A long time ago, I walked away from a job most people would’ve killed for.
I was the International Sales Coordinator for an industrial robotics company. Good salary. Great title. Airport lounges and PowerPoint decks. Problem was—I hated it.
It started with an internship. I was studying in Kearney, Nebraska when they flew me out on a private jet to interview at their plant in Kansas. They said my on-campus interview was one of the best they’d ever given. That internship turned into my first real job out of college. I had everything they told me to want—and none of what I actually wanted.
I hated the small talk. I hated the performative smiles. Mostly, I hated pretending I was someone I wasn’t just to close a deal.
I thought the problem was me—that I just needed to get better at it. Get more comfortable. Push through.
So I did what any rational person would do:
I quit and moved to Maryland to be closer to family.
Then I got a job in outside sales.
Not just outside. Cold-call. Door-to-door.
Not software. Not insurance. Not tech.
Replacement windows. In Philly. Rehash leads. Sign-in-the-yard gimmicks.
Straight commission.
While my wife took a job at a daycare—changing diapers to help keep us afloat—I packed a bag, trained for two weeks, and started knocking on doors. I lived in a dingy apartment during the week and commuted back to Maryland on weekends. Barely enough time to swap laundry and kiss my wife goodnight before heading back out.
We were broke. No safety net. Just two people trying to make it work.
The company gave me leftover leads from their top-tier brand. I’d walk in with old notes from previous salespeople, re-measure the windows, and pitch them again with a slightly lower price and some made-up promotion—like a lawn sign discount or “preferred customer pricing.”
I’d set up at their kitchen table with my display unit and brochures. Work the numbers. Work them again. Then call my manager from the customer’s phone so he could play the bad cop and approve “special pricing.” Sometimes we’d go back and forth on the phone five or six times. Just theater—but it worked.
If the payment fit, I’d pitch them a new credit card. We’d call it in, sit and wait for an approval. Then I’d take a deposit check and leave.
Sometimes I’d sit in my car afterward and wonder if this was it—if I was just getting better at something I didn’t want to be doing.
But I got good at it. Good enough that they moved me back to Maryland to open a new territory—chasing deals around Baltimore and Washington, D.C.
Then one day, I walked into an old lady’s house. Gave my pitch like I always did. She didn’t care about the windows. Didn’t care about the discount. She said she was buying because I reminded her of her late husband.
I told her the truth.
“Mama, your windows are fine. It’ll take you twenty years to break even on new ones.”
Then I packed up and left.
I quit on the drive home.
Back then, we still flipped through the newspaper to find work. The next day I interviewed for a job selling Electro-lux vacuum cleaners door-to-door.
After training, they gave me my demo unit. I brought it home and pitched my new wife and parents like I was on stage. Showed every attachment. Hit every script line. Even vacuumed my parents’ living room.
When I finished, nobody said a word. I thought I nailed it.
But they were silent not because they were impressed—because they were stunned. My mom and wife cried. My dad was pissed.
They saw something I hadn’t yet: I was flailing. And they didn’t know how to stop it.
That job lasted a couple weeks. I sold no vacuums.
Then came the phone system company. Office hardware. I walked the streets of D.C. and Baltimore, dropping in on businesses with a desk phone in my briefcase and a one-pager in hand—forcing a smile and begging to get five minutes with the boss. Nothing stuck.
Next came a temp agency. The owner liked me. He was an entrepreneur—had multiple companies. Had I known my path then, I could’ve learned a lot from him. But anyway, instead of renting me out, he put me on sales.
I couldn’t move temp labor, so he shifted me to selling bulk water services—filling swimming pools. When I couldn’t sell that, he moved me to courier services in the D.C. area. Finally, I was trying to sell an early version of those driveway storage boxes—the ones that get hauled off to a warehouse after you fill them.
That didn’t stick either. Eventually, he let me go.
None of it worked the way I thought it would.
Selling door-to-door didn’t turn me into a fearless closer.
But it did teach me how to face rejection—daily, repeatedly, without a script.
It taught me how to keep showing up when no one’s cheering.
How to work through embarrassment, frustration, doubt.
How to recalibrate fast—because rent was due whether the sale came in or not.
That adventure knocked a lot of the ego out of me. It also knocked loose the parts I needed.
I didn’t walk out of it with commissions or confidence.
But I walked out with clarity.
Eventually, I got back into tech. Earned my Microsoft certifications. Landed a consulting job with good pay, good clients, and real structure.
Still, I knew it wasn’t the finish line.
It was a stepping stone.
Because what I really wanted wasn’t money or status. I wanted ownership—of my time, of my effort, of the outcome.
I wanted real freedom.
Door-to-door didn’t get me there.
But it gave me the scars I needed to keep climbing.
Sometimes the fastest way forward isn’t to plan, perfect, or pause.
It’s to knock.
Even if nobody answers.