Leading Well from the Second Chair

One of the less talked-about tensions in leadership is learning how to serve faithfully in the second chair.

You believe in the vision.
You trust the leader.
And yet, some of the ways God has wired you don’t always find their fullest expression in your primary lane.

That tension can quietly produce frustration—or it can become one of the most formative leadership classrooms you’ll ever sit in.

For all of my adult life, I’ve served in leadership roles that were not the front seat. I’ve consistently occupied space in the second chair of leadership structures. And that position carries with it a unique set of circumstances that, if not navigated well, can become contentious.

Years ago, a friend of mine and I hosted a podcast called The Backseat Leadership Podcast. We explored ideas and tensions that surfaced as we both served outside the lead chair. It was a meaningful run—eventually disrupted by COVID, life transitions, and the irony that my co-host later stepped into a senior pastor role himself. Life happens.

But through those conversations, we kept circling the same reality: many leaders don’t leave second-chair roles because they disagree with the mission. They leave because of unresolved internal tension.

And that tension is often misunderstood.

What creates tension in the second chair is not always what people think. It’s not necessarily division around mission, or even a strong desire to advance a vision that originates with someone else.

More often than not, the tension begins when second-chair leaders start wrestling with something far more core.

It’s not mission.
It’s identity.

The future version of themselves they are beginning to see no longer matches what they are doing in the present.

Second-chair leaders often sense capacity growing within them. They desire greater responsibility. They begin to see fruit that suggests a deeper understanding of leadership—sometimes even the challenges facing the lead chair. And wrestling with the timing of our future—and the accuracy of our vision of that future—is not easy when what could be has not yet become what will be.

I know this tension personally.

For me, it became most obvious during a season when I was working hard to accept the drive and expectations typical of being a guy in his thirties, while also trying to cultivate contentment with where I was planted. The gap between who I sensed I was becoming and what I was currently doing created more internal friction than I expected.

When you’re wrestling your future self with the reality of your present self, it becomes easy to misread what’s happening around you. Even when you’re being coached well. Even when you’re being affirmed. Positive reinforcement can quietly get interpreted as limitation when the tension is actually internal, not external.

I went through a particularly defining season when something I was deeply passionate about—and a leadership role connected to it—came to an end. Looking back, it’s clear that the Lord was intentionally removing it from my leadership and my purview. But at the time, I interpreted coaching that was creating margin for greater intentionality and agency as restrictive.

What came after that season of pruning was a higher leadership ceiling—one that exceeded anything I had experienced up to that point.

But in the middle of it, I had to wrestle with a difficult question:

Do I trust that what’s happening in the immediate is actually preparing me for impact in the distance?

That question forced deep soul-searching. Why was this one role so important to me? What had convinced me that this was the only place my leadership could be exercised? Why did its removal feel like loss instead of preparation?

Because when second-chair leaders don’t learn to see pruning as purposeful, tension quickly rises to the surface. And if that tension goes unnamed, it can distort how we hear coaching, interpret affirmation, and trust the process God is using to shape us.

Now, I’d love to tell you that once I recognized that tension, I immediately nailed every aspect of my leadership—and that every adjustment I was asked to make was met with grace and tact.

That wasn’t the case.

What I did learn, however, was this: authentic communication is far more effective than silent compliance that masks a slow fade into quiet resentment.

I didn’t express every emotion.
I didn’t voice every reaction.

But I did identify what I was feeling, evaluate what was actually happening, communicate honestly, and then commit to walking faithfully where God had placed my feet.

Because the simple—and often uncomfortable—truth is this: you either trust God, or you choose to trust something else.

If you trust Him to open doors when they look exciting and full of promise, then you also have to trust Him when He closes doors you were convinced led somewhere better. Often, the tension isn’t about the door at all—it’s about our assumptions of what was waiting on the other side.

Authentic communication with front-seat leaders doesn’t weaken leadership—it strengthens it. When leaders know you are actively wrestling with internal tensions while remaining committed to the collective vision, they are far better equipped to lead you well. At the same time, that honesty forces you to process your perceptions, gain perspective, and fully engage the responsibilities placed in front of you.

Full disclosure: this doesn’t always end with staying. Sometimes the right step really is leaving.

But far too often, I’ve seen influence, impact, and growth lost because leaders misidentified what was actually causing the tension.

So my prayer is simple. If you find yourself in the second chair—or the third—or anywhere you sense is not your final destination—give yourself the space to wrestle with what’s happening inside before you begin questioning the environment around you.

Because the gap you’re standing in may not be holding you back.
It may be the very place God is forming you for what’s next.