Written by Frosty Rose

A story recently surfaced in my Facebook memories. I wanted to share it, not because it’s a unique experience, but because it’s all too common in the hustle-culture farce that is multi-level marketing in general and Mary Kay in particular.

One of Mary Kay’s favorite buzzy quotes is, “God first, Family second, Career third.” It sounds so pure on the surface. It’s attractive to women who want to set and live by their own priorities. And it’s also utterly false.

I debuted as a director in November 2016 after 10 years of struggle which culminated in finishing DIQ the only way anyone can—by cheating. By July of 2017, I was still struggling. My new unit was falling apart around me, and I was holding it together any way I could. I was working more than I ever had in any job, stressing even more than I was working, and still the ends weren’t meeting.

I had missed production/made production every other month since my debut, and the excess products that were the result of me “stretching” to hit $4,000 every other month were piling up in my office in unopened boxes. But, nonetheless, if it was to be, it was up to me. I had done the work to get to directorship and there was no way I was going to let it slip through my fingers.

On a personal level, my husband and I had been trying for a second child for almost two years, and I was finally expecting. Just a few weeks after the positive test, I started having signs of a miscarriage. While we were working with the doctors to figure out if the pregnancy was viable, I was placed on complete bed rest. For what ended up being about three weeks, the midwife demanded that I “act like a complete couch potato.”

But I had a unit to salvage. I had women to serve and my own bottom line to protect. We had missed production in June, and July was already the hardest month in the Mary Kay calendar. I couldn’t afford to take off three days, much less three weeks. Most importantly (in my warped view at the time), I would miss production for the second month in a row and lose directorship. I would also not be able to pay the bills that were due in the meantime if I didn’t sell enough mascara and lip gloss to literally keep the lights on.

So, I didn’t rest. I was far from a couch potato. The best I can remember, I held four parties during that time. The concession I made in my brain at the time was begging a unit member or prospective recruit to come with me, shadow the party, and carry my bags. At least I wasn’t schlepping 50 pounds of crap around. That had to count for something, right? I continued to hold weekly meetings—I couldn’t leave my unit without training, after all! I continued to attend all my training, still without ridiculously heavy bag in tow, but nonetheless. There might be some new scrap of information that I could glean that would turn the whole thing around.

Perhaps the worst part of the horror that was that month was the reaction from my senior director and her senior director. They both knew what was going on, at least in broad strokes, because I had a meltdown on the phone with my senior director about meeting production requirements. She encouraged me to give it my all, to “find a way, make a way.” Her senior, who is still fruitlessly striving for national, reminded me that my mantra must be, “if it’s to be, it’s up to me.” They called to offer all sorts of encouragement, all of which boiled down to reinforcing what I thought—I couldn’t stop, I had to keep working, I couldn’t give in to my “excuses.”

It didn’t make a difference, at least not for my unit production. I still missed. By the time I went to Dallas for Seminar (a can’t-miss, especially for a new director!!), I was broke and broken in a way I wasn’t yet prepared to admit. I called corporate, tearfully, from my hotel room to explain the situation and beg for an exception. They granted it and sent a peace lily to express their condolences. Unfortunately, my cat tried to eat said lily and I gave it away before I had another death on my hands.

After that phone call from the hotel, I fixed my mascara, slathered on some lipstick, and rushed across town to the reception celebrating my success as a new director. They even had a $500 check for me to reward me for my hard work that year. After the reception, I rushed back to the hotel to do a mobile deposit so the check I’d written to the water company before I left home didn’t bounce.

I did not feel successful. I did not feel supported. I felt alone in my failure, as though it was all my fault. All of it. The miscarriage. The collapse of my unit. The collapse of my second line senior’s national area. The strain on my marriage. I felt like it was all my fault.

Which, of course, is the plan in Mary Kay. Train consultants and directors to take personal responsibility, even when the fault is out of their hands, or when “excuses” are justifiable circumstances that really do require a step back. As long as each consultant is focused on her own failings, she won’t look up or around to the abysmal treatment she receives at the hands of a company that claims to be family-focused or women who claim to be her friends for life.

I make no claim that I lost my pregnancy because of Mary Kay. Not at all. I do, however, claim that what I needed in that moment was not what I received from this company and my upline. I didn’t need more stress. More guilt. More shame. I needed paid time off. Understanding coworkers who would encourage me to take care of myself and my family. Maybe a meal train or a friend to watch movies with. In short, I needed what I’ve found at every healthy workplace I’ve ever had the honor to experience. Which is the exact opposite of what I received from Mary Kay.