The Engineer, the Washer, and the Ego: Why "Knowing the Part" Isn’t the Same as Fixing the Problem 🛠️🧠

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A comedic vector illustration in a horizontal format, split vertically to show a clash of perspectives. On the left, inside a chaotic laundry room, a distressed man with messy brown hair points aggressively at a badge on his shirt that reads "ENGINEER." He holds a technical drawing while a washing machine behind him shakes violently, emitting black smoke and leaking soapy water. A speech bubble above him reads, "IT’S THE CONTROL BOARD! I’M AN ENGINEER!" On the right side, against a clean blue background, a calm female dispatcher wearing a headset sits at an organized desk. She holds a magnifying glass and a clipboard labeled "PRE-DIAGNOSIS CHECKLIST." Her speech bubble asks, "OKAY, BUT WHAT IS THE UNIT DOING OR NOT DOING? WHAT IS THE FAILURE / ISSUE?" She is surrounded by icons of a thermometer, a screwdriver, and a wrench.


In the world of appliance repair, we meet all kinds of people. We meet the frantic parents who need their dryer fixed before the soccer uniforms start to smell like a swamp, the sweet grandmothers who just want their oven to stay at 350 degrees for the Sunday roast, and then, we meet The Engineer.

Now, don't get me wrong. I have a lot of respect for engineers. They build bridges, they design spacecraft, and they make sure our world doesn’t literally fall apart. But when an engineer calls an appliance repair shop, something funny happens. They stop being a person with a broken washer and they start being a detective who has already decided who the murderer is before even looking at the crime scene.

I had a call just like this today. It started out like any other triage session. My job, as the remote office manager and resident "Appliance Whisperer," is to gather the symptoms. I am the triage nurse of the laundry room. Before the "surgeon" (our technician) can go in, I need to know where it hurts.

"Thank you for calling," I said, my voice as supportive and professional as a fresh set of linens. "Tell me, what is your washer doing, or not doing?"

There was a pause, the kind of pause that usually precedes a very confident statement.

"I think it’s the control board," he said.

I nodded to myself, even though he couldn't see me. "Okay, the control board is a possibility. But help me understand the symptoms. What is the unit actually doing? Is it not draining? Is it not spinning? Is it making a sound like a jet engine taking off in your basement?"

"I’m an engineer," he replied, as if that was the symptom itself. "And I think it’s the control board."

At this point, I had to take a deep breath and remember my "Mind over Matter" framework. In his mind, he was being helpful. He was skipping the small talk and getting right to the "logical" conclusion. But in my world, jumping to the control board is like going to the doctor and saying, "I need a heart transplant," without mentioning that you actually just stubbed your toe.

I tried again. "I understand you have a background in engineering, and that is incredibly helpful. Truly. But for our technician to perform a proper pre-diagnosis, I need the simplest form of the failure. If you were the washer, what would you be complaining about?"

"It’s the control board," he repeated.


A comedic vector illustration showing a man with messy hair trapped inside a swirling blue vortex labeled "EGO VORTEX." He is pointing frantically at his "ENGINEER" badge while tools like magnifying glasses and wrenches spin out of his reach. The vortex contains chaotic text labels such as "Jumping to Conclusions" and "Expertise Paralysis." To the right, a professional woman with a headset looks overwhelmed as she tries to hold up a "Pre-Diagnosis Checklist" against a literal waterfall of water labeled "Theoretical Solution." A leaking washing machine sits in the background with a sign that reads, "But what is it DOING?" A large text block at the bottom quotes a grandmotherly figure saying, "If the tension is off... you stop and find where it went wrong."


Folks, this is what I call "Expertise Paralysis." It’s when you are so educated on how a machine should work that you stop observing how it is working. It reminded me so much of my grandmother and her crochet.

Granny used to sit in her floral armchair, the yarn dancing between her fingers like it was part of her own skin. Every now and then, she would stop, sigh, and start pulling the yarn back, unraveling minutes of hard work.

"Granny, what are you doing?" I’d ask. "It looks fine to me."

"It looks fine to the eye," she’d say, "but I lost a stitch three rows back. If the tension is off there, the whole blanket is going to warp. You can’t just keep crocheting and hope the yarn forgets the mistake."

She didn't care about the "why" of the yarn or the chemical makeup of the wool. She cared about the stitch. She cared about the symptom.

When a customer tells me "it’s the control board," they are trying to crochet three rows ahead without checking the tension. As a dispatcher, I don’t need you to be the mechanic, I need you to be the witness. If you tell me it’s the control board and I send a tech out with a $400 part, only to find out that a rogue bobby pin is stuck in the drain pump, we’ve both wasted time and money.

There is a certain humility required in being a customer. You have to be willing to "dumb it down" to the simplest form. Is there water on the floor? Yes or no. Does it shake like it’s possessed by a poltergeist during the spin cycle? Yes or no.


A humorous vector illustration depicting a massive tsunami wave made of words like "ENGINEER!", "CEO!", "MANAGER!", and "DOCTOR!" crashing across the screen. Several identical men with frantic expressions are caught in the crest of the wave, still trying to point to their professional titles. On the right, a professional woman sits at a desk, looking shocked while holding up a sign that says "DUMB IT DOWN TO THE SIMPLEST FORM." Her desk is being flooded by the soapy water from a broken washing machine. A speech bubble from her says, "WE DON'T NEED THE PART! WE NEED THE SYMPTOM!" The bottom of the image features a footer that reads, "Observation is greater than Education! Partnership is better than Triage! Find your lost stitch!"


When we lead with our titles, whether it's "Engineer" or "CEO" or "Manager," we create a barrier to the very help we’re paying for. We get so caught up in being right that we forget we actually just want clean laundry.

This is the "Mind over Matter" shift I want to challenge you with today. Whether you’re dealing with a broken washer, a difficult project at work, or a "lost stitch" in a relationship, try to look at the symptoms first. Strip away the titles, the assumptions, and the ego.

If you call me and tell me "I think it's the control board," I’m going to keep asking you what the washer is doing. Not because I don't believe you're an engineer, but because I want to save you the $400 for a part you might not need. I want to empower you to be a partner in the repair, not just a bystander with a fancy degree.

In the end, we got there. It took a few more laps around the track, but he finally admitted the unit wasn't draining. Guess what? It probably wasn't the control board. It was likely a blockage, a "lost stitch" in the plumbing that required a simple fix, not a brain transplant for the machine.

So, the next time something in your life "breaks," take a lesson from the Engineer call. Don't worry about being the smartest person in the room. Just be the person who can describe the "leak." Once you find where the tension is off, fixing the blanket is easy.

And if you really just want to buy the control board, we’ll deliver it to you, but don't say I didn't warn you about the bobby pins!

Curious about the lessons hidden in everyday repairs? Be sure to read the full post: The Engineer, the Washer, and the Ego: Why Knowing When to Ask for Help is the Ultimate Power Move.


Catch you in the next one,

Bell Ramos 🌿

#UnscriptedParadox #BellRamos #SimplySouthern

* Welcome to my corner of the digital world. I’m a fantasy writer dedicated to exploring the 'Grey' areas of life—both in my fiction on Amazon Kindle and on my blog, Unscripted Paradox. Living in Honduras after growing up in Middle Tennessee has given me a unique perspective on the world, which I pour into my characters and my craft. When I’m not managing the operations for a busy appliance repair service, you’ll find me with a crochet hook in hand or lost in a new chapter.

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