I wasn't the person my client expected me to be.

Today I received an email from a client I've worked with for years. Someone I genuinely respect and have always enjoyed doing business with. He was disappointed in how I had handled his transaction. He expected more from me, and after 27 years in real estate, I suppose I've given people good reason to have high expectations. I've worked hard to build a reputation for knowing what I'm doing, getting things done, and taking care of people. So when someone you've had a great relationship with tells you the experience wasn't what they expected, it stings. More than I'd like to admit.

Normally, I would have jumped right into explaining everything. The work that happened behind the scenes, the complications with the title company, the repeated corrections, the phone calls, the details that clients never see. There was plenty to explain, and much of it was outside my control. But as I read his email, I also knew there was some truth in what he was saying. The work might have been getting done, but the communication wasn't what it should have been. And the more I thought about it, the more I realized that this had less to do with my ability to do my job and more to do with what happens when life takes more out of us than we have to give.

My mother died on October 5, 2026.

Her death wasn't unexpected. We had spent the previous 9 months and especially last couple of weeks watching her health decline. She had been spending more time at the hospital this year, and we were all coming to terms with what was happening. She needed me, and I wanted to be there. There were conversations to have, moments to share, and hours spent simply being with her. I knew our time together was running out, and I wasn't willing to trade those hours for another phone call or another business problem that needed solving.

During that time, I couldn't be the hands-on Realtor I had always been. I wasn't as available to answer questions, follow up on details, or personally oversee every part of a transaction. My team continued working, and things were being handled behind the scenes, but I wasn't communicating with my clients the way I normally would. I knew I was needed in two places, and for once in my life, I couldn't figure out how to be in both.

I don't regret choosing to spend that time with my mother. Not for a moment. But I also recognize that my clients didn't stop needing me simply because I needed to be somewhere else. And that's the part of this experience that has made me think differently about the business I've spent so many years building.

I shouldn't have to choose between being present for someone I love and knowing that the people who have trusted me with their business are being well cared for. That's what a good team and good processes should make possible.

I've noticed something else about myself during this time. When I don't feel well emotionally, I stop communicating. I don't necessarily want to talk about what's bothering me, and I certainly don't want to explain it to everyone who asks. I'd rather stay home, curl up on the couch, pull a blanket over myself, or go to bed. I don't want to answer questions, make decisions, or be responsible for solving another problem. And for someone who has spent most of her adult life doing exactly those things, that's a strange place to find myself.

I've been wondering why we do this. Why, when we're already hurting, do we sometimes choose to withdraw from the very people and activities that might help us feel better? I suspect part of it is that communicating opens the door to things we'd rather not deal with. Someone might ask how we're doing, and then we have to decide whether to tell the truth or give the socially acceptable answer. Someone might mention the person we've lost, and suddenly we're right back in that moment again. Or someone might need something from us, and we simply don't have the energy to give it.

There's another part of grief that I've been thinking about, too, and it's a little harder to admit. Sometimes I wonder whether we actually want to stay sad for a while. Not because we enjoy being miserable, but because being happy almost feels wrong. How can I be laughing, making plans, enjoying a beautiful afternoon, or going about my normal life when my mother is no longer here? There's a strange guilt that can come with feeling good again, as though having a wonderful day somehow means we're not missing the person enough.

And then there are the things you hadn't even considered losing.

My mother was 83 years old, and with her passing, I'm beginning to realize just how many of our family traditions were simply things Mom always took care of. Who's going to fill the Christmas stockings with all those silly little gifts? Who will make the coffee cake, the Swedish Christmas korv, or the creamed sweet rice topped with lingonberries? Some of these traditions have been part of our family for nearly 100 years, passed down through generations, and I never gave much thought to who would carry them on because Mom was always there to do it. They were just part of Christmas, part of what made our family gatherings feel like home. Now, with the holidays approaching, I find myself wondering who will take over those little things we all took for granted. Will we keep the traditions going? Will they feel the same without her? I suppose that's another part of grief I hadn't considered. Sometimes it's not until someone is gone that you realize just how much they were quietly holding everyone

together.

That's the part of losing someone I haven't fully appreciated.

You don't just lose the person. You lose the future you had imagined with them in it.

And your brain keeps reminding you of that fact in the most ordinary moments. You think about Christmas, and you remember. You see something you would have told her about, and you remember. You reach for the phone, and you remember. It's as though you're being introduced to the same loss over and over again, only through a different door each time.

Meanwhile, life has the audacity to continue as usual.

My clients still need to buy and sell homes. Contracts have deadlines. Employees have questions. Agents need direction. Problems come up that require someone to make a decision, and more often than not, that someone is me. The world doesn't rearrange itself around our personal circumstances, and I don't necessarily think it should. Everyone else is living their own life, with their own worries, responsibilities, and occasional crises. My client had every right to expect the service he was promised, regardless of what was happening in my personal life.

That's where his email became more than an uncomfortable message to read.

I could have explained my mother's death, the time I had been away, and how difficult it had been to keep up with everything. All of that was true, and it certainly contributed to the situation. But I also started thinking about how much of my business depends on me personally being available, attentive, and emotionally capable of managing everything that comes my way. I've built a successful business with a wonderful team, but there are still too many things that rely on what's in my head, what I remember to follow up on, and whether I feel like picking up the phone.

And when I don't feel like picking up the phone, sometimes I don't.

That's not particularly flattering to admit, especially when your business is built around relationships and communication. But I think it's worth talking about because I suspect I'm not the only business owner who does this. We avoid a conversation because we don't have the energy for it, and then the longer we wait, the harder that conversation becomes. We tell ourselves we'll deal with it tomorrow, when we're feeling better or when we have more information. Before long, the lack of communication becomes a problem of its own, sometimes bigger than the original issue.

I also had to pay attention to what I was making this client's feedback mean about me. As a recovering people pleaser and someone who has always taken pride in being capable, I don't particularly enjoy hearing that I've disappointed someone. My brain is quick to turn a criticism of my performance into a criticism of my character. There's a big difference between acknowledging that I could have handled something better and deciding that I'm somehow not the professional I thought I was. One gives me something useful to work on. The other just makes me want to crawl back under that blanket.

What I keep coming back to is the importance of having processes in place before you need them. Not complicated procedures that nobody follows, but simple, consistent ways of doing business that don't depend on one person's memory or energy. Every seller should receive regular updates, even when nothing has changed. Every pending transaction should have a communication schedule so the client knows what's happening and what comes next. My team should be able to see where things stand and take care of what needs to be done without waiting for me to direct every step.

These are things I know. I've taught agents about consistency, follow-up, and accountability for years. Yet here I am, being reminded that knowing something and building it into the way you operate are two very different things.

I think that's especially true for women who have spent their lives being the responsible ones. We get so accustomed to managing everything that we don't always recognize how much we're carrying. We take pride in being needed, and sometimes we mistake that for being successful. If everyone depends on us, we must be doing something right. But there's a downside to being the person who always has the answers. Eventually, something happens that leaves you without the energy to answer anyone, and you discover just how little room you've created for yourself.

I responded to my client and acknowledged that his experience wasn't what it should have been. I shared what had been happening in my life, not because I wanted an excuse, but because I value our relationship and wanted him to understand. His response was incredibly kind. He offered his condolences and apologized, saying that nothing mattered more than family and that he understood.

I appreciated his compassion more than he probably realizes. But his kindness didn't make the original feedback any less valuable. I still needed to hear it.

I'm not writing this because I've figured out how to manage grief or because I've suddenly perfected the systems in my business. I'm very much in the middle of both. Some days I feel productive and ready to take on the world. Other days I'd be perfectly content not to talk to another human being. I'm learning that I don't have to feel the same way every day, but I do need to recognize what that means for the people who depend on me.

I've spent much of this year talking about being Unstoppable, my word for 2026. When I chose it, I was thinking about growth, ambition, taking action, and refusing to let fear or discomfort keep me from pursuing the things I wanted. I wasn't thinking about losing my mother. I wasn't thinking about days when getting dressed and answering emails would feel like accomplishments. And I certainly wasn't thinking about having to reconsider what being unstoppable actually means.

Maybe I've been looking at it too narrowly. I've always associated being capable with my ability to handle whatever comes my way. But I'm starting to question whether the real measure of a well-run business is how much I can personally manage or how well it operates when I can't.

I still don't know who's going to make the Christmas korv this year. Maybe I'll have to learn.

Maybe that's one of the ways we carry people forward, by taking responsibility for the little things they used to do without us ever giving it much thought.

And perhaps there's a connection between that and what I'm learning in my business. For years, my mother quietly took care of traditions that made our family feel like our family. I took for granted that those things would always happen because she was there to make them happen. I wonder how many things in my business work the same way, simply because someone has always been there to take care of them.

It's a question I wish I hadn't needed such a painful reminder to ask.

But it's one I'm glad I'm asking now.