I have to admit it. I really hate Realtors.
Maybe it's the power suit, the power tie, the power stare. Or the fact that all of us eventually become lifestyle experts. It's almost as if being a Realtor wasn't our first choice. Our first choice didn't work out, so we entered the only arena with standards lower than a horny drunk college student leaving the bar at close.
A lot of this industry feels fake and a little elitist. Everyone's trying to prove how awesome they are. They advertise their sales volume (I've done this, I'm the problem) and treat every human they meet as a lead. Your barista isn't a lead, Brenda. They just want a tip.
Story time.
When I was brand new, I went to my brokerage party, my worst nightmare. I walked in underdressed and went straight for the food (if you've seen me in person, you understand). The agents I knew were at a full table, so I sat alone, reeking of insecurity with spinach dip in my crooked teeth.
Midway through my third plate, an agent sat down next to me and introduced himself by his first and last name. Who the f*&k does that? You're not a Supreme Court nominee. Then, unprompted, he told me his sales volume, his transaction count, and how he'd crushed his goals. My penis retreated inside my body and I threw up a little in my mouth.
Did he do anything wrong? No. But like every girl who saw me in high school, he gave me the ick.
Here's the embarrassing part.
Most of my hatred for agents has nothing to do with them. It's me.
Put me near a power agent (tailored suit, veneers, a six-pack at 47) and I shrink. Suddenly I'm very aware how my chubby little legs look in my crotch torn jorts.
When I see success with a smoking-hot bod, I get insecure and have the urge to breastfeed again. That's between me and my therapist, who is also tired of hearing about it.
But here's what I figured out.
First-and-Last-Name Guy wasn't fake. He genuinely loved telling people his volume, and it clearly worked for him. The fake ones are the thousands of us trying to be him. We over edit our videos to make us look big time, put our teams deals through our name so our numbers look bigger, and practice the power stare in the rearview mirror.
I tried it. Morning meditations and cold calling. Posted the volume. It felt like wearing someone else's underwear only without the holes and he dirt bike trails.
Clients can smell it too. Nobody hires you for your headshot. They hire the person they trust not to screw them on the biggest check of their life, and that trust comes from being the same person at the closing table that you were on Instagram. That's the whole game.
The beauty of this business is that you can do it however the f*&k you want. Market updates from a cold plunge? Do it, Chad. Nipples on camera? Be my guest. Feet pics with an offer? Go crush your goals, king.
Just make sure it's actually you. The second you're doing it to look like somebody else, people can tell, and they'll give you the ick too.
So I still hate Realtors. The fake ones, anyway. Including the version of me who bought that suit (it’s a metaphorical suit, I don’t own one).
See you at the next brokerage party. I'll be at the empty table by the food. Come sit down. Just use one name.
Send this to someone who needs to laugh, cry or feel like an alpha. Use the link below and see how much money I made my first five years in the business. 👇 👇 👇 👇