Confessions of Serial Side Hussler
At some point in my life, I got it into my head that the next big thing was always just one starter kit away.
It started, as these things often do, with admiration. Some women I respected—smart, capable, magnetic women—invited me to join Origami Owl and TEAM. I didn’t join because I was easily swayed. I joined because I believed in them. If they saw something in it—and maybe in me—then surely it was worth a shot.
Origami Owl was all about lockets filled with tiny charms that told your life story. Mine told the story of high hopes, a shrinking savings account, and way too many charms shaped like flip-flops and coffee cups.
Then there was TEAM, which stood for Think, Educate, and Motivate. And to be fair, I tried. I thought. I attempted to educate. I threw some motivation at the wall. But it didn’t take long to realize what we were really doing: selling books. Self-help books, leadership books, motivational books… to each other. It was less about changing lives and more about restocking your upline’s bookshelf. The product wasn’t the point. The system was the product. And that didn’t sit right with me.
Next came Thirty-One Gifts, and this one? I genuinely loved. Totes, bins, pouches—organizing heaven. It wasn’t just a business; it was a lifestyle for someone who believes every item in life deserves its own designated bag. I still think about some of those products like lost friends.
Same with Pikle—brilliant organizing inserts, totally useful. Even my kids liked the ones I gave them. Everything in its place, ready to go. The only problem? The Pikle covers. Let’s just say they looked like the inside of a 1992 minivan had a craft accident. Useful, yes. Stylish? Not even a little.
Then came the “I just want the starter kit” phase:
Jamberry? I actually loved the product. The wraps were adorable, and the idea of salon-worthy nails from my living room was appealing. There was just one problem—my nails were so short, I was basically trying to apply nail wraps to Tic Tacs. It wasn’t cute.
Norwex? Same deal. Magical cloths, toxin-free cleaning, and great value in the starter kit. I got what I came for, then quietly backed away before anyone expected me to scrub a toilet on camera or explain how microfiber works at the molecular level.
But here’s the real kicker: every single one of these ventures came with the same playbook. Step one? Cold call your friends and family. Make a list of 100 people. Send the messages. Host the parties. Hustle the hustle. I couldn’t do it. The idea of turning relationships into transactions made my stomach turn. I wanted to connect, not convert.
Each business came with excitement, a sense of purpose, and that familiar little flicker of this time, maybe…. I wasn’t just chasing money—I was chasing momentum. A spark. Something of my own.
However, the truth is that I had a serious lack of vision. Not effort, not passion—just no clear sense of where any of these ventures were really going, or whether they were ever meant for me in the first place. I said yes too fast, asked too few questions, and focused more on possibility than practicality.
But more than anything, I know this: I wasn’t looking for a miracle product. I was looking to get rich fast. I wanted something that would bring in money without the mess, the stress, or the sales pitch. But what I found instead was a very expensive way to learn that I’m not a salesperson. If someone says no, I’m done. I don’t have it in me to convince, to push, or to pretend I believe in something just to make a buck.
In the end, I wasn’t meant to sell products—I was meant to learn what actually matters to me. And none of it comes in a starter kit.
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