The Story I Didn’t Want to Write: My Journey Into and Out of an MLM
This is a story about how I got involved with a multi-level marketing company and how I extracted myself after years of investment, labor, and little profit. It’s also about that weird, fuzzy intersection of capitalism, faith, and belief, and how I let the promises and enthusiasm of others drown out my gut feelings.
I’ve always been curious about what brings a person to become a devoted follower of anything. Whether a product, a trend, a belief system, or a cult, what is it that makes people so unwavering in their devotion and dependence? That level of unquestioning focus is something I am fascinated by because I was so unfamiliar with it growing up. Focus and purpose were something I craved for years because I was lacking them in my life.
And yet, I know the attraction, the undeniable pull of my desire for certainty toward those who preach it or the things that represent it. I know I am not alone in feeling this way as I have more than once bonded with others, mainly women, who are looking for meaning, value, and purpose in their lives and who have felt (and may still feel) the tractor-beam pull of those who promise answers. There is a seductive quality in the quest for a community with a shared focus that meets me at my deepest level of need. The perceived safety that comes with the group is just as seductive, with a savior-like tone, as if ONE thing could make all my uncertainty and doubt disappear like mist on the wind.
What is it about these external signifiers or groups with their promises of belonging and purpose that provide fulfillment we are otherwise missing in our lives? Is it the charismatic leader that gives us a sense of really being seen and heard? Is it the safety of a group whose members are unwavering and united under a sole focus? Is it the certainty of a system or structure that is both clear and non-negotiable, with the goalposts set in stone?
Whatever the draw, it seems to be rooted in a sense of belonging that we are somehow bereft of in our modern world.
Why would we go for these gurus, products, or programs and stay with them if they didn’t provide something that we feel we are missing?
And what happens in the face of opposition, public or personal pressure when these quests are challenged? What do we choose to do when we find evidence that we are being taken advantage of or realize that our well-intended participation in a system eats up the many forms of our investment with little return? I wish I could go back in time and coach myself into clarity around this. I did not feel strong enough to stand up for myself when things started to get weird, and I wish I made more proactive choices much earlier than I did, but there’s nothing I can do about it now apart from reflecting and writing.
What was I lacking that made me look outside of myself for belonging, or source of identity? Why did I feel I had to turn to, or derive identity and meaning from something so far outside of myself? I ask myself these questions with more compassion than ever before, and all signs point to my own lack of self-belief.
The contrasts I navigated gave rise to an eventual choice between the insufficient, attempted prosthetic against that terrible, lonely feeling of being lost or the choice to ground down into my own inherent enoughness and willingness to tell myself the truth faster.
The feelings of being alone and up against insurmountable odds were hard, and uncomfortable, and laid out a deeply personal journey. Granted, this experience is tinged in degrees with the multiple layers and filters of privilege, access, and ability. It is a messy, imperfect navigation that ultimately showed me who I really am.
This is ultimately a story of navigating shame and disappointment and of trust both formed and broken, and it begins and ends with two words: essential oils.
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I was first introduced to essential oils during a month-long massage course I took in the wake of 9/11 back in 2001. I was in my early 20s and was feeling pretty lost. I had never had a full-time job beyond being a waitress or poorly paid intern and the future was bleak. I had just moved home from France where I had tried to establish myself as a fully employed legal resident. I failed spectacularly and became sick with stress, paralyzed by headaches so bad that I thought I was dying. I wasn’t, but my dreams were. I went home, crestfallen, and trailing a thick jet stream of shame, and collapse behind me.
I realized I needed a change, and after yet another dead-end temp job, I signed up for massage school. I had always been good at giving back rubs, and it seemed like something I didn’t have to work particularly hard at to excel in. I felt a bit like a shoo-in, which was a welcome contrast to striving and failing in jobs that took no prisoners.
Over the course of the 200-hour, month-long massage intensive, I was introduced to the very real world of healing. Having felt so despondent for so long, I felt like I landed somewhere I belonged. As I learned and practiced, I came face to face with my own healing, and how much lay before me if I were to be a healer myself. In the name of personal and professional development, I stepped onto the path of healing. I continue along it one humble (and/or humiliating) step at a time.
Amidst the many lessons and practice sessions during the massage training, a friend introduced me to essential oils.
It was during an evening practicum, where we worked our practice hours off of each other. I sat down on the tightly made massage table for our pre-session check-in, and she asked if it would be okay if she used some essential oil. Unfamiliar, I shrugged a curious “Sure.” She pulled out a little brown bottle from her bag. It was so small it looked precious. The white lettering on the bottle said Frankincense, something I was familiar with from church growing up. When she unscrewed the cap and offered me the tiny bottle to smell, I inhaled and was immediately whisked away from that electric candle-lit, carpeted, concrete room to somewhere far away, wrapped in scent and comfort. The richness of the smell felt warm as I inhaled, and something deep in my abdomen relaxed with such swiftness that I sat up in surprise. She asked me if I was ok, and I said yes I was, that I had never smelled something like that before. As I transitioned onto my stomach, face down for the massage, I realized my chest felt less tight, and I could feel the faint pulse of my heartbeat in my feet. Whatever I was feeling, it was new and I liked it. The massage was delightful, and the soft, warm scent stayed with me even as we were reprimanded for using fragrance in the practice room.
After that brief introduction, I discovered that I loved essential oils. Their scents — lavender, frankincense, geranium, peppermint — were intoxicating to me. Each had unique properties and benefits. Lavender was for relaxation, Lime and Lemon for waking up and sharpening the mind, and Cedarwood for grounding and inner stability.
I was hooked.
There was a certain brand of oils used by a lot of the women I looked up to. When I asked about it, I was told that I could only get these oils if I became a member of the company, which cost money. If I paid the membership fee, I could get all the oils at a discount, and if I wanted, I could sign up and begin to sell them myself and earn a profit. I couldn’t afford any of it, but my curiosity was piqued.
The company model is what is known as an MLM, or a Multi-Level Marketing business. The Oxford Dictionary defines this business type as “the practice of selling goods or services on behalf of a company in a system whereby participants receive a commission on their sales as well as the sales of any participants they recruit.” It seemed a novel concept and pretty straightforward. I started to wonder what it would be like to be a full-time massage therapist and sell these beautiful little bottles of oil on the side. It was a beguiling thought. I had fantasies of opening a private practice, where people would come to be healed and feel whole, and I wouldn’t have to worry about anything anymore. My income, purpose, and satisfaction would all be fulfilled.
What can I say? Naivete has a steep learning curve.
Fast forward to nine years later. My life had completely changed. I had stepped back from massage as I didn’t have the stamina or interest to get licensed and pursue it as an actual career. I worked several different jobs and moved back and forth to New York City a few times. After graduate school and several surprise twists of fate, I became a full-time showgirl and artist.
One night, as I was backstage getting ready for a show, a friend passed me a bottle of White Angelica. I had never heard of it, but my eyes and ears perked up at the mention of essential oil. My friend said it was good for energetic protection, something we all valued in our particular line of work. I put a few drops on and felt surrounded by an invisible force field of scent and protection. Its gentle, herbal musk was a delight to my nose and I felt myself relax. I was in heaven.
We started to use a couple of drops of White Angelica as a ritual before shows, and I began to feel those earlier desires to work with the oils rise up anew. My friend told me that she could get the oils at wholesale prices without my having to sign up and pay a membership fee thanks to an account her friend had. They were still expensive, but the 25% discount helped. Being a full-time performer was paying some of the bills, but not all, and I had to be careful with every cent I made and spent.
Working as an artist in NYC forced me to go wide with my income sources. I started to quietly offer healing work despite being unlicensed. I was soon giving massages and reiki sessions to friends and acquaintances at heavily discounted rates. The few oils I used dovetailed beautifully with this new venture, and I freely shared the oils I had at home and in dressing rooms alike. I would apply them to friends in need of affection, healing, or just a loving touch. There was something beyond just their nice smells — there seemed to be something deeper happening that looked a lot like support and healing to me.
A few years later, I received an email from a trusted teacher inviting me to a mid-week evening of essential oils. Something inside of me clicked, and I enthusiastically RSVPd yes.
It was a cold early evening in February and I was bundled up on the B train as it rumbled its way uptown. I hugged my backpack to my chest for warmth and burrowed my face into my scarf against the draft whistling through the train car. Something about it felt a lot like fate, or at least excellent timing. Working seven days a week and barely scraping by was exhausting, and my desire for passive income and hands-off work was getting stronger and louder. I was tired of being broke and every ounce of me was ready for a new beginning. As the train got closer to the stop where I would make my way to his small garden apartment on the Upper West Side, I felt energized and excited at the prospect that this dream I had been quietly harboring could finally take root. Maybe this was finally it, what I had been waiting for all these years. As I walked up the subway stairs, I couldn’t help but wonder what was about to happen.
When I arrived at my teacher’s apartment, I was greeted with a warm room of smiling faces and hot cups of tea. I was introduced to the woman who was leading the class. We’ll call her Lauren. She was a bombastic, enthusiastic woman whom I liked immediately. We all settled into the comfortable furniture, the wind howling outside, as Lauren introduced the oils to us. She explained the chemistry behind the oils, and how the molecules of some oils bypassed the blood-brain barrier and plugged directly into the different parts of our brain, creating the impact that I knew so well. She then opened a bottle of orange oil and passed it around for everyone to smell. The bright, citrus scent felt like a wash of sunshine, and I could almost taste the juicy orange hiding within its oily rind. Lemon was next, and by the time Peppermint came around, the strangest thing happened. One person started to laugh and said that they felt high. This gave way to giggles which turned into guffaws, and before I knew it, the room was engulfed in full-body, howling laughter. I wasn’t one of the howlers, but I was smiling, surrounded by people in peals of laughter. Had the oils triggered this burst of hilarious, joyous energy? Whatever it was, it was clear to me these oils had magical attributes.
When it came time, I signed up without hesitation. I couldn’t afford one of the big enrollment kits so I ordered two bottles to start. I was a little surprised at how expensive the oils were, but if these were the purest oils on the planet, the dollar amounts were somewhat justifiable. Sixty dollars and a stack of brochures later, I was headed back home on the B train and off to the races.
Lauren called me the week after the class and asked if I would like to learn about building with oils, which is code for starting to sell oils with the intention of building a business. I said yes, and was quickly swept into orientation, followed by meetings and a flood of materials designed to educate and inform all about these lovely little bottles and their contents. She also sang the praises of our upline leaders who, in her words, were lovely, generous, and here to support all of us. They were sisters and Lauren sang their praises in a way that made me even more excited. A business with built-in mentorship? That additional backbone of support was extraordinary and something I hadn’t had in a long time. All I had to do was plug and play, learn, and sell. How simple! There was no guessing — everything I needed was all right in front of me. I didn’t need to reinvent the wheel or come up with loads of my own copy. The relief and promise were palpable. I had a lot to learn, but the thought of working in this new way with something I loved, with people who were there to support me all while being able to supplement my expenses if not outright increase my income was a huge motivation. For the first time in years, I felt excited by the promise and possibility this new endeavor held, and that felt like oxygen I couldn’t suck into my lungs fast enough.
The oils held a promise of certainty and security, two things I was lacking in my life. Everything I needed to educate and inform me was right at my fingertips so I could sell anytime or anywhere at the drop of a hat. The graphic design elements of all the materials and packaging were slick, approachable, and beautiful which in turn lent me an air of professionalism I could not have mustered otherwise. All of it was commercial catnip. My god — what I could do with it all! My inner capitalist couldn’t wait to get every bottle and in turn share and sell and build something sustainable and inspiring for myself.
Soon, Lauren and I were meeting regularly. She explained to me the income structure, and how I would earn 20% of any new enrollment for the first six weeks of their orders. There was a somewhat complex earning structure that was laid out in easy-to-read sheets with beautiful graphics in pastel colors and gentle fonts. Despite the complicated fee structure, the educational materials were reassuring and encouraging. They made it feel like everything was coming up roses, rose oil, and all.
I had also started to join weekly calls on Zoom, which was at that time a new video conferencing platform that felt very advanced. The calls were led by our upline, the two sisters Lauren had told me all about. I’ll call them Meredith and Lucy. They were two of seven children, a number of siblings I soon learned was common in Mormonism. They were beautiful, approachable, and kind, and they knew what they were talking about. They were both big earners in the company. Meredith and her husband Sam were Diamond level, which meant they were earning at least 200K per year. Meredith’s older sister Lucy was next, one upline level above Meredith, and she and her husband Kevin held the rank of Blue Diamond which meant they were earning close to 500K per year. That was serious money, and I knew that if I listened to them, I could start to earn a proper, lasting income.
With each passing weekly meeting, I became quite fond of these women. They were steady, focused, and encouraging with their guidance and advice. If I was feeling insecure or had questions about the business, they always had an answer that felt uplifting. The regularity and structure of the calls felt really good to me. Every week at the same time, the consistency was comforting amidst the chaos of my life as I scrambled to live paycheck to paycheck. I found myself daydreaming that one day I too could be like them, rising above my financial insecurity while leading calls and inspiring people across the world to both chase their dreams and build our businesses together.
Many MLMs are based in Utah and owned by observant Mormons. According to one article I read, there are 70 MLMs in Utah alone and the LDS culture lends itself very well to this business model. LDS stands for Church of Latter-Day Saints, also known as Mormonism. Large families are the bedrock of this uniquely American religion and large families give way to huge circles of contact that span the globe. Before getting involved with the oils, my impressions of Mormons were they were brainwashed, somewhat suspect, and selling something I wanted no part of. But then the oils entered the picture, and my image of them was suddenly up for negotiation in light of wanting to own and profit personally from what they were selling. I am not proud of this pivot, and I fell right into their expertly laid capitalist fantasy, no doubt informed by the very structure of their religion. In some ways, Mormonism is a marketing success thanks to the church’s backbone structure of missionary work, going out to various corners of the globe and trying to convert people to their religion with the promise of salvation and belonging. For a religion that was started less than 200 years ago and now has over 16.8 million members, I’d say its marketing has worked exceptionally well.
Mormonism is a uniquely American and overwhelmingly White religion that prides itself on its exclusivity and membership. White saviorism runs rampant, with glorified examples of blond, White people smiling among the people of indigenous villages, implying look how we saved these savages from themselves. Those missionaries are part of a long and crucial tradition within Mormonism. Success and service are measured in conversions, or to borrow a phrase, enrollments. Like any good brand, theirs was carried by the missionaries and was clearly recognizable from fifty feet away. It always struck me as odd how many young Mormons would do their missionary work all looking the exact same — short-sleeved white shirts, black pants, and black name tags that clearly introduce themselves. They always seemed like moving targets, sticking out like sore thumbs with their wide-eyed countenances on the NYC subway, or walking down the street. I avoided them like the plague, feeling a little bad for them but not bad enough to think beyond steering clear of them. There was something so earnest and focused about them despite their inherent creepiness. The missionaries are recruiters, all selling the same narrative and trying to score some conversions, marketing in the name of God not for a product, but for your soul.
Much like those missionary goals, MLMs are complicated structures that incentivize growth both wide and deep. There are uplines, who are the people who signed up whoever signed you up (and so up,) and there are downlines, the lines of people that you sign up who then go on to sign others up, and so on. Lauren was my immediate upline, and above her were Meredity, Lucy, and several more, higher-ranking and higher-earning people whose incomes were the stuff of dreams.
Lauren had told me that Lucy and Meredith were Mormons, but it took me some time to realize how deeply religious they were. The first clue was when Lauren dissuaded me from talking about my career in burlesque on the group calls and instead encouraged me to focus on the business. It became apparent that they were conservative Christians and very active in their church. Their Christian faith was a huge rock upon which everything in their lives was anchored. My inspiration slowly started to morph into horror. I hadn’t known many deeply religious people, and the ones I knew were odious at best. My first instinct was to be respectful, but I started to become curious and wary.
I grew up hating the Christian church because of the exclusivity and separation it promoted. I couldn’t understand how a religion based on love could create followings that enshrined judgment so brashly, saying certain people and certain bodies were more or less valuable than others. Those were the examples I was shown time and time again, and I couldn’t reconcile it with my own gut feeling of unease. At a young age, I became disillusioned with God and made the choice very early on that anyone religious was suspect. My concept of faith was injuriously impacted and I struggled with having faith in anything, much less myself.
I hadn’t realized the depth of this deficit until I found comfort in these group calls talking about sales and oils and passive income. During every group call, these women were repeating have faith, have faith, like a mantra. Watching these pretty, blonde women talk about faith and show up for themselves, their families, and their businesses with such consistency was mind-blowing to me. What was it like to believe something so fully that everything else in life falls into place? They made it all seem so easy, so effortless. Because of their all-encompassing faith, both sisters had been able to give up their jobs and just sell the oils full-time. Rather, their husbands had been able to give up their jobs and ride their wives’ coattails. How…revolutionary? Even though I later learned the word would catch bitterly in their throats, they seemed feminist to me. But what did I know?
I came up against a friction of belief much like a car hitting a wall when I realized I was working for people whose faith was in direct conflict with what I held most dear. As someone who was taking her clothes off for money and falling in love with a woman who would later become my wife, all the while surrounded by beautiful queerdos, the joy, and delight I felt was anathema to my upline, and vice versa. By this time, I was already invested in the business, and this new reality put a kink into the pipelines I had been building toward my dreams. I assuaged my anxiety with the lukewarm comfort of “it’s just business” and that it didn’t have to be personal. I didn’t know how to make sense of this stark, horrible contrast when I was already so invested, so I didn’t. At the end of the day, it all boiled down to sales, and that’s what I was in this business for. I swallowed my misgivings and started to focus on earning income, ignoring the growing feeling of dread in the pit of my stomach.
To start our successful sales journey, we were told to write out a list of 100 names of people we could share the oils with. I never made it past 40, but even then I was told to start at the top of the list and connect with each person I had listed to see if they were interested in learning more. It seemed predatory to me, mining my personal relationships for profit. The pressure and expectation were immense and I didn’t want to compromise my friendships, the backbone of the referral network. During one training, my senior upline Lucy laughingly told the story of how she called all of her family members and told them to sign up at the highest possible price points, which they did. I could never imagine telling my family to do something similar. She was a multi-millionaire, so clearly, that had worked for her, but I couldn’t bear the thought of doing something similar. I wanted to do this my way, in a way that felt good, so I bought a “class in a box”, their insta-sales tool kit, and went to work.
I started teaching classes, as I had been shown. Some people were interested, some enrolled, and others couldn’t find the exit fast enough. I discovered that I loved teaching and sharing, connecting with people, and answering their questions. It was exhilarating despite the low success rate I had in enrolling people. I was told that I just needed to keep plugging away because sooner or later, good things would happen and my dreams would come true if I worked hard enough.
I soon learned I had to be thinking about structure, and about how I wanted people like me who were fellow builders on my “front line.” If three people on my front line ordered more than $100 any given month, I would get a $50 bonus. With this extra money as an incentive, I had to give a lot of thought to where I wanted to place certain people in my sales “tree” in order to deepen my business structure and earn more money. The financial incentive compounded handsomely if the structure was successfully replicated down my sales lines. For each person I signed up, I needed to figure out if they were a builder, a sharer, or someone who just used the oils. Depending on their engagement level, I had to be strategic because the deeper the branches, the more I stood to earn.
It seemed straightforward and easy. All I needed to do was find people who wanted to build like me. I had never done anything like this before, but despite some creeping anxiety and worry about performing well, I leaned in and went for it.
Throughout the many trainings I attended, I kept hearing the term ‘servant leadership’ which made my skin crawl. However, if I was going to succeed at this business and make my income dreams come true, I had to look past my resistance and find the gems amidst the religiously informed vocabulary. I wasn’t interested in being anyone’s servant, but the value and importance of service had been one of the biggest lessons I had learned in my own spiritual journey. I twisted this terrible phrase into one that landed more comfortably for me — that I could lead through providing service. It didn’t have the same passive-aggressive, proto-masochistic feel that the term servant leadership carried. I was good at contorting myself around my own misgivings and discomfort. It was all in the name of profit and financial independence, and so deeper into a pretzel I went, bending my core values in the process.
When I mentioned this new pursuit to some of my close friends, most were supportive, but a few turned up their noses. “Ew, an MLM?” one said “I don’t trust them. They’re all pyramid schemes.” My stomach dropped when I heard that, and I brought the same question to Lauren. She countered with a litany of defenses including that it was impossible for the company to be a pyramid scheme because everyone was earning something every time people ordered a product. I was quick to swallow what she told me, along with my misgivings, but they sat in my gut going nowhere.
My friends and family were very kind to me, but I could hear their judgment and misgivings in between their sweet words and replies (or complete lack thereof.) When I brought it up to my mom, she gave me a funny look and asked which cult I was supporting. My sister-in-law straight-up cold-shouldered me which felt horrible until my brother told me that she hates MLMs with a passion and that I shouldn’t take it personally. Along with a few other cool replies, I knew I was treading a dangerous line that could hurt the relationships I held closest. What was more important — profit or people? Unfortunately, more times than not, I chose profit.
I stuck at it and gradually moved up in rank over the years. These ranks were not static. Just because I hit one major rank one month didn’t mean I would maintain it the next month, especially if my downline had sluggish sales. Even if I hit the next rank, the earnings were meager. The company made a show of hitting certain ranks, including being mailed a certificate, or even a pin. There were bigger acknowledgments, but I never hit those ranks to find out. Despite earning the company over $3000 in sales monthly, I was walking away with maybe $200. No matter what I had earned the month prior, at the beginning of the following month, I was back at zero. It was excruciating like a carrot being dangled in front of me to keep me pulling the same heavy load that someone else was ultimately profiting from.
The voice of doubt in me began to get louder. I started to have a harder time talking myself out of my misgivings. This company was different, I would think in response to any internal criticism, and I was different than everyone else doing this! I was going to break records and make a name for myself! Or so I thought and was taught during each of our business meetings. But a louder, heavier feeling was beginning to emerge. What would I have to do to succeed? Strong arm my nearest and dearest friends to buy products so that I could profit? I couldn’t reconcile it, and yet I was already in so deep that I found myself regularly scrambling to justify, pivot, and come up with new strategies only to be led back to the same 100 names list exercise. What about your postman, supermarket worker, or butcher? Your distant aunt, cousin, or friendly yoga teacher? The questions I asked would come back with these suggestions over, and over again. I was determined to succeed, but at what cost?
I tried to squirm my way through using the oils as non-predatorily as possible, like using the oils educationally and making things like sprays, candles, and bath bombs with groups. And it was working, kind of. And then Trump got elected and I really saw who I was working for.
Waking up on the morning of November 9, 2016, was brutal. I was numb with shock that Trump had just been elected. That numbness continued with the dawning horror that inauguration was unavoidable. Women’s marches were organized all over the country for the day after the inauguration, and although I couldn’t go, my heart and soul were wearing their own pink pussy hat as I watched my friends and family go out into the streets and push back against the slime that was oozing into our government.
I opened up Facebook that morning and saw a picture of women wearing their pink pussy hats walking down a side street in Washington DC. I was surprised to see that it was Meredith who had posted it, and as I read the text of her post, my heart sank as my blood pressure shot through the roof. She wrote how she was watching these women and laughing at their stupidity, at how pointless and ungrateful they were because Trump was rightfully elected and would be a great leader. The misogyny and white supremacy of her words were searing to my eyes and I realized I couldn’t avoid this any longer.
As a Mormon, it is very common (and in some cases required) to give 10% of all earnings to the church. By continuing to pay into this company with my money and labor, I was actively investing against my own values. My upline was opposed to every single one of the issues that I care about most, and as a result of my hard work, I was indirectly contributing to their church and the causes and efforts held dear to it. This tithing is standard and a source of big pride for many. I have zero doubt that 10% of the commission my upline earned went to the church, which included the money they made from my sales. The LDS church regularly advocates against what I value most — my very gay marriage, women’s health, safe harbor for immigrants and refugees, and the fact that Black Lives Matter. Their overwhelmingly White church is monolithic, insular to the point of suffocation, and so conservative that love seems antithetical to their cause.
I realized these leaders I had looked up to, given money to, and supported through my monthly purchases were going to keep doing their thing no matter what. Our relationship was one of business, not friendship. There were no loyalties, so what was stopping me from me doing me?
The deeper, harder truth was that I wasn’t meant to do this work. I was staying small behind a product instead of going after what I wanted in my career. It was easy to be complacent with a crap income trickling in. Frankly, I had never known differently, so it was a comfortable pattern. Torrents of grief and anxiety rose up as I began to take steps back. I dreaded the monthly accountability calls and eventually stopped showing up to meetings and answering their emails and texts. Apart from one short text saying that I was stepping back from the business and a quick acknowledgment, I never heard from my upline again. Years of work, meetings, and retreats amounted to nothing but feelings of disgust and grief along with a cabinet full of oils.
The hardest part of this horrible wake-up call was the shame and sadness I felt when I thought about the people I had recruited into the business. I felt like I let them down. They signed up of their own free will, but when I saw how little we were all making monthly as compared to all the work we were pouring in, it left an increasingly uneasy feeling that I tried my best to spin into better luck next month. I thought back to the countless hours of meetings, presentations, classes, and strategy sessions we all did together and felt enormously grateful amidst the surges of grief and shame. I apologized to some, wishing that things had turned out better, but there are many I never told and likely won’t as so much time has passed and they stopped ordering years ago.
MLMs are not going anywhere. They’re neither good nor bad — their structure is what it is. I implore anyone interested in earning residual income to take a long, hard look at the numbers, the money, and where all your labor leads to and what it actually earns you. More importantly, are you building your own genuine happiness, or commissions into the pockets of people who vote against your interests? The choice is yours. I’ve made mine, and I feel increasing peace with it despite the echoing pangs of remorse.
Despite the messy feelings yet to be fully resolved, I am grateful for the experience. It made me learn how to prioritize my needs in the face of slick, seductive possibilities. It forced me to stand up for myself and learn how to ask hard questions and have hard conversations. It made me realize how much I love bringing people together and sharing something I am passionate about.
I still use the oils, but I let my newsletter go cold, and long ago bagged up all the supplies I had accumulated into reusable shopping bags that have been hauled through three separate moves in as many states. I have oils in every bathroom, free to be used by whoever wants. I no longer follow or am in touch with anyone from my upline. Something about it feels very hollow and loose, like a ripped plastic bag blowing down a windy street. But I am grateful to have finally pulled the plug. I just wish I had done so earlier.
