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.
[Note: If you are reading this via email, click here to access the on-site audio player]
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.
