How a Life Insurance MLM Accidentally Led Me Here

(Spoiler: I’m Not a Salesperson — I’m a Death Talker)

Not long ago, I was desperately searching for a way to make money from home. I needed something flexible, soul-friendly, and — ideally — not a scam. So, when someone offered me a “life-changing opportunity” to sell life insurance from my kitchen table, I bit.

I lasted two days in training.

On day one, I started feeling off. By day two, I realized three things:

I am absolutely not a salesperson.

We literally assign a dollar amount to human life.

I care way more about what happens when someone dies than what they leave behind in a payout.

Reading about how hard it is to even die affordably in this country made something shift in me. It stirred up memories from my years as a nurse, sitting with people in their final moments — the sacred mess of caregiving, the fear, the beauty, the holding on, and the letting go. I didn’t want to pitch policies. I wanted to talk about that.

🌿 And then the mushroom popped.

Okay, stay with me.

This is going to sound….woo-woo, but…

today when I went for a walk. My chest was tight. I was overwhelmed as a failed saleslady and asked God — or the sky, or whatever was listening — to give me a sign. Something to show me I was still protected, still loved. No sooner than that thought left my mind, a mushroom literally (audibly and physically) popped on the path I was on exploding with spores like a little holy moment. Then, a few steps later, I saw a freshly shed snakeskin curled on the ground — as if something had slithered out of the old and into something new.

The message hit me straight in the soul:

Let go.
Shed what no longer fits.
Tell the stories that matter.

That walk did more for me than the whole MLM training. I didn’t need to sell life insurance — I needed to return to the work I’ve always loved: caregiving, companionship, end-of-life honesty.
The quiet stuff. The sacred stuff. The stuff nobody wants to talk about, but everyone goes through.

🕊️ So I started The Weight of Wings.
This blog is where I tell those stories. Where I share the raw, real, ridiculous parts of death, dementia, caregiving, and grieving. Where I offer tools, encouragement, dark humor, and sometimes just a place to cry or laugh into your phone at 2 a.m.

This blog is for:

Caregivers barely hanging on

Grievers who don’t know what to do with their hands

People slowly losing someone to dementia

And anyone who’s ever whispered, “I don’t know how to do this”

You won’t find sales pitches here. Just presence, perspective, and proof that you’re not alone.

Sometimes the answers we’re looking for don’t come in the form of a job offer — but in a mushroom that bursts open and a snakeskin that reminds us we’re allowed to change.

With wings (and some holy spores),
Amanda