What the Client Never Hears

If you have ever contacted tech support, you have probably wondered what the technician says about you after you leave the room. The sigh. The eye-roll. The muttered commentary to a colleague about how you should have known better, how you caused your own problem, how this is the fourth time this month. That is the reputation my profession has earned. I understand why people expect it.

Here is what my clients never hear from me: they never hear “The reason your computer broke is because you did this.” They never hear “You should have done that.” They never hear me cut them off mid-sentence, even when I have figured out the solution in the first thirty seconds. They never hear impatience, exasperation, or a tone that suggests they are wasting my time. Not because I am performing politeness. Because I made a decision a long time ago about who I was going to be in a room with someone who needed help.

What they hear instead sounds like this: “I noticed something in your settings. How about we try this idea?” Even when I know exactly what went wrong and why, I frame the solution as something we are discovering together. The client keeps their authorship. They walk away feeling like a participant, not a patient.

And when a client catches themselves and says, “I should have known that,” I stop them. Every time. I tell them, “I do this forty-plus hours a week. You work with this software once a month. You should not feel responsible for knowing all of this.” I take the shame and move it from a character flaw to a math problem. The relief on their face is immediate.

I once received a request from an elderly faculty member who was known for being difficult. They resented technology and used it only because their department chair required it. When I arrived at their office, I sat down and I listened. Not to their tech problem. To their frustration. To the hurt of being left behind as their peers kept pace with every new system while they fell further and further back. When they finally paused, I said, “I can see how all of this must be quite a stressball on top of your lectures and publishing.”

They went quiet. I watched them fight the lump in their throat. Then they lowered their voice and said, “When I can’t get the classroom computer to work, I see the students’ sideways glances. The knowing looks. They think the old fogey can’t work the machine. It feels humiliating.”

I did not fix their office computer that day. I said, “Let’s go to the lecture hall and get you comfortable with the classroom equipment.” I wanted to arm them with what to do if things go south while lecturing. We went to the actual room where the humiliation happened, and we practiced together. They took notes. I watched an adversary become an ally. Not because I solved a technical problem, but because I solved the one they were actually afraid of.

What the client never hears is the silence where the blame would normally go. Dignity, when present, does not announce itself. But my clients feel it. And they come back. Not because something else broke, but because they trust the person who never made them feel small.

More later...