At some point in every career, the path ahead stops looking like the one behind it. The work that once defined you begins to shift, not because it lost value but because you start to see yourself differently within it. For architects, that realization can be complicated because we build our identities around what we design, who we work with, and the roles we play in the process. Change has a way of testing all of that, forcing us to ask what parts of our career still fit and which ones need to evolve. Today, Andrew and I are talking about what happens when you change course, the challenges and rewards of starting fresh in familiar territory, and how to recognize when it is time to head in a new direction. Welcome to Episode 188: Changing Paths.
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Change is something both Andrew and I have lived through, and in this episode we wanted to take a closer look at what that really means. Each of us has reached a point where our careers needed to evolve, and the decisions that came next reshaped how we think about design, leadership, and purpose. This conversation isn’t about following a formula or finding the perfect next step; it’s about the reality of letting go of what feels safe and learning from what comes after. We talk about the adjustments, the uncertainty, and the satisfaction that can come from realizing you are still capable of growing no matter how long you have been doing this. Our hope is that anyone listening who might be facing a similar decision can find something here that helps them recognize that change, when you allow it, can be the most constructive part of your career.
When the Path Starts to Bend (Recognition) jump to 3:21
Bob’s Perspective: There comes a point in most careers where the work you are doing and the person you are becoming start to drift just far enough apart that you can feel the gap forming. For me, it wasn’t about dissatisfaction or failure, but about balance. I began to recognize that not every professional decision I made was about me anymore. I had a family to provide for, and whether I liked it or not, that reality had to shape how I evaluated opportunity. The irony, of course, is that architecture doesn’t exactly offer financial guarantees no matter where you go, but I started to realize that what I was looking for had begun to shift. I wasn’t just thinking about projects anymore; I was thinking about impact.
Much of that realization came through the writing I was doing for the blog. Storytelling forced me to look at the profession differently and to think about how architects explain what they do and why it matters. Over time, I began to see that my influence didn’t have to come solely from drawing lines. I still think of myself as an above-average designer, but I started to value other skills that had developed along the way: communication, teaching, and helping people think differently about architecture. Those areas began to feel like ways to make a broader difference, and that awareness started to change what I wanted from my career.
When the opportunity came to move from a small, residentially focused practice to a larger commercial firm, the attraction wasn’t about leaving one thing behind for another; it was about growth. I wanted to see what would happen if I stepped into an environment that operated at a completely different scale. More people meant more challenges, more opportunities for leadership, and more potential to help shape culture. Change has never scared me. I have always seen it as a chance to redefine myself and fix a few flaws that I know I have. Every new chapter is an opportunity to rethink how I communicate, to see how others experience me, and to test whether I am living up to the expectations I set for myself.
The conversation that started the transition wasn’t strategic, and it wasn’t planned. I asked Andrew Bennett, one of the owners at BOKA Powell, a simple question: “Do you think my skill set would translate to a larger office?” That was it. No job hunt, no sales pitch, just curiosity. But in hindsight, that question planted a seed for both of us. Over time, my goals evolved dramatically. I used to want to be known as an exceptional designer, then I wanted to be a better communicator, then a collaborator, and now I think of myself as a thought leader, though it is hard to be a shepherd without any sheep. Writing made me aware of that evolution. It reminded me that what I wanted most was to make things better for others. Andrew Hawkins likes to joke that I have a savior complex, but he’s not wrong. Most of my career decisions over the last twenty years have been attempts to align my work with that impulse, to do work that helps people rather than just impressing them.
Andrew’s Perspective: The realization that I might want to change directions came slowly, long before I admitted it to myself or even identified its occurrence. For years, I had been running my own firm, managing every detail, balancing design, business, and people. Even at the peak of twelve or fourteen people, it always felt like I was carrying the entire weight. Of course, this was because I was doing most of the heavy lifting tasks. I realize now that a major turning point may have started when I hired someone of a similar level and experience in the profession, hoping they would eventually take on some of the responsibility that had become overwhelming. But they passed away suddenly, and it caught me off guard, leaving an impact I didn’t recognize at first. In hindsight, it was probably a moment that quietly shifted how I viewed my role, my firm, and the limits of what I could sustain.
At that time, the daily effort began to feel repetitive and draining. I felt as though I was pushing the same rock uphill only to have it roll back down, and at times, crush me with its weight. The creative energy that once defined the practice had become secondary to the grind of management and business operations. However, due to the fact that my office was mainly comprised of young employees and student interns, I was consistently providing guidance to them. This is common for almost anyone who reaches a certain level of experience in our profession, so it wasn’t extraordinary. But I realized that I enjoyed that process as a significant part of my role. So this renewed a semi-forgotten notion; I had always wanted to teach. When I was in college and graduate school, my original plan was to go straight into teaching, never really considering practice as part of the picture. So when the chance came to teach part-time, it felt invigorating and exciting in a way that practice and the firm work no longer did.
Even then, while teaching part-time, I didn’t imagine making the move to teaching full-time. It was simply a side commitment that helped me reconnect with something meaningful. But over time, both internal and external factors continued to nudge me further in that direction. What made the idea difficult was the feeling that leaving practice would mean abandoning what I had built: a firm, a name, and twenty years of work. It felt like betraying a version of myself. I had devoted and sacrificed so much of myself and my life into establishing something independent that the thought of walking away from it, even for something with potential, felt like a loss. It felt like giving up, like abandoning a child. It was not easy, and I am still not sure I am over it after several years. I am still working on letting go and not seeing it as failure. I am simply moving into another phase of my career and life and learning how that works.
Trading Places (Transition) jump to 14:06
Bob’s Perspective: The biggest adjustment I had to make when I joined a larger firm was learning how defined the roles were. In my previous offices, I did everything from concept design to field coordination, and while that breadth came with its challenges, it also gave me control and continuity. If I wasn’t there, things waited on me, which at the time felt like both a burden and a compliment. At BOKA Powell, the structure was completely different. Project Designers, Project Architects, and Project Managers all had distinct responsibilities, and understanding who handled what took time. The process wasn’t less collaborative, but it was more specialized. That specialization made the machine efficient, but it also meant I had to learn to trust people to do the work I had always done myself. It was harder than I expected.
The pace was another shock. I probably shouldn’t have been surprised by the difference between an office of eight and one with a hundred, but it still caught me off guard. I had to figure out which decisions required collaboration and which I could make on my own. Even as a principal, there was an invisible line between what was mine to solve and what needed higher approval. That took patience to learn. The larger the organization, the more the success of one person depends on everyone else being aligned, and that coordination takes time. Once I began to understand the rhythm of how information moved through the office, I started to see how scale itself can become a design constraint – not just a logistical one, but a creative one too.
Adapting to that new rhythm meant rethinking how I approached design. The team dynamic was different, the process was different, and even the codes were different. At times I felt like I had the practical value of someone five years out of school. I had plenty of experience as a leader and communicator, but the act of being an architect was distinct at this scale. The confidence I once had in high-end residential work didn’t automatically transfer to commercial projects. It took more time, more collaboration, and more humility. The details I used to solve instinctively now required layers of coordination across disciplines. I was still skilled at reviewing and critiquing the work of others, but the scale magnified every decision and extended the timeline for learning what “good” meant in this new context.
Over time, I began to lean into the roles that fit naturally. I became a communicator and a big-picture thinker, someone who could connect design intent to project delivery and help younger architects navigate the gaps between the two. The commercial work broadened my perspective, and the residential work I still take on lets me stay sharp and maintain that personal connection to design. I no longer measure success by the number of details I touch, but by how effectively I can elevate the people around me. There’s a certain satisfaction that comes from watching younger designers grow into their potential and knowing that, in some way, you helped shape that progress. That’s where I find meaning now – not in doing all the work myself, but in helping others discover how they can do their best work.
Andrew’s Perspective: The move from practice to academia brought about a complete reversal of my position, and that was complicated, to say the least. In my office, I was the final decision-maker, the one ultimately responsible for everything. The buck always started and stopped with me. In academia, I joined an organization where authority is diffused through layers of structure, procedure, and committees; not to mention, I was no longer the boss. I went from being at the top of a small hierarchy to being at the bottom of a very large one. In my firm, I could act immediately on ideas. In the university, I had to learn patience, hierarchy, and the slow rhythm of institutional life. I had to ask instead of decide. It was humbling and, at times, frustrating and disorienting. The experience I had built over two decades mattered, but it did not automatically carry weight in a new system that placed value on different forms of knowledge and measures of success. In many instances, my twenty years of being in practice meant very little to academia, and that was (and still is) disheartening.
These sudden changes in control unsettled me because they forced me to recognize how much of my identity had been tied to being in charge and holding a leadership role. This shift required me to unlearn habits I had developed for years. I had to accept that I could not fix every issue, that not every process was mine to control, and that decisions often moved slowly and were crowd-sourced. Early on, I found myself frustrated by the bureaucracy and the sheer size of the institution. There were countless layers of oversight, and it felt like being part of an enormous corporation where even your supervisor had limited control. Over time, I began to understand that my energy was better spent focusing on the parts of the job that were truly mine, such as teaching, mentoring, and contributing where I could have an impact, rather than trying to direct everything around me. Again, that was not an easy task for me. It still is not. I am also learning that with that loss of control, I have gained some freedom; yet another lesson in the making.
Even that awareness didn’t happen overnight. It took time for me to shift from my ingrained mindset of constant control to one that is shared and values greater participation. I am learning to measure my work and progress less by authority and more by influence and impact.
Relearning the Rules (Adaptation) jump to 25:17
Bob’s Perspective: One of the hardest parts of changing directions wasn’t learning new systems or workflows, it was earning credibility in a place where nobody really knew me yet. I couldn’t rely on my past reputation or the body of work I had built elsewhere; those things didn’t automatically transfer. I needed to be accepted by others in this new role before I could be effective in it. Many of the people I was now responsible for had more practical experience than I did in specific areas, so I had to rely on how my brain processed information and how I could contribute strategically rather than technically. I have always believed that leadership isn’t something you’re granted by title, it’s something others allow you to have because they trust you. Proving my value was part of earning that trust, and it took time. During that period, I found myself doing a lot of self-reflection and research, reading books on leadership and trying to better understand how people develop influence in environments where authority isn’t assumed but earned.
It took a few years to fully recognize the value I was bringing, and that recognition came gradually. I began to notice that I could help people move forward simply by how I engaged with them, by how I helped connect ideas or clarify intent. Somewhere in that process, I came to terms with the fact that I have what might be described as a “Pied Piper” personality (yes, I know … I almost threw up on my keyboard when I typed that out). It’s something that can be used for good or for ego, and I work to keep it grounded in the right intent. When I use it thoughtfully, it becomes a way to rally people around a shared idea or a common purpose. That understanding helped me appreciate that leadership isn’t a static position, but an ongoing exchange between people. I learned that consistency, empathy, and curiosity carry more weight than authority, and that building credibility has far more to do with how you listen than how much you know.
My communication style has changed as well. I still speak my mind, but I spend more time trying to bring others into the conversation rather than just pushing my own ideas forward. I’ve learned to rely on the people around me, to ask questions, and to treat disagreement as something worth exploring instead of something to overcome. As my relationships within the firm deepened, everything else began to fall into place. The pace felt more natural, the work more collaborative, and my sense of belonging stronger. I started to see that leadership in a large firm doesn’t mean controlling outcomes, it means creating conditions where others can succeed. Once I stopped trying to prove I belonged, I could focus on helping others feel like they did too, and that shift has made all the difference in how I view my role today.
Andrew’s Perspective: If accepting the differences in my role and recalibrating my sense of control was the real work of transition, then adapting to this new role meant redefining what success looked like. I learned that my influence now came from teaching, mentoring, and shaping how others think rather than from building projects or managing a business. It required me to redirect my energy toward what I could actually affect: the students sitting in front of me. I began to measure success by the quiet and powerful moments of understanding. So, the most meaningful aspects of my work now lie in teaching and witnessing students develop their own unique way of thinking. My focus has shifted from direct outcomes to helping others see differently and with new perspectives, to understand design not as a set of answers, but as a way of questioning. When I see that shift happen in a student, even in small ways, it provides me with a sense of satisfaction.
Even so, adaptation has not been easy. Academia can be a strangely isolated place. Each person has a high degree of autonomy, and that independence can sometimes replace collaboration. Academic culture prizes independence almost to a fault. Each faculty member tends to operate in their own silo of research, pedagogy, and rhythm. Collaboration exists, but it often occurs in pockets rather than across the entire organization. Coming from a highly collaborative practice environment, that isolation was foreign to me. I still find myself negotiating that space, seeking genuine exchange and mutual respect. In my firm, teamwork was constant and immediate, so this collective separation can feel isolating. There are times when I miss the momentum of collective effort, the quick decisions, and shared ownership that come with project-based work.
I still struggle with this overall distance. I have colleagues I deeply respect, yet the system does not always encourage shared work or an open exchange of ideas or academic best practices.
Luckily, I’ve found small groups of colleagues who share a similar sense of respect and curiosity, and those relationships matter deeply to me. I have been able to create strong circles of trust with these colleagues who challenge me honestly and share the same desire to question assumptions. Within those spaces, discussion replaces hierarchy, and difference becomes a productive rather than a competitive force. We can challenge one another, respectfully, and ensure positive discourse on meaningful topics that push us all towards professional growth. Those conversations remind me why I am here. They make the adaptation feel less like compromise and more like evolution.
While it seems large institutions can unintentionally create distance between people, and I’m still learning how to navigate that. So the struggle to balance autonomy, collegiality, and control remains ongoing. What helps is focusing on what remains constant in my efforts: the drive to learn, to teach, and to stay curious.
The Value of Reinvention (Reflection) jump to 39:42
Bob’s Perspective: This entire experience has reinforced my self-awareness about where I provide the most value and how I can be of the highest use to others. I have always believed certain things about myself, but until people respond in a way that confirms those beliefs, they are just assumptions. Over time, I have learned that validation doesn’t come from titles or achievements, it comes from how others react to your efforts and trust you to lead. I still consider myself a practicing architect, but I now understand more clearly where I am best suited. I may not enjoy that I am often called upon to diffuse tense situations, but I take pride in knowing that people believe I am effective in that role. That realization reinforces my confidence that communication, empathy, and perspective are some of my strongest tools, and they define how I contribute most meaningfully to the firm.
I have also come to see leadership differently. Earlier in my career, I measured success by output, by tangible results, and by how much I could personally take on. Now, I find greater satisfaction in seeing others succeed because of something I helped enable. The need to constantly scoreboard my achievements has faded. What has replaced it is a deeper sense of purpose – one that focuses on empowering the people around me rather than proving my own worth. I think many architects resist change because they believe that altering course means losing status or starting over, but that perspective misses the point. Growth rarely feels comfortable, and while fear of the unknown is valid, staying still isn’t always safer. The path you know may not be the one that leads you where you belong.
Ironically, I’m not sure that I’m any less stressed than I used to be, but the nature of that stress has changed. It no longer comes from uncertainty about who I am or what I’m capable of, but from caring deeply about the people and the projects that depend on me. Financial concerns will probably always be part of this profession, but I’ve learned to separate worry from purpose. I’m optimistic about what lies ahead because I feel like I’m where I’m meant to be. When I think about the future, it isn’t about personal milestones or accolades; it’s about playing a more vital role in shaping the firm and supporting the people who work here. Reinvention isn’t about leaving something behind – it’s about carrying the best parts of who you’ve been into the next version of who you’re becoming.
Andrew’s Perspective: After several years, I can say that the change has been both clarifying and unfinished. The shift has undeniably altered how I see myself and what I value. My idea of value is no longer tied to output or ownership but to contribution and impact. My sense of worth comes from teaching, writing, and contributing in ways that are harder to measure but deeply fulfilling.
The work is still demanding, but it’s a different kind of exhaustion, one rooted in engagement rather than responsibility. I still work hard, maybe too hard, but it feels less like carrying a firm on my back and more like being part of an ongoing conversation about architecture, design, and education. The pressures of ownership are gone, replaced by a different kind of challenge: how to continue growing without a clear path. There is satisfaction in knowing that what I do now has a more direct impact on others, even if the results are slower to appear.
There are still moments of uncertainty. At times, I wonder if I have truly found my lane or if I am still searching for the right one. The difference is that now I am comfortable with that uncertainty. There are moments when I still question whether I’ve fully arrived in this new phase. However, I no longer view that uncertainty as a failure. Transformation doesn’t happen at once; it unfolds gradually. I’ve stopped looking at the move as an ending and started to see it as a continuation of one where the skills, habits, and lessons from my practice still matter, just are applied differently in this new setting. I’m learning to live within this ambiguity of transition, to accept that reinvention isn’t a singular act but a continuous process. The unease remains, but so does the clarity. I may not yet know where this lane leads, but I trust that it’s heading in the right direction and sending me down the path I am meant to travel.
What’s the Rank jump to 48:13
Andrew came up with this one and quite frankly, I am surprised that we haven’t already done this one. With the weather changing, we are entering that time of year that some people refer to as “soup season”. I like soup quite a lot and I probably eat soup at least once or twice a week, so when Andrew sprung this question on me, I was prepared to answer!
| #3 | #2 | #1 | |
| Bob’s Selections | French Onion | Tortilla | Pho (meatball) |
| Andrew’s Selections | Fideo | Tortilla | Italian Wedding |
If you are one of those people that doesn’t like soup, I’m not sure that I could trust you with anything that mattered. I also ask AI to estimate how much soup is consumed per day across the world … which was a question that involved about 30 back-and-forth questions before we finally settled in on 120 million gallons – or approximately 950 million liters for most of the world – per day, which is a LOT of soup.
Changing Paths
Change rarely arrives with a roadmap, and most of us only recognize its value once we’ve lived through it. The process of adapting to something unfamiliar sharpens the edges of who we are and reminds us that growth rarely happens in comfortable places. What begins as uncertainty often becomes clarity, not because the path was easy, but because it required honesty about what matters most. Every architect eventually faces a moment where experience must give way to curiosity, and that exchange is where reinvention begins. In the end, changing directions isn’t about starting over; it’s about learning how to keep moving forward with greater intent.
Cheers – and best of luck,