Some Days, I Wish I Wasn’t a Realtor

Not because I don’t love the work—but because it’s so much more than anyone realizes.

I don’t have formal degrees in any of this. But unofficially? I’ve earned credentials in:

Psychology. Social Work. Divorce Mediation. Grief Counseling. Family Therapy. Job Coaching. Snake Avoidance. Wild Animal Trapping (raccoons and squirrels). Pet Care. House Cleaning. Horticulture. Interior Design. Spiritual Therapy. You name it.

I’ve had:

• A couple kick everyone out of the settlement room and beat each other bloody.

• A woman so overwhelmed at closing, she forgot the address of her new home and drove in circles for two hours before calling me to ask where she lived.

• A client who split her lip open at settlement from sheer joy.

• A dog-walker who brought ten dogs to closing—and yes, I babysat every single one.

• A little girl who wrote and sang me a song in a language I still don’t understand. I memorized it syllable by syllable, and I don’t care what it means—she wrote it for me.

• And then there was the woman who brought a gun to settlement (we didn’t know it at the time), broke down crying, and was comforted by the big brother she hadn’t spoken to in years.

They still send me birthday cards and holiday wishes.
They still remember I love ice cream.

I don’t always want to be a Realtor.

But how could I not love these unforgettable people?
And by extension, this old, zany world of real estate?