Thoughts from the Hobbit House | 22 Hours on Hold: My Battle for Justice and a Refund

What does it take to survive—and even win—in trying times?.

Recently, in my search for answers, I found myself locked in battle with a giant and sinister cell phone company. It was not a battle I had planned to fight, but history rarely asks our permission.

The experience tested my resolve.
It humbled me.
It forced me to confront the limits of human patience.

But it also revealed a few truths about perseverance, advocacy, and the strange heroism required to navigate a corporate customer service portal. These truths I’ve found applicable to other aspects of our current times.

This is that story.

I care about nonprofits. A lot.

I work with them.
I advocate for them.
And sometimes… I go to war on their behalf armed only with caffeine, screenshots, and an unreasonable belief in justice.

Now to be clear, this story is not merely about a skirmish with a large, ethically questionable telecommunications corporation. (Though it is also very much about that.) Beneath the surface lies something more universal: the quiet, absurd, often exhausting work of standing up for something that matters.

Our saga began with a billing mistake.

A nonprofit I care deeply about had been overcharged by several thousand dollars. For a nonprofit, that is not “oops money.” That is we-could-fund-an-actual-program-with-that money.

In March of 2024, a customer service representative acknowledged the error and declared confidently:

“This was our fault. It’s been taken care of.”

Reader, it had not been taken care of.

Not even a little.

Three additional representatives.
Two store visits.
An email confirming it was “resolved.”
Even the website claimed it had been fixed.

It had not been fixed.

Instead, the charges had been quietly relocated to what can only be described as a dark, mystical corner of the billing portal—a place where unresolved balances, abandoned hope, and perhaps several missing socks go to die.

Two years later the issue resurfaced and came to my attention. Thinking this would be a quick victory—surely a simple correction—I volunteered to resolve it.

Thus began a four-week odyssey through the labyrinth of modern customer service.

Here is a brief summary of the campaign:

14+ verified hours speaking with representatives
4 additional hours on hold listening to music clearly designed by behavioral scientists to dissolve human willpower
3 separate cell phone stores visited in person each of which told me the other could help me, but who were unable to actually use one of the cell phones they sell to call and confirm this. They could not help me.
23 named representatives, including Eyesha, Brad, Alex, Aramey, Wes, Marcus, Destiny, Rochele, MH, Therese, Abhishek, Sunny, Pearl, Nameera, Dipankar, Alish, Reyna (twice), Anthony, Noel, three “Live Agents,” one mysterious “Service Rep”, and a series of artificial intelligence bots who may or may not have been sentient
3 hang-ups (after I had been on hold for more than 30 minutes each time)
9 assurances that the issue had been fixed
11 promised deadlines that came and went like migratory birds

At one point the company locked me out of the account entirely for “security reasons.” Apparently, there had been too many calls regarding the issue, which triggered an automated account lockdown.

Yes. I had been punished for trying to fix their mistake.

I responded in the only reasonable way available to me.

I documented everything.

Every promise.
Every deadline.
Every name.

Thirty-plus pages of notes accumulated. I began quoting representatives’ own assurances back to them like a nonprofit-supporting courtroom drama.

“Don’t worry, this will be resolved in 3–4 business days.”

(It was not.)

“I will call you Thursday.”

(He did not.)

“You’ll receive an update within 24 hours.”

(I did not.)

At one point, after hours on the phone with a representative named Alex, I attempted an appeal to shared humanity:

“Alex, if that is your name, I want to believe that wherever you are on the other end of this phone, you are a real human being with feelings and a desire to be courageous today. Because that’s what I’m trying to be over here. Can we be courageous together? Help me, Alex. You’re my only hope.”

Yes, I quoted Princess Leia.

Desperate times.

Later, during a particularly fragile moment, I asked another representative:

“Wes, do customers cry when they talk to you? Does this job slowly break people until they sob quietly on the phone? Because I’m close, Wes. I am very close.”

In hindsight, perhaps theatrical.

But it had been a long day.

Eventually I was transferred to Pearl, the supervisor’s supervisor—the most powerful person I had yet waited on hold to reach.

“Pearl,” I said, “you have power. The question is whether you will use it for good or for evil.”

Pearl assured me she had chosen good.

She had not.

But then, three days ago, something miraculous happened.

The credit appeared.

Several thousand dollars—restored.

The correct pricing—fixed.

Justice—achieved.

In that moment I experienced a level of triumph typically reserved for Olympic athletes and people who successfully assemble IKEA furniture on the first try.

My poor dog absorbed the brunt of my exhausted celebratory affection. She is not a particularly good kisser, but she rose admirably to the occasion.

Victory.

Not glamorous.

But meaningful.

Advocacy is not always a microphone and a stage.

Sometimes it is a spreadsheet and stubbornness.

Sometimes it is refusing to accept “system error” as a final answer.

Sometimes it is loving a mission enough to stay on hold for twenty-two cumulative hours.

And here is the deeper lesson this absurd journey revealed:

Whether you are defending the mission of a nonprofit—or the future of a country you care about—do not simply be loud.

Be persistent.

Ask questions.
Audit systems.
Push back when something does not make sense.