the stakes aren’t professional or financial. They’re built on genuine care for those who give so much back to her.
“I don’t know how to say this in a way that doesn’t come across negatively, but I just don’t need anything,” she admits. “I have a beautiful [life]. I don’t need to be the principal in charge. I don’t need to be the politician that stands on stage. I don’t need a title. I don’t need a bunch of money. We’re fine. We’ve been poor before. It’s OK. I just don’t need anything. And I think that because of that, I’m not afraid of losing anything. I think that makes me willing to just hold to my own morals and values.”
