Two years ago, I was living the digital nomad dream. My dropshipping empire was pulling in nearly $10,000 a month across multiple platforms—Amazon, Etsy, eBay, and TikTok Shop. I felt unstoppable, bouncing between co-working spaces in Bali and Bangkok, convinced I’d cracked the code to easy money. The lifestyle looked perfect from the outside: laptop by the pool, freedom to work from anywhere, and what seemed like endless growth potential.

But beneath the surface, I was building a house of cards. Each platform success was propped up by shortcuts, policy violations I rationalized away, and an increasingly desperate need to maintain the high. I was addicted to the rush of quick wins, the dopamine hit of seeing sales notifications pop up on my phone. What I didn’t realize was that my "success" was actually a ticking time bomb, and when it exploded, it would take everything with it.

From 10K Monthly to Zero: Why All My Dropship Accounts Failed

The Platform Ban Domino Effect That Killed My Biz

The first ban hit my Amazon account on a Tuesday morning in March. I was nursing a hangover in a café in Chiang Mai when the email arrived: "Your selling privileges have been permanently revoked." My stomach dropped. Amazon was my biggest earner, bringing in about $4,000 monthly. I immediately started crafting appeals, convinced it was a mistake or something I could talk my way out of. After all, I’d been running that account successfully for eight months.

Within two weeks, Etsy followed suit. Then eBay. Finally, TikTok Shop—the platform I thought was too new to have strict enforcement—sent me the same dreaded notification. Each ban felt like a punch to the gut, but the pattern was becoming clear. These platforms talk to each other more than most dropshippers realize. When you get flagged on one for policy violations, it creates a digital paper trail that follows you across the ecosystem.

The domino effect wasn’t just about linked accounts or shared business information. It was about the fundamental way I’d been operating across all platforms. I’d been using the same supplier photos, copying product descriptions, manipulating reviews through various schemes, and constantly pushing the boundaries of what was acceptable. Each platform has slightly different rules, but they all have one thing in common: they hate dropshippers who treat their marketplaces like personal ATMs.

Looking back, I can see how my behavior on each platform was interconnected. The aggressive tactics that worked temporarily on Amazon made me cocky on Etsy. The review manipulation I got away with on eBay made me bolder on TikTok Shop. I wasn’t building separate, compliant businesses—I was running the same problematic operation across multiple channels. When the house of cards started falling, there was nothing to catch it.

Chasing Quick Wins While Ignoring Red Flags

The warning signs were everywhere, but I was too drunk on success to see them clearly—and often just plain drunk. Customer complaints about long shipping times from China were piling up, but I’d brush them off as "part of the business." When platforms sent policy violation warnings, I’d make minimal changes and assume I was in the clear. My ADHD brain was constantly seeking the next dopamine hit, the next quick fix, rather than building sustainable systems.

Every night, I’d sit in whatever bar had the best WiFi, laptop open, frantically responding to customer service issues while downing beer after beer. I told myself I was "networking" or "unwinding after a hard day," but really I was avoiding the growing anxiety about my business model. The alcohol made it easier to ignore the mounting evidence that my operation was unsustainable. When you’re buzzed, every problem seems manageable tomorrow.

The red flags weren’t just external—they were internal too. I was working 12-hour days but felt like I was constantly putting out fires rather than building something meaningful. My sleep schedule was destroyed from trying to manage customer service across multiple time zones while partying like I was on permanent vacation. I’d wake up to angry messages from customers, policy warnings from platforms, and supplier issues, then immediately reach for my phone to check if the money was still flowing in.

Most telling was how I responded to each warning. Instead of taking a step back and evaluating my entire approach, I’d just pivot to the next quick fix. Got a warning about product descriptions? I’d use AI to spin them differently. Customers complaining about quality? I’d find a cheaper supplier and hope for the best. I was treating symptoms instead of addressing the disease, and the disease was my entire approach to business and life.

How My Addiction to Fast Money Backfired

The irony of chasing fast money is how quickly it can disappear. When the bans started rolling in, I didn’t just lose my income—I lost my entire identity. I’d built my self-worth around those monthly revenue numbers, the lifestyle posts on social media, the feeling of being "successful" at 28. Without the constant validation of sales notifications and growing bank balances, I had to face some uncomfortable truths about who I’d become.

My addiction to fast money was really an addiction to external validation and escape from deeper issues. Every sale was a hit of dopamine that temporarily masked my anxiety, my lack of direction, and my growing dependence on alcohol. I’d refresh my dashboard obsessively, the same way I’d refresh social media or reach for another drink. The money wasn’t just funding my lifestyle—it was funding my avoidance of building anything real or sustainable.

The crash was spectacular and complete. Within six months, I went from $10K monthly to zero, with no real assets to show for two years of "success." I hadn’t invested in learning real business skills, building genuine relationships, or creating anything of lasting value. I’d been a middleman in a system designed to eventually eliminate middlemen, and when it did, I had nothing to fall back on. The fast money had made me lazy, entitled, and ultimately unemployable in my own mind.

Rock bottom came when I found myself in a hostel in Bangkok, drunk at 2 PM, trying to create new accounts with fake information just to get back in the game. That’s when I realized my relationship with money had become as toxic as my relationship with alcohol. Both were quick fixes that promised relief but delivered only temporary higges followed by deeper lows. I needed to address both addictions if I wanted any shot at building something sustainable.

Five months sober and counting, I can finally see the patterns that led to my spectacular failure. The dropshipping bans weren’t just about policy violations—they were about a fundamental misalignment between my values and my actions. I was trying to build wealth without building character, seeking success without developing skills, and chasing freedom while becoming enslaved to quick fixes and external validation.

Now I’m focused on something completely different: helping other entrepreneurs break their own cycles of self-sabotage. Whether it’s addiction to alcohol, social media, or the dopamine hit of quick business wins, the patterns are remarkably similar. Through my coaching practice, I work with business owners who struggle with ADHD management, social media addiction, and the realization that sobriety isn’t just about alcohol—it’s about getting sober from all the things that keep us from building something meaningful. The irony? This slower, more intentional approach is already more fulfilling than those $10K months ever were.