Shut Up and Listen: Confessions of a Reformed Over-Sharer

Back in my early days of real estate—think chunky highlights, print marketing, and Blackberry phones—I had this one house. Oh, that house. It was a builder spec, which is just industry-speak for a new construction home sitting around waiting for someone to fall in love with it. The problem? No one was falling for it. Not even a little flirt.

And I thought I knew why.

Whoever picked the finishes must’ve done it under fluorescent lighting with a blindfold on. The floors clashed with the countertops, the paint color was best described as “Band-Aid Beige,” and there was a weird brushed nickel light fixture that looked like it came free with a magazine subscription.

So, naturally, when I showed it, I went full HGTV critique mode. “Now I know this granite doesn’t match the cabinets, but imagine if we painted them white!” “Yes, the light fixture is a crime, but that’s nothing a trip to Home Depot can’t fix.” I led with the flaws, thinking I was helping buyers see past them.

Guess what?

No one bought it. It sat. It sulked. It collected dust and my shame.

Then one day, my sales partner—let’s call him Bryan, because that’s his real name—tagged along on a showing. Afterward, he pulled me aside, in that calm, patronizing voice seasoned agents reserve for rookies teetering on the edge of burnout.

“Roxanne,” he said, “you’re not their interior designer. You’re their realtor. What if they actually liked the way it looked? Just shut the hell up and listen. If it’s a problem, they’ll tell you, and then you can help them solve it. But when you tear it down first, you’re basically insulting their taste before they’ve even had a chance to form an opinion.”

And like that, I got hit upside the head with the truth. The uncomfortable, makeup-smearing, ego-bruising truth.

I was the problem.

We all do this as realtors. We get wrapped up in our opinions. We talk too much. We see ourselves as tour guides, home therapists, decorators, fortune tellers, and—God help us—comedians. (I once made a joke about a bidet that did not land.) In the name of “helping,” we sometimes bulldoze right over the moment that matters: the client reacting honestly to the space.

Rick was right. I was finding problems instead of solving them. I’d let my mouth run the show.

That was the day I started changing my script.

Now, when a buyer raises an eyebrow at the backyard, I don’t launch into a soliloquy about fire pits and retaining walls. I say, “If the backyard doesn’t quite work, I wonder if a landscaping plan could help?”

If they’re quiet in the room with the carpet stains, I don’t immediately apologize on behalf of the previous owner’s dog. I just say, “I’ve got a great installer.”

And when there’s a bigger issue—like no garage in a neighborhood where garages are the norm—I’ll gently say, “Most of the homes around here have one, so that could impact resale. If you love it, let’s just make sure we buy it right.”

See the difference?

It’s not about avoiding honesty. It’s about timing. It’s about tone. It’s about shutting up just long enough to hear what actually matters to the buyer. You don’t have to fill every silence. You don’t have to predict every objection. You’re not auditioning for a fixer-upper reboot. You’re there to guide, not to overwhelm.

I’ve learned (the hard way) that most people don’t want your opinion unless they ask for it. As my grandma always said, “If they want your two cents, they’ll hand you a penny jar.”

I had to become an old lady Realtor to learn that lesson. And it’s one I still re-learn every time I feel the urge to pre-apologize for a 1990s backsplash or explain away an oddly placed toilet window. Sometimes the best thing you can say is nothing at all.

So now, my job description is simple: I am the problem solver.

I’m not here to trash the paint color, insult the floor plan, or launch into a TED Talk on cabinetry. I’m here to listen. To hear what they love. To hear what they hate. To spot the deal-breakers they care about—not the ones I assume they should.

Because the moment we stop performing and start listening? That’s when trust is built.

And trust me—no one ever bought a house because the agent had the best monologue about ugly tile.