Sunday Reflection: Why I Stopped "Showing" Houses
Updated: Jul 15
It was early in my career, maybe 1986, so seven years in, and I was feeling pretty good about myself. I was convinced I’d finally made it in the business. After all, that's what we do to keep ourselves going, isn't it?
I could quote the MLS statistics, handle any objection, and count on every client as a done deal. If I met with them, it was a pretty sure bet they would buy a house. I wasn't just selling houses; I was on my way to becoming one of those top-producing brokers I’d looked up to when I first started in 1979.
I always carried my favorite props for closing deals—my heavy-metal tape measure and a new, scratch-free acrylic clipboard with every listing on the tour, which I left with the client at the end of the appointment. I also had the Tom Hopkins scripts memorized and the home tour perfected. My technique was so polished I could see my own reflection in it.
I had learned to assess a house while carrying on a conversation with the client. I could spot a foundation crack or signs of a clogged downspout before we pulled up to the curb, and I could demonstrate a kitchen remodel until the sun went down. I was in my zone and selling houses.
What I was about to learn was that while I could sell a house, I hadn't yet learned how to help my clients find a home. This is the lesson that brings us to today's Sunday Reflection: Why I Stopped "Showing" Houses.
It began as a typical autumn day in the Pacific Northwest. The sun was out, the air crisp; it was perfect for showing homes. As I walked my client through our first stop, I slipped into my usual 'agent dance,' pointing out the granite counters and the way that perfect afternoon sunlight hit the hardwoods. I even made sure to mention the crisp scent of falling October oak leaves drifting in through a partially opened kitchen window. Most importantly, or so I thought at the time, I was punctuating every sentence with my practiced tie-downs. “Beautiful view, isn't it?” or "Your wingback chairs would look great flanking the fireplace, wouldn't they?"
As the wife and I walked the rooms, the husband was taking his own tour. He began moving through the space in a way that pulled me right out of my rhythm. He wasn't interested in my demonstration. He appeared to be listening, but he just wasn't listening to me. He drifted farther away, leaving us for the center of the living room, as if he were engaged in some quiet exploration of his own.
Once there, he stood perfectly still and tilted his head slightly, as if catching a whisper. I had to get him back into my zone, so I paused my cool agent dance with the wife to ask if he had a question. He smiled, but he didn't look at me. Instead, he looked towards the center of the room. "You're talking about the walls, countertops, and the bones, Jeff," he said quietly.
"Oh, great, now this guy is going to try to teach me how to sell real estate," I thought to myself.
He then went on to say, "I’m listening for what we can't see, Jeff. I need to find out if this feels like home to me."
Stupid me. What I hadn't considered until this point was that he was living with significant vision loss.
He went on to explain that he could feel subtle differences in the way the air moved and in how the sound settled as he walked through the rooms. He was connecting to the house in a way I hadn't even considered. He was searching for the invisible part of the house. He called it the "soul of the home."
His "soul of the home" comment threw me off balance so much that I went through my mental filing cabinet at lightning speed, searching for a memorized script or a clever tie-down to handle this unexpected turn. I came up completely empty. My polished pitch was useless. So, I dropped it and asked him to explain what he meant to help me understand. For the first time that day, I was the one doing the listening.
This man helped me realize that for nearly a decade I’d been "showing" houses but hadn't been helping people find their homes.
From then on, I stopped obsessing so much over the comps and started paying attention to the atmosphere, the way the air moved, and, yes, the soul of the home. I even began inviting clients to take a moment to stand in the middle of a room, or sit on the sofa, close their eyes, and just feel the space. I wanted to give them a private moment to find what I had been taught to sense—the home's soul.
After that showing, way back in 1986, forty years ago, I committed to myself that my value would no longer be limited to pointing out a kitchen remodel or spotting defects before opening the front door. It would also include what I learned that day: to get out of the way, and to be quiet long enough for the client to find their own connection with the house, so they could see when a house felt like home.
When you learn to get out of your own way and let the house do some of the selling, the buyer makes a choice based on their own connection, not your persuasion.
So, what about that heavy measuring tape and the acrylic clipboard? I didn’t just put them away; I retired them. I kept the "agent dance," though, but I learned to let the client take the lead every once in a while.
If the house doesn't speak to them in the silence, no amount of talking from you will make it their home.
About the Author: I am a retired real estate professional with a career spanning 47 years. Throughout decades of market changes, I remained dedicated to the idea that real estate is about more than square footage—it’s about the human experience. Today, I write about the lessons learned from a lifetime of helping people find the place that truly feels like home, hoping that sharing these insights will help the next generation of agents better serve their clients and find fulfillment in their own careers.
(C) 2026 Jeff Sorg
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