Part One: The Glow Up
It was 2015. I had just finished my masters degree, an intense two-year executive program that I did while working full time. Somewhere along the way, I had sneakily gained a lot of weight and a couple sizes. I was 30 years old, and I was bigger than I had ever been, save for a year in college when I was addicted to sugar and too broke to eat well.
My run club was heading to the mountains for our inaugural “Summer Camp,” which was about a dozen of us sharing a large cabin, going for hikes and runs during the day, and playing games and having sing-alongs while getting progressively more inebriated in the evening. The first night, all of the ladies took turns prancing around in a fuzzy, donut-print onesie with hilarious results. That is, all of the ladies but me. Despite the Traveling Pants-esque nature of the onesie, I was worried that if I took a turn, I wouldn’t be able to zip it up.
I was motivated to make a change, but I just wasn’t sure how.
One of the ladies in the run club used Summer Camp as a sort of unveiling of her new, svelte figure. Over dinner one night, someone asked her what her secret was. She was hesitant to share, but ultimately gave it up: she had joined Beachbody. In fact, another run clubber’s sister was her coach. I was intrigued.
Back then, Beachbody (now BODi) developed DVD fitness programs like P90X and PiYo along with a superfood supplement called Shakeology. DVDs and Shakeology were sold by “coaches,” or independent distributors, who earned income through commissions on product sales and by building their own teams of other coaches who also sold DVDs and Shakeology. More on that later.
I reached out to my friend’s coach (we’ll call her Jenny). Jenny asked me a bunch of questions about my goals, level of activity, and interests to figure out what kind of workout program would be best for me to start with. Because of my background in and love of dance, she suggested Cize, a dance workout series with choreography to songs like Treasure by Bruno Mars, Chandelier by Sia, and even a 9-minute ab workout to LL Cool J’s Headsprung. The classes were taught by dance and workout video legend Shuan T and I absolutely loved it.
When I bought Cize, I was encouraged to also buy a subscription to Shakeology, but I declined. I stocked up on samples because goddamn, Shakeology was delicious; but I don’t believe in drinking my meals unless I’m recovering from oral surgery and the price per serving was outrageous for a supplement.
After I completed Cize a couple times, I decided it was time to try something new. I purchased 21-Day Fix, which was—you guessed it—a three-week program and my first foray into weightlifting. While the instructor, Autumn Calabrese, wasn’t as engaging as Shaun T (she even shames one of the on-camera participants for the weights he chooses, calling them “girl weights”), I loved what strength training did to my body and my attitude.
I won’t bore you with the details of all of the Beachbody workout programs I did. The point is that I was hooked, I was disciplined, and I made a great example. Even though I started out with a goal of weight loss, I was turned off by the diet and size-focused language in the programs as well as the diet products (like a portion control program) and did my best to focus on strength as my primary goal.
Even though my coach Jenny didn’t have any experience as a fitness or nutrition professional (I’m not sure any of the coaches did), she was supportive and motivating. Using private Facebook groups and chats, I interacted with Jenny and her other customers. We were a team. And Jenny’s coach, Katie (name changed), would also engage with us from time to time, and we would sometimes compete for prizes (like Shakeology) with Katie’s team.
Because I was such a model Beachbody customer (and had the before & after photos to prove it), Katie would consistently reach out to tell me that I would make a great coach. The pitch was always about working enough to cover your Shakeology subscription all while helping others with their weight loss goals. And when confronted about whether Beachbody was a pyramid scheme, the answer was always the same: that multi-level marketing (MLM) is different…but I don’t remember the reasons she gave.
I would sometimes entertain the idea of becoming a coach, thinking it might be fun. I was putting in the work anyway, right?
But then I would think back to my time in another MLM.
Part Two: Flattery Will Get You Everywhere
When I was 23, I had become friends with a coworker who was in the throes of wedding planning. She had gone to some expo and ended up connecting with a Mary Kay consultant (we’ll call her Cheryl) who convinced her to throw a Mary Kay party so that she could get an idea of her wedding day makeup and her friends could play with some product, too.
At the end of the party, Cheryl told me that she was looking for some models for an upcoming event and that I was so cute and exactly what she was looking for. She offered to drive me there and back and said that I could have some free product as a thank you, and I agreed.
The meeting felt so far from where I lived (it was probably a 45-minute drive), but Cheryl was easy to talk to. She told me about how she dropped out of medical school to raise her children and that selling Mary Kay has been so fulfilling for her, both personally and financially.
At the event, which was a regular meeting of the local consultants, I was taken to a separate conference room with the other “models” to put on some makeup. When we were done, we were trotted out in front of the consultants to share what we did, like what shade of eyeshadow or lipstick we put on. The consultants ooh’d and aah’d, telling us how gorgeous we were. Someone told me that I should never leave the house without a berry lip.
Later in the evening, the regional head honcho came to talk to us models. She wanted to know if we’d be interested in becoming consultants. When she got to me, she flattered me by saying how cute I was and praised my makeup application skills. She asked me, on a scale of 1-10, how interested I was in becoming a consultant. I didn’t think I’d have the time or energy to put in the work like Cheryl, but I was also so overwhelmed by the flattery and did not make enough money with my meager, entry-level nonprofit salary, so I said 5. The head honcho then upgraded my 5 to a 7 using some manipulative logic that was as much a blur to me then as it is 17 years later, and welcomed me to the family.
Cheryl treated the ride home as orientation. I learned that I would have to attend those meetings regularly (I think they were every month), and that they were always held in the same freezing hotel ballroom, 45 minutes away. I learned that Mary Kay ladies must always wear skirts and pantyhose. When I asked why, she said that when we go into people’s houses, we don’t want to intimidate the men. What? And I learned that I have to buy all of my inventory upfront and that she would help me pick out what to start with. Cheryl also encouraged me to open a credit card just for my business. I believe that the first purchase was over $1,000.
What I didn’t learn from my car ride orientation—and what I learned the hard way, later—was that whenever you needed to buy more inventory, there was a minimum purchase amount. And you can’t buy a single tube of lipstick or a couple of popular eyeshadows from your upline or anyone else in their downline to hold you over. The minimum order was something like $200, which simply was not financially feasible for me.
Besides student loans and mortgages, the only time I’ve ever had any debt was when I was a Mary Kay consultant—and for several years after I hung up my pantyhose.
Part Three: Exit Costs
I remembered falling for the Mary Kay lovebombing, and even if it was true that I would make a great Beachbody coach, I just couldn’t let the flattery cloud my judgement.
When I was in Mary Kay, I quickly ran out of people to sell makeup and skincare to. I had no interest in populating my downline by tricking broke girls like myself into becoming consultants. I was tired of driving 45 minutes to listen to yet another inspirational speech, hear the success stories from the higher-ups, and get previews of products I couldn’t afford.
Neither Mary Kay nor Cheryl would buy back my inventory, and you’re not allowed to sell it online. I did manage to sell some of it off by getting creative with my online listings, but I ended up giving most of it away.
Back at the Beachbody ranch, I watched other people on Jenny’s team struggle after becoming coaches. They were balancing demanding jobs, childcare, and their own fitness goals while trying to recruit new customers and, ultimately, coaches. Plus, Beachbody coaches didn’t just sell DVDs and Shakeology—they were also tasked with providing fitness advice, nutritional advice, and creating an accountability system for their customers without the proper education or training for any of those things.
After telling Katie no for, I don’t know, the fifth time, she stopped asking. And not only did she stop asking, she stopped engaging with me at all. Jenny was still there as my coach, but the whole team element of the Beachbody experience sort of fell apart for me.
It was unfortunate because I got immense value out of the workout programs and accountability model that my coach and team provided.
Epilogue: The Aftermath
While my experiences—and what I’ve learned about MLMs*—have put me firmly in the anti-MLM camp, I’m not necessarily against the products themselves or the independent distributors who sell them.
I don’t think anyone who joins an MLM is foolish. I don’t fault anyone for chasing the dream of working for themselves or helping others do the same. More often, they’re hopeful and optimistic about what they can achieve—or simply desperate to try something different. That hope, optimism, and desperation are exactly what the system is designed to exploit. (And I won’t even get into why women—especially moms and those in marginalized communities—are such prime targets for these schemes.)
I still lift weights and will always be grateful to Beachbody for turning me into someone who loves an at-home workout. But these days, I follow a different program—one that emphasizes strength and longevity, not thinness. And I’m still searching for the perfect shade of berry lipstick.
Note: In January of this year, BODi (FKA Beachbody) sunset its MLM model and transitioned to a direct-to-consumer model and a single-level affiliate program (which means no recruiting a downline). I’ll be curious about the aftermath of that change.
*Here are some great resources to understand the multi-level marketing’s predatory practices:
- The Dream podcast (especially Season 1)
- This episode of Last Week Tonight with John Oliver
- LuLaRich (documentary miniseries about the MLM that sold those loud leggings, LuLaRoe)