Unexpected Start: A Personal Connection
I once cried in a grocery store parking lot over a stranger’s cart of bananas.
Not my proudest moment, but stay with me.
It was late, I’d just finished an exhausting week, and as I sat in my car trying to muster the energy to go inside, I noticed the woman parked next to me.
She had a toddler in one arm and a cart filled with nothing but bananas.
Dozens of them.
It was such an oddly specific sight, and for some reason, it cracked something open in me.
I thought about how she might be planning meals for a picky eater, or maybe she just really loved smoothies.
Whatever the story was, it reminded me of how much we don’t know about the quiet battles people are fighting; and how little moments of connection can matter.
That memory sticks with me when I write.
Copywriting isn’t just about selling; it’s about seeing.
It’s about recognizing that the person reading your words has their own “banana cart” story; a bundle of quirks, struggles, and needs that make them human.
And isn’t that what we’re trying to do? Speak directly to another human in a way that makes them feel seen?
I once wrote an ad for a local coffee shop that simply said, “Need five minutes to breathe?
We’ve got the coffee; you bring the chaos.” It wasn’t polished.
It wasn’t clever by agency standards.
But customers kept mentioning it when they came in, some even laughing as they juggled kids or laptops.
It worked because it mirrored real life; not some glossy, picture perfect version of it.
The best connections often come from places of imperfection.
Think about the last time a friend made you laugh by admitting something embarrassing, or when a stranger offered a kind word at just the right moment.
Those tiny cracks in the facade? That’s where the light gets in.
It’s the same with copywriting. A sterile, flawless message might be accurate, but it doesn’t feel alive.
So, here’s a thought: when was the last time you allowed yourself to be vulnerable in your writing?
Empathy in Copywriting: A Human Touch
I once rewrote an entire email because I couldn’t stop thinking about the sound my neighbor’s porch swing made that morning.
It was a low creak, almost a groan, like it carried all the weight of her world.
I’d never noticed it before, but as I watched her sit there with a mug in her hands, staring at nothing, it struck me; what kind of day makes someone need a porch swing and silence at 7 a.m.?
That feeling, that moment of wondering about her story, was exactly what the original draft of my email was missing: connection.
Not just facts or flair, but something that showed I understood the reader’s life beyond the screen.
That’s the thing about empathy.
It’s not just some lofty ideal; it’s an active choice to lean into what someone else might be carrying.
And for brands, that choice matters.
They weren’t looking for polished taglines; they wanted someone; or something, that got it.
AI can process billions of data points faster than any of us can think about breakfast, but here’s the rub: it doesn’t know what it feels like to hit “send” on a text after rehearsing it a hundred times, or to smile through tears when a stranger says something kind at just the right moment.
Empathy-based marketing works because it doesn’t just try to sell; it acknowledges.
It listens. And in a world where 64% of U.S. consumers believe companies have lost the human touch, it’s the brands that take the time to pause and see people as people who will win trust.
So, here’s what I keep asking myself: When was the last time my writing made someone feel like they weren’t just a number?
And what could I change to make that happen more often?
The Power of Imperfection
I once forgot my own tagline in a meeting.
It was for a small bakery that prided itself on handmade, from scratch treats.
I’d spent hours brainstorming the perfect phrase, something poetic and irresistible.
And when the client asked me to recite it on the spot?
My mind blanked completely.
All I could think to say was, “Um, we bake stuff… really well.”
Dead silence. Then the room erupted in laughter.
That throwaway line wasn’t even close to what I’d written, but it sparked a real, human moment.
The bakery owner loved it so much that it ended up in their next ad: “We bake stuff really well.”
That experience taught me something unexpected: people connect more with honest flubs than polished perfection.
Think about it; when was the last time you felt moved by something flawless?
Perfection can feel intimidating, distant, almost too good to trust.
But a small hiccup, like a typo or an awkward pause? That feels real. Relatable.
Another time, I was rushing to finish a newsletter for a nonprofit.
I accidentally left a half written sentence in the draft before hitting send: “Let’s change the world together by—” That’s it.
Just dangling there, unfinished.
My stomach sank when I realized, but you know what?
It started a flood of replies.
People filled in the blank with their own ideas; everything from “planting a garden” to “being kind to strangers.”
That “mistake” turned into a conversation starter.
It reminded me that imperfections don’t always detract; sometimes, they invite others in.
The truth is, we spend so much time trying to sand down the edges of our work that we forget the beauty of leaving a little texture behind.
I’m not saying you should aim for typos or mix ups.
But maybe the next time you’re obsessing over whether your draft is polished enough, ask yourself this: Does it feel human?
Could someone read it and think, “This was made by someone who gets it”?
Now, let me ask you: When was the last time a flaw in your work opened the door to something better?
Rhythm and Cadence: Writing Like You Speak
I learned the importance of rhythm in writing while trying to help my nephew with his first grade homework.
We were reading a story together, and he stopped mid sentence to say, “This book is boring.”
Brutal, but fair; the sentences were all the same length, trudging along like they had no idea how to keep a kid interested.
So, I asked him to close his eyes, and I read the next paragraph aloud, this time exaggerating the highs and lows, speeding up and slowing down like it was a bedtime story.
When I finished, he opened one eye and said, “That was better.”
Writing is a little like storytelling to a fidgety first grader.
If every sentence feels the same, your reader zones out.
A pattern of short, punchy lines mixed with longer, conversational ones keeps things alive.
Take this, for example: “This coffee is good. I like it.” Sure, it makes the point, but it’s lifeless.
Compare it to this: “This coffee? It’s like a hug in a mug; warm, comforting, and exactly what I needed today.”
Feel the difference? It breathes. It moves.
I once rewrote a social media post for a client because the original sounded robotic.
The sentences were all “Subject. Verb. Object.”
It didn’t feel like something a person would say.
So, I reworked it, tossing in pauses, questions, even a little unexpected humor.
“Tired of searching for the perfect gift? Stop. We found it.
And yes, it’s wrapped already.” That post? It tripled their engagement.
It wasn’t just words; it was a conversation.
But here’s the thing: getting the rhythm right takes practice.
I can’t count how many times I’ve stared at a draft thinking, “Why does this feel… off?”
Sometimes I read it aloud to hear where it stumbles.
Other times, I cut a sentence in half or let a phrase trail off, unfinished, to mimic how people really talk.
It’s those little tweaks that make the difference between words on a screen and a message that feels alive.
So, let me ask you: When was the last time you read your work out loud; not for grammar, but for flow?
And did it sound like you, or like a machine trying to write like you?
Proof of Humanity: Authentic Experiences
I still think about the time I accidentally burned my mom’s favorite recipe card.
It was an old index card, corners curled and smudged with years of butter and vanilla stains, the handwriting faint but unmistakably hers.
I had set it on the counter while preheating the oven and, distracted by a hundred other things, didn’t notice it had drifted too close to the stovetop.
By the time I smelled the singe, it was too late.
The edges were blackened, the ink smeared and lost in places. I felt awful; like I’d erased something irreplaceable.
But here’s the twist: my mom wasn’t mad.
She laughed and told me the recipe wasn’t in the card; it was in her hands, her memory.
“This is just paper,” she said, brushing off the ashes.
What mattered to her was the act of baking together, not the card itself. That’s what stuck with me.
I think about that story every time I write copy.
What makes something memorable? It’s not the polished, perfect details.
It’s the human moments; the warmth, the connection, the imperfection that pulls people in.
When I worked on a campaign for a kitchenware brand, I leaned into that idea.
I wrote about my grandmother’s wooden spoon, how it had a crack running down the handle from years of Sunday dinners and how she refused to replace it because “it still stirs just fine.”
The response blew me away.
People shared stories about their own family heirlooms: chipped bowls, dented pans, all filled with memories that didn’t need to be flawless to matter.
And here’s the thing: emotionally connected customers are more than twice as valuable as highly satisfied ones.
The numbers back it up, sure, but the proof is in those stories.
It’s in the grandmother who passed down her secret pie crust recipe or the dad who taught his kid how to flip pancakes with the same spatula he’d used as a kid.
That’s what makes marketing human; when it’s not about perfection, but connection.
So, let me ask you this: When was the last time your story sparked someone else’s?
Empathy Driven Marketing in Action
I still remember the day I got caught in a total downpour on my way to a meeting.
My shoes were soaked, my hair looked like a science experiment gone wrong, and the only “umbrella” I had was a takeout menu I’d grabbed from my car.
By the time I got to the office, I looked like I’d swum there.
A receptionist handed me a towel and said, “Rough morning? Coffee’s in the corner.”
That one small comment; acknowledging my very soggy, very real moment, completely reset my day.
I didn’t feel embarrassed anymore; I felt human.
That’s the power of empathy.
It’s not just noticing someone’s struggles; it’s showing you’re paying attention.
And when brands do this, it sticks.
Take Dove’s “Real Beauty” campaign.
They didn’t just slap some stock images on a poster and call it a day.
Instead, they tapped into real stories, showcasing diverse faces and redefining what beauty means.
Dove didn’t talk at their audience; they spoke with them, and the response was deeply emotional.
Empathy isn’t always grand gestures, though. Sometimes, it’s as small as changing a single word.
I once worked on an ad for a subscription box service.
The original copy said, “Your essentials, delivered.”
It was functional but flat; nothing about it felt personal.
I thought about my own life: grocery lists half-finished, mail piling up, that constant sense of being behind.
So I rewrote it: “Because life’s messy, and we can help.”
Simple, direct, and human. It tripled click-through rates.
And it makes sense.
The emotion most closely linked to increased sales in advertising is likeability.
People don’t connect with perfection; they connect with something; or someone, that gets them.
So here’s my question: when was the last time you stopped to really think about what your audience might be feeling, right now?
Maybe they’re juggling work and kids, or maybe their umbrella broke, and they’re drenched on the sidewalk.
Engaging Conclusion: A Thought Provoking Question
I’ll admit something: I almost didn’t finish writing this blog.
Somewhere between debating sentence rhythms and questioning if my examples were “good enough,” I got stuck.
You know that kind of stuck where you refresh your email five times just to avoid looking at the blinking cursor?
Yeah, that kind.
It wasn’t until I remembered the first time I really connected with a piece of writing; an old letter from my dad, written on a paper napkin while he was waiting for a flight.
The handwriting was messy, the paper torn at the edges, but it didn’t matter.
What mattered was how it made me feel. That’s the moment I came back to when I finally kept typing.
Here’s the thing: writing isn’t about getting it “perfect.” It’s about what stays with the person on the other side.
We’ve spent this whole post exploring empathy and human connection, but now it’s your turn.
Think about the last message you wrote; whether it was a marketing email, an Instagram caption, or even just a text to a friend.
Did it reflect you? Did it feel honest, even in its imperfections? Did it sound like something you’d say out loud?
Empathy-based marketing isn’t complicated, but it does require slowing down.
It means pausing to ask, “What’s my audience feeling right now?” Are they overwhelmed by choices?
Tired from an endless to do list? Or just looking for a small moment of joy in their day?
The answers are always different, but the act of asking changes everything.
We know that 95% of purchasing decisions are made subconsciously.
That means every word you choose, every story you tell, and every way you show up as a brand has the potential to resonate far deeper than logic ever could.
But here’s the kicker: it only works if you’re willing to let a little of yourself show.
So, here’s my challenge: as you sit down to write your next piece of copy, let it breathe.
Skip the urge to sand every edge smooth.
Tell a story, ask a question, or even admit you don’t have all the answers.
See how your audience responds when you leave space for a real, human connection.
Because in a world of polished headlines and perfectly curated posts, what we all really want is something; or someone, that feels real.
What’s one small way you’ll try this in your next piece of writing? Let’s see where it takes you.
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