Windows, Winter, and the Problem With “No One Owns This”
We live in Seattle, in a modest house on a very small lot, tucked up against a greenway boulevard. There are big trees and good light, and, most days, a steady stream of bikes and dog walkers enjoying the Queen Anne views. During the school year, there’s also a predictable burst of car noise in the afternoons, when parents speed through the neighborhood to pick up their kids.
It’s a lovely place to live. It’s also loud, and a few of the windows were starting to fail. You could feel it in the winter. You could see it in the condensation that lingered longer than it should have in pale Cascadian light.
Last year, we decided to replace about a third of them. Not all at once. Just the most urgent ones. The windows that needed attention before winter 2025.
We did what most people do: read reviews, looked at websites, and eventually settled on a local company that already worked with the same window manufacturer we had. They talked thoughtfully about sound and environmental considerations, which mattered to us given where the house sits. It felt like a reasonable, careful choice.
The work itself turned out emphatically fine. The experience around it did not.
It started quietly, in the way these things often do. I filled out the website form with rough measurements and some context about the house. Weeks passed. When someone finally replied, it was to say she’d been out of the office. Then there was another stretch of silence. When we did connect, there were more questions. Then the same questions again. A phone call I wasn’t ready for, followed by an email days later that picked up as if none of the earlier context existed.
Nothing was outrageous on its own. Just friction. Small delays. A subtle sense that I was starting over each time.
Eventually, we asked for a rough estimate. Winter was coming, and we needed to move fast. We said we were ready for the next step.
A few weeks later, someone came out in person to take careful measurements. This part felt grounding. He took his time, looked closely at where the windows were failing, and asked good questions. We talked about sound, light, and the character of the house. Whether we wanted the cottage-style lines the old windows had, or something simpler. He made recommendations and said he’d update the order based on what we discussed.
When the final estimate arrived the next day, we balked at the cost a bit, but approved it, put down a deposit, and were given a seven-day window when installation might happen.
I called to ask what that meant in practice. Could the windows arrive any time during that week? Would they be stored on site? Our lot is small, and we don’t have space to stash large materials.
The answer was vague. The tone shifted slightly. I had the sense I was asking the wrong kind of question.
When the crew arrived, it became clear almost immediately that the windows they brought didn’t reflect the conversation we’d had during the in-person visit. The configuration was wrong. The details were off.
I called the office to ask what had happened, and their response caught me off guard. They explained that the paperwork was what mattered. The estimate, not the conversations. The in-person visit, I was told, was for measurements only.
It hadn’t occurred to me that a careful, on-site conversation about what we wanted did not count as part of the decision-making process. But that was my assumption, not theirs.
By that point, trust was already wearing thin.
A week after installation, one of the windows failed outright. Moisture and mold began building up between the panes. I reached out immediately.
I was told that since they didn’t manufacture the windows, I’d need to contact the manufacturer myself. They offered to send me the order paperwork so I could do that.
I pushed back harder than I usually do.
From my perspective, I hadn’t bought a product. I’d hired a company to handle a problem. Noise. Cold. A failing window. I didn’t know how the window had been installed, or how to describe the issue to a manufacturer. Standing behind the work felt like part of the relationship.
At that point, my main contact refused to continue working with me and handed me off to someone else internally. That person submitted the defect claim, coordinated with the manufacturer, and, eventually, the window was repaired.
It worked out, technically. But we will emphatically not be using that window company again.
The strangest part, in retrospect, was realizing who that first point of contact had been. The person I’d initially worked with was their only marketer. Junior. Just back from an industry conference.
I’m sure she’s good at what she does, and I don’t blame her for any of this. I’ve seen this pattern too many times to mistake it for individual failure.
Junior marketers join service businesses without senior marketing leadership, and the organization tells them what marketing is. Intake. Follow-up. Estimates. Conference takeaways. They become a cog in a system they didn’t design and don’t have the authority to change. From the outside, it looks like marketing. From the inside, it’s triage.
What broke here wasn’t customer service, exactly. It was ownership.
At every step, I was trying to answer a simple question: Who owns this? Who is responsible for the whole experience?
Inside the company, a different question seemed to be guiding decisions: What process are we following?
Those two questions rarely point to the same answer.
I see versions of this across service businesses of all kinds. Law firms. Realtors. Banks. Even lawncare companies. Anywhere the work is relational, but the system underneath it is transactional. Conversations that feel like decisions to the customer. Documents that quietly override them. Accountability that points outward when something goes wrong.
Marketing alone can’t fix that. Neither can customer service. The issue lives upstream, in how authority is defined and how responsibility is distributed.
Most organizations don’t intend to design experiences like this. They just forget what it feels like to be on the other side of the system. What customers see first. What they assume counts. What they think they’re buying.
By the time winter comes, it’s already too late to repair trust.