Chapter Eight - Exit Wounds

CHAPTER EIGHT

Exit Wounds

“IT WAS JUST a summer job.”
(Then why am I still recovering from it three years later?)

The gig ends.

You fly home.
Your tan fades.
You unpack your suitcase full of polos, crushed business cards, and existential dread.

And people say:

“So how was it?”

You smile and say:

“It was… a learning experience.”

But inside?

You’re still trying to figure out what the hell just happened.

At first, it feels like freedom.

No more 12-hour days.
No more “push through, bro.”
No more smiling at angry suburban dads.

But then, you realize your body’s still tense.
You flinch when someone rings the doorbell.
You wake up thinking you missed morning meeting.
You check Slack out of habit and remember, oh yeah, you’re not on a team anymore.

Your brain stays in war mode long after the battlefield shuts down.

Remember that $20K you “made”?

Now subtract back taxes, living expenses you fronted, deals that canceled post-season, random fees and “adjustments” from corporate, and the emotional cost of buying yourself a PS5 to feel again.

A lot of reps end up with $0–2,000 net profit.

For 3 months of hell.

That’s below minimum wage.

And if you took time off school or work to chase that dream?

You may have paid for the privilege of burning out.

When you were knocking, you had a purpose.

Even if it sucked, you were part of something.
You had a team.
A role.
An identity.

Then you get home and…

No one cares.
No one gets it.
And you’re back to being just you.

That’s when the crash hits hardest.

You don’t just lose the job.
You lose the story you told yourself about who you were.

And what’s left?

Guilt. Confusion. And a deep sense of “was any of that real?”

This isn’t dramatic.

It’s common.

Thousands of ex-reps quietly deal with anxiety, depression, insomnia, burnout, trust issues, resentment, emotional numbness, social withdrawal, and total disillusionment with leadership and “success.”

But they don’t talk about it.
Because the whole job trained them to pretend everything’s fine.

Try telling your friends: “Yeah, I got yelled at every day and barely ate but kept working 80-hour weeks because my 22-year-old manager told me I was the future of the industry.”

They’ll blink and say:

“Why didn’t you just quit?”

And you’ll want to scream:

“Because it wasn’t that simple.
Because I believed in it.
Because I didn’t want to let the team down.
Because they said I was built for this.”

But you just say:

“Long story.”

And move on.

Most people never go back.

And the industry knows it.

That’s why they don’t care if you burn out.

Because they already recruited your replacement.
A freshman named Tyler who thinks his hustle’s different.

But you?

You’re not weak.
You’re not a failure.
You’re just one more soul the system designed to discard.

This was never “just a job.”
It was an emotional pyramid scheme.

Built on belief.
Fueled by guilt.
Held together by silence.

You walked away.
Good.

Now comes the hard part, rebuilding who you were before they sold you who you should be.