The other day, I ordered, among other things, conditioner from Ulta. Because I am a world-class procrastinator — the kind who treats a nearly-empty bottle of conditioner like a personal challenge — I waited until I was basically massaging air bubbles out before admitting defeat.

Which meant: no shipping. Store pickup only.

Now, going into a store is my personal nightmare. I will literally risk running out of toilet paper before I’ll “pop in real quick.” But I had no choice. I ordered ahead and told myself this would be surgical: in, out, home in 15 minutes.

I had two store options:

Option 1: The Ulta I know. Seven miles west. But rush hour. I could already feel my soul dying in traffic.

Option 2: The Ulta I didn’t know. Seven miles east. No traffic.

I picked the mystery Ulta, because saving time > avoiding chaos.

Since this would be quick, I brought my foster dog, Bobo. He’d been neutered a few days earlier, so he was on light activity — and his bedrest had him one Prison Break episode away from tunneling out of my house. A short stroll from the parking lot to the counter? Harmless. Right?

Seven miles later, I pull into… a mall.

Not a strip mall with a sad Ross and a Petco. A real mall. Long hallways, confusing maps, air that smelled faintly of Wetzel’s Pretzels and broken dreams… the kind of place where dogs are most definitely not on the VIP list.

This. Was not. The plan.

I had no idea where Ulta was inside this labyrinth, and Google Maps had basically rage-quit — spinning me in circles and throwing up a shrug. It’s 90 degrees out, so leaving Bobo in the car is not an option. I hoist him like a slightly overweight football and head inside.

Twenty steps in, déjà vu slaps me in the face. I’ve been here before. Over a decade ago. With an ex. Not just any ex — one of those exes. Where you’d want to look radiant and unstoppable if you ever crossed paths again. Instead, I looked like I’d been in hiding. And to really spice it up? His parents live down the street. So this wasn’t just a mall — it was a minefield. And here I was: unwashed hair in a messy bun (not the Pinterest kind), oversized t-shirt, saggy jeans, and flip-flops clapping out my shame with every step.

Also, the A/C was broken. The mall air was 70% humidity, 20% regret, and 10% Cinnabon exhaust. I was sweating. Bobo was gently panting. He’s fine now, but if I push him, he’ll either pop a stitch or pass out. No pressure.

I find a mall map. Ulta is store #19. Easy. I set off.

Fifteen minutes later, I’ve walked clear across the mall in, possibly, the wrong direction. I’ve passed Claire’s twice. Macy’s once. Dodged a mall cop who gave me “Ma’am, is that a dog?” eyes. My deodorant had waved a white flag.

But alas — salvation! Another mall map. I check it. Ulta is still listed as store #19. But… apparently I’ve passed it? Impossible. I stare harder, as if the map might suddenly confess its lies. Check it again. And again. And again… I’m standing there, sweating and bewildered, when — like a vision — the Mall Mom appears.

She and her teenage daughter study the map. “There — number 19!” she says. I turn to her like a starving raccoon who just saw someone open a trash can.

“Are you going to Ulta?” I blurt, way too intensely for a stranger encounter.

“No,” she says. “We were just there.”

Excuse me? You were just there? How? Where? What’s this you said about #19? Isn’t that the Ulta..?? I politely ask for directions (or possibly interrogate her — hard to say). She points: “Go down this hall, turn right at the end, Ulta’s all the way down by the exit.”

I thank her, still suspicious, but start walking. Trying to walk fast enough to end this sweat lodge nightmare — but slow enough that Bobo doesn’t blow a stitch or collapse from heat. This is fine. Everything is fine.

Turn the corner… no Ulta. Keep going… still no Ulta. Then — mall cop. Of course. I clutch Bobo like contraband and crab walk behind a kiosk, scanning desperately for this fucking Ulta while trying not to look like the world’s sweatiest fugitive.

I finally straighten up, certain the coast is clear, when, in the distance, shimmering like a mirage — Ulta.

I grab my order, nearly kiss the cashier, and make for the exit… only to discover the mom was technically right. Ulta was next to an exit. Unfortunately, not the one I’d parked at. And since it was a thousand degrees outside, and the idea of wandering a parking lot felt like a true-crime podcast waiting to happen, I decided to march back through the mall.

This time, I thought I’d figured out a shortcut. A straight shot back. Easy.

Five stores in, Bobo puts on the brakes. I look down. He’s squatting.

And I see it. The poop.

Not normal poop. Post-op, medication-fueled, “soft-serve machine in hell” poop. In the middle of the food court. With me holding no cleaning supplies and approximately 12 pounds of Ulta products.

I scoop him up. The poop retreats — but it’s not gone. Oh no. It’s waiting.

I start speed-walking, trying not to jostle his stitches, which is basically an Olympic sport. My purse sliding off my arm. My two-size-too-big pants inching down my hips. Flip-flops slapping the floor like I’m being chased by an invisible drumline.

Halfway there, Bobo starts making frantic humping motions in my arms — like he’s trying to force the poop out, directly onto me. I’m muttering like a lunatic, begging the poop to retreat, whispering to Bobo that we’re almost free if he can just hold it together.

We’re weaving through shoppers, my flip-flops smacking the floor like gunfire, sweat dripping down my spine. I spot another mall cop and think, fine — arrest me, please, just drag me to the exit before this dog explodes all over me.

And then — I see it. Light streaming in. The EXIT sign glowing like salvation.

With my arms full — Bobo squirming, bags sliding, sweat dripping — I kick the automatic door button and stumble into the outdoor furnace that is East County summer. And there it is: a beacon of hope in the form of a scrappy little patch of grass.

I run. Nearly trip over my jeans. Almost drop the dog. Definitely drop my dignity. But we make it.

And what comes out of Bobo is less “turd” and more “regret smoothie.”

By some miracle, I have poop bags in my purse. I clean up, we make it to the car, crank the A/C, and press our faces to the vents like shipwreck survivors.

And I think: This really shouldn’t have been that stressful.

If I’d planned better — known the layout, picked the right entrance, left the dog at home — it would’ve been a 10-minute errand.

But I didn’t. And it wasn’t. It was chaos barely contained.

And Here’s the Thing…

That’s exactly what happens when you build a website without strategy, research, or expertise.

You think you’re saving time and money by winging it. You hand it to your cousin’s roommate’s nephew, who “knows Canva.” You skip the sitemap, the UX, the SEO. But you end up lost, retracing your steps, dodging metaphorical mall cops, and — if you’re really unlucky — holding an armful of poop you never saw coming.

So let’s talk about the most common mistakes that DIY website builders make — and how to avoid ending up in your own digital version of “lost in the mall with a French bulldog on the verge of detonation.”

8 DIY Website Mistakes That Are Costing You Customers

Let’s be real: DIY website builders make it look so easy. Drag, drop, publish—done. But your website isn’t just a digital business card. It’s your hardest-working employee. It doesn’t sleep, it doesn’t call in sick, and it should be selling for you while you drink wine and binge Netflix.

The catch? A good website has a job description. It should tell people, within seconds:

1. What problem you solve
   
2. Who you solve it for and why they should care
   
3. How you do it better or differently than anyone else
   
4. Why you’re exactly what they need, right now
   

When your site checks those boxes, visitors don’t just get what you do—they feel like you’re the answer they’ve been searching for.

But when you DIY it? It’s the digital version of holding a squirming bulldog who might erupt at any second — and realizing you have no map, no wipes, and no way out.

1. Inconsistent (or Outdated) Design

Inconsistent design is like showing up at the mall in a messy bun, saggy jeans, and flip-flops — and then running into your ex’s family. One page of your site feels modern and put-together, the next looks like it hasn’t been updated since MySpace. Suddenly, no one remembers your best days — they only see the hot mess in front of them.

Here’s what that looks like online:

• Using three different fonts that don’t belong together (Comic Sans, Times New Roman, and “something curly” you thought was cute).
  
• Clashing color palettes that make your site feel chaotic instead of cohesive.
  
• Stock photos so generic they might as well have come from “Business People Smiling Dot Com.”
  
• Layouts that scream “2008 template” with boxy sidebars and neon buttons.
  

Design isn’t about being “pretty” — it’s about trust. A consistent, modern look says: we’ve got our act together, and you can count on us. But a sloppy or outdated site? That’s the online version of running into your ex while you look like you just crawled out of a laundry hamper.

2. Confusing Navigation

Remember me circling the mall, sweating through my t-shirt, passing Claire’s twice, and wondering if Ulta was some kind of urban legend? That’s exactly what bad navigation feels like. You know what you came for, but the path to get there is so unclear that you start questioning if it even exists.

On a website that looks like:

• Drop-down menus with 12+ options (because who doesn’t love a guessing game?).
  
• Page titles that sound clever but don’t actually mean anything to the user.
  
• Important links — like Contact or Shop — buried so deep you’d need a treasure map to find them.
  
• Buttons that all say different things but lead to the exact same place.
  

When navigation is confusing, your visitor’s experience mirrors mine in the mall: sweaty, frustrated, and one wrong turn away from giving up altogether.

Clear navigation, on the other hand, is empathy in action. It’s like the Mall Mom pointing me straight toward Ulta. It says: we thought about you, we respect your time, and yes — the thing you need is right here.

3. No Clear Strategy

My fatal mistake? Picking the mystery mall with zero plan. If I’d thought it through — checked the layout, confirmed where the Ulta entrance was, maybe left Bobo at home —I could’ve avoided the minefield of broken A/C, a labyrinth of endless hallways, and the very real threat of Bobo unloading a regret smoothie all over me in the middle of the food court.

Websites without strategy are the same: a bunch of pages slapped together with no clear intention. It feels fine until you realize nothing connects, nothing builds, and suddenly you’re juggling way too much chaos you could’ve avoided.

A good strategy is your roadmap. It makes sure every headline, image, and button has a role in moving your visitor through a story, step by step:

 👉 Who are you? → What do you do? → Why should I trust you? → Why should I choose you? → What do I do next?

Without that structure, your site is just noise. Your visitors aren’t being guided — they’re the sweaty mall-wanderers, lost and frustrated, hoping they make it to the exit before everything goes off the rails.

4. Weak or Missing CTAs (Calls-to-Action)

At the mall, finding Ulta on the map was one thing — but what I really needed was someone to say: “Park at this entrance and you’ll be in and out before your dog even realizes he has to poop.” That’s what CTAs do on your website. Navigation tells people what’s available. CTAs tell them what to do next.

Without CTAs, your visitors hang around but don’t take action — like me standing in front of the mall map, sweating, not moving. Too many CTAs, though, and it’s like every kiosk salesperson screaming at you at once: “Try this lotion! Buy this hair straightener! Upgrade your cell plan!” Overwhelming.

The sweet spot is one or two clear, confident CTAs that don’t just say click me — they explain why it’s worth it.

👉 Book a call and finally get a website that does the selling for you.

That’s the difference between someone wandering aimlessly and someone walking straight out of the mall, Ulta bag in hand, Bobo still (miraculously) poop-free.

5. A Weak Hero Section

Choosing the wrong mall entrance added 4,000 unnecessary steps to my “quick errand.” What should’ve been a quick in-and-out became an exhausting, stressful detour. That’s exactly what happens when your hero section misses the mark.

The problem: If your hero is vague, stuffed with generic jargon like ‘innovative solutions,’ ‘empowering growth,’ or ‘driving excellence,’ visitors have to work to figure it out. Most won’t bother. They’ll bounce before they even give you a chance.

The benefit of getting it right: A strong hero is like parking at the right entrance. It’s effortless.

Your visitors instantly know:
👉 What problem you solve
👉 Who you solve it for
👉 Why it matters to them

In other words, no wandering, no confusion, no wasted steps. Just immediate clarity that they’re in the right place and you’re the one to help.

Example:
👉 We help small business owners transform ‘meh’ websites into money-makers.

That’s the power of a strong hero section: it saves your visitors the digital equivalent of circling the mall, and instead lets them know they’re exactly where they need to be — fast.

6. Too Much (or Too Little) Information

Too much information on a website is like going to the mall when all you really needed was a stand-alone Ulta. Suddenly, you’re wading through endless hallways, kiosks shouting for your attention, and distractions everywhere. By the time you finally get what you came for, you’re exhausted and over it.

Too little information is the opposite problem: it’s like pulling up to a mall and not being able to tell from the outside where the store you want actually is. You know what you’re looking for, but you can’t tell if you’re even in the right place — so you leave.

Your website needs to live in the sweet spot: enough information to build trust and point people in the right direction, but not so much that they feel like they’ve been dropped into an overstuffed mall directory. Just answer the essentials:
👉 What do you do?
👉 Who do you do it for?
👉 Why should I trust you?
👉 Why should I act now?

Get that balance right, and your visitors won’t feel like they’re wandering Macy’s when all they really wanted was conditioner.

7. Ignoring Mobile Responsiveness

If I’d left Bobo in the car that day, we’d have had a real emergency. Same goes for your website if you ignore mobile.

Here’s the reality: around 60% of all web traffic now comes from mobile devices (and for some industries, it’s 70%+). That means more than half of the people visiting your site aren’t on a laptop — they’re on their phone, standing in line at Starbucks, or scrolling in bed at 11 p.m. If your site only works on desktop, you’re basically locking them in a hot car with the windows rolled up.

What does that look like?

• Text so tiny you need a magnifying glass.
  
• Buttons too small to tap without fat-fingering.
  
• Layouts that break so badly they look like they were designed during dial-up.
  

And when that happens, visitors don’t wait it out. They leave. Fast.

A mobile-friendly site, on the other hand, is like cracking the A/C on full blast and letting everyone breathe easy. It tells your visitors: we see you, we respect your time, and no matter where you are, we’ve got you covered. It’s comfort, clarity, and trust — all before they’ve even scrolled.

8. Forgetting That Design + Copy Build Trust

What finally got me out of that mall? Trusting Mall Mom’s directions. Not just because she was carrying Ulta bags (though that definitely helped), but because she gave off ‘I’ve got you, girl’ energy. She understood. She’d just been where I was, figured it out, and was generous enough to point me in the right direction. And when her daughter leaned down to coo about how cute Bobo was, I felt it even more — we weren’t total strangers anymore, we’d connected.

Your website should do the same thing. Design and copy aren’t just about looking polished or sounding professional — they’re about connection. They should make your visitors feel one (or both) of these things:

• You’re part of my tribe. This business gets me; they speak my language, they understand my problem.
  
• This is a tribe I want to join. These are my kind of people, and being connected to them makes me feel like I belong.
  

That’s the deeper job of design and copy: not just to inform, but to make your visitors feel seen, understood, and invited in. Without that connection, you’re just another kiosk shouting for attention in a crowded mall. With it, you’re Mall Mom — the one who feels safe, relatable, and worth following (bonus points if you compliment the dog).

That’s how strangers on the internet turn into loyal customers who actually want to be part of what you’re building.

Final Word (and Your Next Step)

A DIY website might get you online, but it won’t get you results. Without strategy, clear copy, and intentional design, your site ends up like my trip to the mall: sweaty, stressful, and way more complicated than it had to be.

If you wanna ditch the hard stuff and focus on what you love, book a call to find out how I can help turn your website into your #1 salesperson.