Archives March 2025

In the aftermath of a teachers’ mob in Chiapas, Mexico, the only thing spreading faster than gossip is the skepticism of 47 families who don’t trust a single word you say. After facing the angry mob in week one, I’d promised a deep study of their cracked homes—bold words that could’ve been my epitaph if I didn’t deliver.

Week two wasn’t about sipping tequila and patting myself on the back for surviving the inferno; it was about proving I wasn’t full of empty promises.

The teachers’ union had given me a shaky nod after our meeting, but their promise (threat) to come back in a few days if they didn’t see a different pace in finding a solution for them was haunting me.

Like I said before, Trust was the bottleneck—very often is. You don’t fix that with a memo; you fix it with action. I’d learned early in my career that cash collected, not hours worked, is what keeps a construction gig alive. Theory of Constraints isn’t just a buzzword—it’s how I think, how I breathe. Every move I made in Chiapas was about unclogging the pipes to get that cash flowing again.

First step: the study I’d promised. I dragged my building crew back to the teachers’ housing cluster, built on the side of a hill, where storms and winds had weakened the walls. It was a disaster—a landslide waiting to happen, literally.

But the problem wasn’t just the homes; it was the whole operation. I sat down with the remaining staff, no BS allowed, and dug into the records they’d finally coughed up. Turns out, the old Director had executed some pretty shady practices, leaving a paper trail of useless data. Quality was bleeding throughput—every cracked home was a cash drain, not a cash pipe. I needed to fix the homes, sure, but I also needed to fix the system that built them.

I called in my main engineer. The dirtiest language but he knew his business, and the best? He didn’t like the way things were handled before, he didn’t raise his voice because he had a family to feed and also he was too afraid to say something. Afraid of supernatural repercussions (but that is material for another story).

We mapped out a plan to reinforce the foundations, starting with the worst-affected homes. It wasn’t cheap, but it was cheaper than refunding 47 families or letting the protest camp out ‘til the end of time. I went back to the teachers’ leaders, no lukewarm refreshments this time—just straight talk. I just needed support from headquarters to get the resources to fix this.

Stay tuned…

Spread the love, folks—except when you’re stepping into a hornets’ nest in Chiapas, Mexico, and the welcome party’s a mob of pissed-off teachers waving signs like they’re ready to storm the gates. My second week at a construction gig way back, I wasn’t sipping coffee in peace—I was dodging verbal Molotovs from a teachers’ union ready to camp out indefinitely. Their homes, built by my predecessors, were cracking like bad jokes—neighbors waving at each other through the gaps, all on live TV courtesy of Chiapas’s top morning show. Trial by fire? Nah, this was trial by inferno.

The old Director? A lying, corrupt lady who’d turned trust into a ghost town. Staff wouldn’t give me the time of day, let alone straight answers. Day one, I walked into a swamp of deception—sales and accounting hiding data like it was pirate gold. I interviewed every leader that week, no BS allowed.

Took a few to crack beers, broke the ice. By Friday, I fired two rotten apples who thought “no info” was a strategy—sales and accounting got the axe. Trust’s the bottleneck, folks—learned that early, not my first dance.

Then came the mob. Teachers demanded new homes or their money back—yesterday. Impossible, sure, but they threatened to park their protest outside our office ‘til the end of time. I invited their leaders in, poured some lukewarm refreshments, and made a promise that’d make most CEOs sweat: a deep study of their cracked-home mess, solutions in weeks. Bold? Hell yes. Backed by enough scars to know better? You bet.

Why’d they buy it? I told ‘em straight: “I’m not that last lady. She screwed you—your only shot’s trusting me now.” That day, I dragged my building crew to the site—foundations were a disaster, a literal crack-up. Quality was bleeding throughput—cash collected, not hours worked, is what counts, says Theory of Constraints. The mob didn’t care about my TOC playbook, but I did—still do, as a fractional COO unclogging cash pipes.

Week one was about slicing through the lies—staff, mob, all of it. Fired the liars, faced the rage, set the tone. It wasn’t just cracked homes; it was cracked trust. I wasn’t some rookie—I’d tangled with chaos before. You don’t fix that with hugs—you fix it with results.

Stay tuned—Chiapas didn’t break me, it sharpened me.