Explaining The Chatbot

There was this one Thursday—late, too late, like 11:42 p.m.—when I found myself hunched over the dining room table with my phone in one hand and a half-warm cup of tea in the other, answering a message from a potential buyer who had just discovered my listing online. They wanted to know if the place was still available.

 If I had more photos. If I could do a showing next Tuesday. And for whatever reason—maybe it was the hour, maybe the way the message came through like a soft knock on a door I thought I had closed for the night—I didn’t ignore it. I responded. But as I was typing out my fourth emoji-laced sentence trying to sound approachable and professional and awake, I remember thinking: I am so tired. Not just sleepy, but tired in that bone-deep, mental-fog way that only happens when you’ve been on all day, playing ten different roles at once—marketer, negotiator, therapist, chauffeur, optimist. And then this other thought hit me, less dramatic, more annoying: "This is the kind of thing a chatbot could have handled." Immediately, I pushed back against myself. No, a chatbot couldn’t have handled it. 

It couldn’t feel out the tone, ask the right follow-up, offer reassurance, anticipate their weird scheduling quirks, or detect if this person was just kicking tires. It couldn’t decide if I should invest my energy here. But maybe it didn’t need to do all of that. Maybe it just needed to be a friendly voice when I was asleep. A pointer. A welcome mat. Because, let’s be honest, the chatbot isn’t going to do the showing. 

It’s not going to stand there in the hallway while the couple argues about whether the second bedroom gets enough light. It’s not going to sit across the table when the negotiation gets delicate, or know how to pivot when someone suddenly brings up their uncle who’s a “real estate guy” and wants to jump in. It won’t handle listings. It won’t stage a home, talk to a photographer, pick out the angle that makes a small kitchen look cozy instead of cramped. It won’t talk someone down from their sky-high pricing expectations or gently explain why their shag carpet isn’t “a selling point.” And no, it absolutely will not be closing deals over lattes and late-night texts. 

 But what it can do—and what it does really well, surprisingly—is show up when I can’t. It can say, “Hey, thanks for reaching out. I’m so glad you’re here. Here’s how you can get in touch.” It can answer the same three questions I get asked over and over and over again without a flicker of impatience or fatigue. It can nudge someone from vague curiosity into an actual inquiry, simply by being present at the right moment. Which, let’s face it, is sometimes the whole battle. Because when people are house hunting—or even just thinking about it—they don’t always move in a straight line. Their questions show up in little bursts, often at the weirdest times. Sunday night after the kids are asleep. Wednesday during a boring Zoom meeting. 2 a.m. after scrolling Instagram and seeing someone’s “Just Sold” post. And in those little windows, if there’s nothing—no one there, no contact form that feels welcoming, no voice saying “you’re not bothering me, ask away”—then the moment passes. The lead disappears into the ether. I used to think that if I wasn’t personally handling every inquiry, I was failing at service. That I had to be the one answering, guiding, showing up. But now I see it differently. It’s not about control. It’s about availability. Access. And if a chatbot can quietly, consistently provide that first point of access, that small gesture of “Yes, you’re in the right place, let me help you,” then maybe that’s not just useful—it’s humane. It doesn’t need to be perfect. Honestly, it shouldn't be. I’ve seen those bots that try to pretend they’re human, with fake typing dots and names like “Alex” or “Sarah” and awkward attempts at small talk. That’s not what I’m after. What I want—and what I’ve started using—is a bot that just tells the truth. Something like: “Hi, I’m not a human, but I can get you to one.” Or: “I can answer a few questions while the agent’s away.” Or even just: “Want to book a call? 

Here’s a quick way to do it.” Simple. Honest. Supportive. I don't need it to mimic me. I just need it to protect the cracks in my schedule where real people might otherwise fall through. There’s no illusion that it’s going to transform my business into some hands-free, lead-generating machine. And if anyone promises you that, run. There’s no substitute for the actual human work of this job—of building trust, reading the unspoken things, being patient when emotions get tangled. But there is something deeply comforting about knowing that when I turn my phone face-down at 10 p.m., I’m not fully closing the door. Someone—or something—is still there to catch the knock. And when I check in the next morning and see a message from someone who asked a question and got an answer, who clicked a link, who left a name—that’s not just a convenience. It’s connection, paused. Held, gently. Waiting for me to pick it up. That’s all, really. It won’t do the hard parts for me. But it won’t let me miss the start of them, either.