How a Popular Internship Taught Me Exactly What Kind of Advisor I Never Wanted to Be
By Mike Clark
Twenty-five years ago, I walked into Northwestern Mutual as a 20-year-old kid with a low-income upbringing, a whole lot of insecurity, and a belief that becoming a financial advisor was my ticket to a better life. Success wasn’t just a goal, it was oxygen. If I could build a career in financial advice, maybe I could outrun the version of my past I was so determined to escape.
That’s the mindset that led me to leave five persistent voicemail messages for the recruiter. It worked. I got in. And with the benefit of hindsight, that’s where the real education began.
Day one should have told me everything.
Each intern got a stack of yellow index cards and was told to write down 100 people we knew. Friends, family, classmates, former teachers…anyone with a heartbeat. They called it “warm market.” It felt more like the on-ramp to a boiler room.
The messaging was simple: Everyone needs life insurance, preferably whole life, preferably today.
That was the “why.”
The “how” was far more aggressive.
I didn’t just buy the Kool-Aid, I guzzled it. I was twenty, hungry, and terrified of failing. So, I did exactly what they taught us.
I called everyone. Every friend. Every family member. Anyone I’d ever met. I even called my own Junior High Principal. Picture being 20 years old and dialing the man who once handed out detentions to ask him about his life insurance planning. I still cringe thinking about it.
The scripts didn’t help. One line still sticks with me: “A friend mentioned you might be someone I should reach out to…” Even when no such friend existed.
Influence? Not even close. It was manipulation with a polite tone and a commission grid. And the pressure was real. If you didn’t hit your call numbers, set enough meetings, or move enough product, you were out.
No calls, no meetings, no internship. So, I played along. Until I couldn’t anymore.
There wasn’t one dramatic moment. It was a series of small, uncomfortable realities piling up. People stopped answering when I called. Voicemails went unreturned. Conversations felt stiff, like everyone was bracing for the pitch. It was the early-2000s version of being ghosted, just slower and with landlines.
The guilt started as a whisper and eventually became a shout. And then came the clarity.
And recently, on November 24, 2025, The Guardian published an investigative piece detailing the exact same tactics, pressures, and emotional fallout that defined my own experience. Reading it wasn’t surprising. It was validating. The things that made me uncomfortable at 20 weren’t misunderstandings. They were structural. Cultural. Intentional.
That’s when the first core belief of my career took root and it’s still with me today:
There’s a massive difference between influence and manipulation.
When something is genuinely in your client’s best interest, the truth never needs bending.ay:
Right behind it came the second belief: If success requires compromising your integrity, you’re chasing the wrong version of success.
Once those two ideas settled into my bones, everything changed. Permanent life insurance didn’t make sense for the majority of people I talked to, so I pivoted to term even though it paid almost nothing. By senior year, I stayed in the program technically, but I had already mentally checked out. I needed a résumé line, not their playbook.
At 24, I joined Edward Jones. And here’s the irony: Door-knocking felt more ethical than calling people I cared about. If someone yelled at me or a dog chased me off their porch (both common occurrences), it wasn’t because I used their trust as leverage, it was because I interrupted dinner.
Brutal? Absolutely.
Honest? Completely.
Those years of knocking doors were a purification process. They stripped away shortcuts, excuses, and ego. They taught me to build a business from nothing, with nothing but effort and resilience.
But by my third year at EJ, the writing was on the wall. The industry was shifting toward fee-based, fiduciary advice which aligned perfectly with my beliefs. No commissions. No product quotas. No hidden agendas. I asked EJ’s veterans when we’d make that shift internally. Their answer: “We will eventually. No idea when.” That was my cue.
I left to become a fiduciary long before it was fashionable and that decision shapes everything I do today.
- I over-explain concepts because I want clients to understand, not just trust.
- I refuse to sell anyone anything that isn’t in their best interest.
- My team and I live by a simple mantra: We tell clients what they need to hear, even if they fire us. Because if we don’t, they should.
- I don’t pitch friends or family, not because I’m not confident in my abilities as a Financial Advisor, but because I protect those relationships.
- And CWP is built around planning, clarity, and transparency, not product pushing.
Looking back, that internship gave me something I never expected: a crystal-clear understanding of who I didn’t want to become.
The guilt.
The shame.
The awkwardness with people I cared about.
Those were the tuition payments for the advisor I am today.
And 25 years later, the compass hasn’t changed one degree: Inconvenient truth > convenient lie.
Every. Single. Time.