Reflections on mortgage lending and the emotional moments that shape buying and selling a home.

I make a point to be at closings for several reasons. One, because that moment is what my clients remember. Long after rates, documents, and timelines fade, the closing table becomes the emotional punctuation mark on a much bigger story.

My actionable job at the closing table is simple: make sure nothing lingers unresolved, smooth any last-minute issues, and help the moment land well.  No one remembers a flawless process.  They remember how it felt when it ended.

Today I’m writing selfishly about the main reason I attend closings:  It helps reaffirm why I love my profession and it’s meaning. 

A little background … My most recent closing was for a couple downsizing. Their children are grown and out of the house so shifting to a smaller more manageable home made sense. There was excitement as their normally would be from the buyer. 

The sellers were also downsizing but even further. After more than fifty years in the home, they were trading a yard and ongoing maintenance for a condo in Florida. On paper, it all made perfect sense.

Closings are typically going to be a little more emotionally charged for the seller. This is not always the case but you see energy shifting as the end of the closing nears. Those feelings come out in a multitude of ways. Some people sit quietly. One time someone actually stood up and gave a speech about the home and its impact on their lives. 

I don’t remember all the details but on this day as documents were being signed and conversation was flowing quite nicely the seller spoke up and said — almost matter-of-factly — that he wasn’t really ready to sell the home. The first sign of his emotions coming out.  His agent and wife gave him a hug.  A few more moments past. The entire time he held on to architectural drawings of the home. As we neared the end of the closing he unraveled them to show the buyers. Not copies. Not reproductions. Hand-drawn plans. Ink carefully laid down. Printed on material that had weight to it — the kind of thing that doesn’t exist anymore. My buyer, an engineer, was immediately absorbed. He noticed details I wouldn’t have thought to look for: the line work, the drafting technique. I didn’t know what they were talking about but I understood the reverence.

The seller was proud to show them. And yet when the moment came he didn’t let them go. I don’t know if he ever intended to. I don’t know if his own decision surprised even him. What I do know is that those plans weren’t just documentation. They were memories that he was not prepared to let go. Evidence of a life built deliberately over time with care. My eyes teared. I don’t think anyone else noticed. It wasn’t the first time and certainly wont be the last I cry secretly at a closing. 

The closing table is where I religiously reaffirm that even though the sellers are not my clients, we are all tied together in that room. The buyers letting go of one version of life to make space for another. The sellers doing the same — sometimes before they were fully ready. I go to see vivid raw emotions exposed and witnessed not on my phone in a Facebook post but in real life. The sellers emotional response to leaving their home gives me a glimpse into the future at what my work will mean to my buyers 50 years down the road. But I get to see it now. And it turns even the most tedious parts of this job into something deeply worthwhile.

My buyers will one day be on the other side of that table. Holding memories. Pausing longer than expected. Deciding what they can release and what they can’t.

That’s the part of mortgage lending that doesn’t show up on a checklist.

Mortgage lending lives in that space between beginnings and endings.

Yes, it’s problem-solving and deadlines.  Yes, it’s managing complexity under pressure.

But it’s also being present at the moment when a home filled with memories changes hands. When one family steps forward into a space and another steps away.

That’s why I show up to closings.  That’s why I care how they feel when it’s over.

And that’s why this work still matters to me.