Succession Planning Vs. Exit Planning
And why you need both
The call came before sunrise. I was standing barefoot in the kitchen, waiting for the coffee to drip, when the phone buzzed across the counter. My mother’s voice sounded oddly calm, like she was working hard to keep it that way.
“Christina”, she said, “Your dad’s in the hospital. It’s his heart.”
I didn’t ask questions. I just threw on whatever clothes were nearest and drove. The roads were still dark and empty, headlights flicking from oncoming traffic down Highway 70. I’d driven it hundreds of times, but that morning, it felt longer. Like the stretch between knowing and not knowing had been pulled tight.
By the time I got there, he was stable. Tubes in his arms, machines humming around him, nurses moving quietly with the kind of practiced urgency that tells you this could have gone another way.
The doctor told us it was a warning. Not a full stop but a clear sign. Something had to change.
I didn’t go home. I went to the shop, the custom fabrication business Dad built from the ground up, where he was the sole owner and chief decision-maker.
The parking lot was half full, lights on inside. Everyone had shown up. They just didn’t know what to do.
The front office smelled like burnt coffee and old receipts. I walked in and saw Barry standing there with a file in one hand, rubbing the back of his neck with the other.
“I think your dad was working this one out with Stan at Blue Ridge,” he said, holding out an invoice. “Said he’d call back today.”
I took it, nodded, and gave him the kind of half-smile you give when you don’t want to say I have no idea what I’m doing.
By noon, I’d answered fifteen calls. I dodged three vendor questions I couldn’t answer. I agreed to things I didn’t understand just to keep things moving. Nobody pushed back — they were trying to help — but I could see the concern, the doubt, and the underlying fear in their faces.
After a few days of trying to fill Dad’s shoes, it was clear: I wasn’t running the business. I was in reaction mode. Everything was chaotic. I was lost.
Dad came home after a few days. He moved slower, looked a little smaller, but still had that spark behind his eyes. He kept saying he’d be back in no time, but I could tell he didn’t believe it yet.
So I kept showing up.
And I started noticing things I hadn’t paid attention to before.
Every question, every decision, every relationship ran through him. Vendors trusted his word more than the paperwork. Clients texted him directly, even if it was just to check in. The team knew their work, but they waited for his green light.
The passwords were scribbled in a small notebook in his desk drawer. His shorthand. His logic. His mind, on paper — unreadable to anyone else.
No playbook. No backup plan. Just Dad.
The shop smelled like sawdust and warm metal. The same old country station played from the rafters in the back. You could hear it under the whir of machines and the steady hum of welders getting to work.
But something had shifted.
People stopped me more often now. They asked how he was doing. They told stories. One guy said my dad had helped him get his first truck after a rough patch. A vendor told me he once drove four hours to deliver parts on a Sunday, just because Dad asked.
I smiled. Nodded. Said I hoped he’d be back soon.
What I didn’t say was: I’m not sure what happens if he’s not.
What I didn’t say was: What happens next time?
He was back in the hospital for a follow-up. Just a few tests, they said. But when I walked into his room, he was resting quietly in the recliner, a football game playing on mute in the background. Auburn, maybe. Neither of us were watching.
He looked better. Not like himself, but better. The color in his face had returned. His breathing was steady. The wires were gone.
He turned to me and gave that half-smile I’d known since I was a kid.
“Your mama says you’re doing a hell of a job.”
“She’s being generous,” I said.
“That so?”
“I’m mostly figuring out how many things I don’t know.”
He chuckled, then winced, hand drifting toward his chest. “Trial by fire. That’s how I learned.”
That was true. But maybe that was the problem.
“Dad,” I said. “Can we talk about something?”
His eyes stayed on the screen. “That’s never a good way to start.”
“I know. But I need to say this. For both of us.”
He reached for the remote and turned the TV off completely.
“I’ve been thinking about the business,” I said. “Not just keeping it running while you’re out — I mean long term.”
He raised an eyebrow, but said nothing.
“This past month showed me how much depends on you. Every decision. Every relationship. Every habit. And I get it — that’s how you built it. But it’s not sustainable.”
“You saying I need to pick someone to take over?”
“Eventually, yes,” I said. “But it’s more than that. It’s about making sure everything you’ve built can keep going. That it’s strong enough to stand without you — not because you’re gone, but because that’s how legacy works.”
He shifted in the chair. “Sounds like retirement talk.”
“It’s not,” I said. “It’s leadership talk. Succession is about continuity. Exit Planning is about options. They’re really two sides of the same coin.”
He exhaled slowly. “If I start talking about that stuff… people will think I’m quitting. The guys. The vendors. You don’t know how fast words get around.”
“I know,” I said. “But that’s the fear talking. What they’ll actually see is a leader who’s thinking ahead. Who’s building for the future. Who’s taking care of the people who’ve taken care of him.”
He didn’t respond.
I let the silence hold.
Then I said it.
“Succession is defense, Dad. It keeps the business safe when life hits hard. Like last month. The system steps in when you can’t.”
He looked at me, quiet now.
“It’s the playbook when you’re not on the field. It’s how the team knows what to do without having to ask. Who calls the shots. Who runs point. How to keep moving without breaking down.”
Still no response.
“And exit planning,” I continued, gentler this time, “exit planning is offensive. It’s how you decide what winning looks like after you leave the field. Not when — how.”
His fingers tightened around the recliner’s arm.
“You get to shape the outcome. You decide what happens to the business, to the people, to the values you’ve lived by. Whether it stays in the family, gets sold, or becomes something new.”
He stared ahead at the blank screen.
“Succession protects your values. Exit Planning advances your vision. Defense keeps things standing. Offense moves them forward. You need both.”
I paused.
“They don’t mean you’re leaving. They mean you’re leading — just in a different way.”
He didn’t argue. He just nodded.
And I knew that meant yes.
The next morning, the shop was quiet when I came in. Just the low buzz of machines warming up and the radio playing in the distance.
I walked past the front desk and into his office.
The chair was empty. But on the seat sat a clean notepad.
It wasn’t the usual scribble. It had structure. Headings. Arrows. Questions. Roles. Notes about who could train who. Who might be ready for more.
It wasn’t a plan yet. But it was a beginning.
Later that week, we sat at the breakroom table. No fanfare. Just the two of us and the notepad.
“I don’t know what the right answer is,” he said. “But I figured we could start here.”
So we did.
One person at a time. One conversation at a time.
Some days we made progress. Some days we argued.
But every time, we kept coming back.
We weren’t reacting anymore. We were designing something.
Not a farewell. A future.
I used to think these kinds of conversations were just for companies with boards, investors, and consultants.
But now I know better.
Succession and exit aren’t corporate buzzwords. They’re family matters. Community matters. Legacy matters.
They’re about having the courage to name what we usually avoid, and the humility to ask for help doing it well.
Finding Your Guide
We learned firsthand that this process isn't just a financial transaction; it's a profound emotional journey. It can't be rushed. It requires patience, empathy, and the understanding that you're charting the future not just for a business, but for the people who depend on it.
That’s where Liberated Leaders come in.
We understand:
The Importance of Pace: We respect that change takes time. We help you move from vague fears to clear next steps, one conversation, one decision at a time.
The Emotional Weight: We know these conversations are loaded with strong emotions, and we provide the safe, objective space needed to navigate family dynamics and legacy concerns.
The Scope of Impact: We recognize that this process MATTERS deeply—to the family, to the team, and to the community the business serves.
We don’t hand you a binder or try to sell you a silver bullet. We serve from a place of deep understanding. We listen. We ask the right questions. We help you turn vague fears into clear next steps.
If you’re like me, someone who loves the builder behind the business, don’t wait for a health scare or a near-miss.
Start talking. Start planning. And when you’re ready, let someone walk alongside you.
Liberated Leaders does that better than anyone.
Because we know: Legacy isn’t what you leave behind. It’s what you build forward.
About the Author
As a Success Artisan at Liberated Leaders, Adam Sides helps organizations transform growth challenges into opportunities for lasting success. With 25 years of leadership experience across military and civilian domains, he brings a practical, people-first approach to operational growth, team development, and strategic transitions. Certified in exit planning and leadership frameworks, Adam is known for inspiring change, challenging the status quo, and turning chaos into clarity. He thrives in building resilient teams that create real, enduring impact. Learn more about Adam on our website.
Note: This article was 90% human generated and 10% machine (AI) generated.