The 5 Stages of Surviving Customer Service Hell

They want us to give up. Instead, we turn hold music into a masterclass in endurance.

There are few things in life that unite women across all backgrounds, cultures, and tax brackets quite like the soul-crushing experience of trying to contact customer service.

It doesn’t matter what the issue is—internet’s down, credit card approved a $700 cat stroller from India, or your brand-new Vitamix arrived looking like it went 10 rounds with a forklift. You, a rational woman, think: “I’ll just call customer service. This should only take a minute.”

This delusion stems from being old enough to remember when “customer service” meant talking to an actual human who could, you know, provide service. Now it’s a psychological experiment in how far one woman can unravel before she’s transferred to “someone who can better assist you.”

Spoiler: No one can.

You can only save yourself.

So grab a snack, maybe a drink, and cancel your plans for the day.

Because while they can put us on hold, they’ll never hold us down.

Stage 1: Denial

“It won’t be that bad.”

You’re a little annoyed, but calm. No doubt a helpful customer service agent for a multibillion-dollar corporation recognizes that women over 50 hold more than $15 trillion in purchasing power. They’ll be more than happy to solve this for you while likely getting underpaid minimum wage.

So you start online. The website redirects you to the app. The app redirects you to a “help” article titled How to Smile Through the Indignity of Being Ignored.

So you try again.

And again.

You locate the “Contact Us” page which takes you to another chatbot. The chatbot gives you another “helpful” article that links you to a page that links you back to the chatbot, who now has amnesia and a judgmental tone.

Fifty minutes later, you’ve made three different accounts just to delete your accounts, entered your birth date and eye color twice, and you’re no closer to finding out why a cat in India is rolling around in style on your dime.

But you’re still hopeful. Like when you buy a $58 wrinkle cream. Or kale. You take a deep breath and sip of your once-hot-now-iced tea and naively say out loud, “I’ll call the service number instead.”

That’s more than denial.

That’s delusion.

Stage 2: Anger

“PUT A DAMN HUMAN ON THE LINE!”

The delusion doesn’t last long. Now you’re in an automated phone maze. The robot keeps saying, “Sorry, I didn’t catch that. Did you say ‘cheese platter?’” You’re pressing zero so hard your Apple Watch asks if you’re logging a workout. You’ve screamed “REPRESENTATIVE!” at your phone louder than you’ve ever yelled at your kids. Or your husband. Or your houseplants.

Your peace lily instantly dies from the stress.

You’ve spoken to three representatives. Each wants your “case number, date of your last period, and your first pet’s horoscope sign.” They all transfer you to a line that mysteriously drops, much like your faith in humanity.

You’re on your sixth attempt to “verify your identity.”

Your identity has become rage.

Steve from support has now been “just checking on something” for 47 minutes. The hold music loops so many times you’re convinced it was composed by Satan himself with a guitar and a grudge.

Every 90 seconds, a chipper voice lies: “Your call is very important to us!”

You feel your soul leaving your body.

You text your best friend, “If I die on this call, share my story. It needs to be told.”

Stage 3: Bargaining

“Okay, I’ll stay on hold. Just please don’t disconnect me again.”

You start making deals with yourself: “If I can talk to a person in the next 10 minutes, I’ll start doing yoga instead of just wearing the pants. Stop impulsively buying shoes at 1 a.m. I’ll even volunteer. Maybe.”

When you finally reach a human, you unleash decades of charm you’ve been perfecting while breaking through the glass ceiling. You laugh at the rep’s tired jokes. You say it’s fine when you’re transferred again to “a different department.”

You’re now offering emotional support in exchange for a tracking number. “I completely understand, Marco. It must be hard taking calls all day. Do you want to talk about it? I’ll stay on the line while you cry if you just tell me where my blender is.”

Marco isn’t ready to open up. You’re transferred. Again.

You whisper to the cat, “Don’t I deserve happiness?”

He ignores you.

He’s still mad about the yelling.

Stage 4: Depression

“This is my life now.”

Your call history is 90 percent “customer support” and 10 percent your therapist’s emergency number. You can’t remember what the problem was. Something about a missing product? An incorrect charge? Global warming? Who can say at this point.

You attempt another online form but give up. The CAPTCHA keeps insisting you’re not a person. And honestly? You’re not even sure anymore.

You lie down on the floor and stare at the ceiling. Crumbs from the emotional support cake you’ve been self-medicating with fall on the carpet. A tinny version of the Titanic theme trickles through your speaker. You cry a little. Not because you’re weak or now out of cake, but because this is clearly a test from the universe.

And you feel like you’re failing.

Stage 5: Acceptance

“It is what it is.”

You stop fighting. No one is coming to save you. You breathe. You start letting go. You’re no longer the bright-eyed woman who once believed in things like “chat support,” tracking numbers, and happiness.

And then … it happens.

The rep fixes it. The package is found. Charges are reversed. The password is reset without you sacrificing your firstborn.

You sit in disbelief like a woman just told that wine no longer has calories.

You’re not a victim. You’re a survivor. You’ve gone through emotional CrossFit and 19 new passwords. You’ve come out on the other side.

But most importantly?

You’re a cautionary tale to companies everywhere: Never underestimate the power of a middle-aged woman who just wants some damn respect.

And her new Vitamix.

Give Credit Where Credit Is Due 

Clearly customer service isn’t about fixing your problem. It’s a character-building exercise sponsored by hell, Xfinity, and FedEx. Companies assume you’ll shrink and give up.

But they’re sorely mistaken.

Women are strong. We’ve fought tougher battles, like removing waterproof mascara or explaining to a man that “I disagree” isn’t a hormonal mood swing and feminist rage.

So yes, the system is frustrating. Yes, it tests your sanity and will to live.

But if they mess with us? They’ll regret it.

We have receipts.

We write scathing reviews.

We get everything we deserve.

And if we play our cards right?

We also get store credit.