A few months ago, I reconnected with an old friend I hadn’t seen in seven years. No falling out, no dramatic ending—we just drifted, the way people do when life gets busy and miles get longer. What started as a simple lunch turned into a four-hour marathon of laughter, stories, and the kind of easy conversation that only comes from shared history.
We covered all the important topics. Grandkids, spouses, retirement… or what passes for retirement for people like us. I’m still writing about the offsite construction industry, and he’s found his rhythm teaching woodworking to other retirees—passing on skills he spent decades mastering in factories across the country. We even realized we had both worked for some of the same companies, just at different times. In our business, that’s not unusual. The industry may look big from the outside, but it has a funny way of circling back on itself.
At some point, the conversation drifted to management—something both of us had lived, survived, and occasionally questioned. I asked him something I had always wondered but never said out loud.
“Why were you always the number two guy? You had the experience to be the GM, maybe even own a factory.”
He didn’t hesitate. In fact, he smiled before he answered.
“Because I didn’t want the headaches.”
It sounded simple, almost too simple. But we spent the next hour unpacking that answer, and the more he talked, the more I realized he may have quietly figured something out that a lot of us never do.
He told me he loved being second in command. He was close enough to the action to make a difference, respected enough to be heard, but far enough away from the top seat that the final weight of every decision didn’t rest on his shoulders. When something went wrong—and in offsite construction, something always goes wrong—the final responsibility wasn’t his.
He wasn’t the one lying awake at 2:00 a.m. worrying about cash flow, production delays, or whether a bank line was going to hold. He wasn’t the one spending Saturdays at the factory because a line went down or a delivery got pushed. And he certainly wasn’t the one fielding calls from investors or owners asking why this month didn’t look like last month.
He did his job—and he did it well. So well, in fact, that he was never fired, never laid off, and never had to scramble to find the next opportunity. When one chapter ended, another one opened… often in a place he and Susan had always wanted to spend a few years.
Arizona. Tennessee. The Carolinas.
Each move wasn’t just a job change—it was a lifestyle change. A built-in adventure. Five years here, five years there. New friends, new places, new experiences. He called them “mini vacations disguised as careers.”
Meanwhile, the people above him—the GMs, the owners, the ones in charge—were living a very different life.
They carried the full weight of the operation. Profit and loss statements weren’t just reports—they were personal scorecards. When things went well, they got a pat on the back. When things went poorly, they owned every bit of it. Their weeks didn’t end on Friday, and their weekends were often just quieter extensions of the same responsibilities.
Even vacations weren’t really vacations. You and I both know what those look like. The out-of-office message is set, but the phone is still on. Emails still get checked. Problems still find their way through.
They earned every bit of what they achieved—but they paid for it too.
Now, sitting across from me at lunch, my friend looked… relaxed. Not just “retired relaxed,” but genuinely content. He and Susan have built a life where they can choose when and how they engage with the people they love. Their kids live far enough away that visits are planned, not constant. The grandkids have cell phones, so connection happens on their terms. No rushing to catch flights across the country just to squeeze in a weekend visit.
He teaches. He builds. He enjoys his time.
And there wasn’t a hint of regret in his voice.
That’s when it hit me. In an industry like ours, we tend to measure success in a very specific way. Bigger title. Bigger factory. Bigger responsibility. We assume the ultimate goal is to sit at the top—the GM, the owner, the decision-maker.
And for some people, that’s exactly where they belong.
We need those people. The ones who can carry the weight, make the tough calls, and take the hits when things don’t go as planned. Our industry wouldn’t function without them. Offsite construction, with its tight margins, complex logistics, and constant pressure to deliver, demands strong leadership at the top.
But what we don’t talk about enough is that there’s more than one way to have a successful career.
Sometimes, success isn’t about being in charge of everything.
Sometimes, it’s about being in the right seat.
The number two role—whether it’s Operations Manager, Production Manager, or second-in-command in any form—comes with its own kind of power. You influence outcomes. You help steer the ship. You solve problems. You build teams. You make a difference.
But you don’t have to carry the entire ship on your back.
And for some people, that’s not settling.
That’s choosing.
Choosing a life where work matters, but it doesn’t consume everything. Choosing to contribute without being consumed. Choosing to build a career that supports the life you want, instead of the other way around.
My friend didn’t stumble into that role. He chose it. Over and over again. And he built a life around that decision.
As we wrapped up our four-hour “lunch,” I realized something else.
In an industry full of people chasing the top spot, he may have quietly been sitting in the best seat all along.
And maybe—just maybe—that’s a conversation more of us should be willing to have.
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