Tag: LifeLessons
From Modeling to Microphones: How a Podcast Changed Everything
I still remember the moment like it was yesterday. My husband walked into the room and said, “We’re going to do a podcast.”
“Who?” I asked, completely thrown off.
“You and me,” he replied, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.
And just like that, Wheeler in the Morning with Dave and Candace Rae was born.
At the time, we were barely a week out from him losing his job—a career in radio spanning over 20 years gone in an instant. Bills needed to be paid, and he needed to keep doing what he loved, what he was born to do. So, with zero hesitation on his part and a ton of hesitation on mine, we dove in headfirst.
Those first 18 months were a whirlwind. The show grew, and while its name and format changed in the years to follow, those early days were unlike anything I’d ever experienced.
Let me tell you, I was terrified.
Sure, I’d been a guest on shows before, popping in for a quick chat or adding a little fun. But this? Five days a week, every week, in front of an audience that could judge my every word and every stumble? It felt like walking into a lion’s den.
You see, I’d spent years as a model. My job was to show up, look polished, and get the job done. Behind the camera, I was confident. But in front of a microphone, spilling my thoughts, sharing my truths? That was something else entirely.
Social media didn’t help. Instagram was at its peak of perfectly curated feeds and flawless aesthetics. I didn’t know how to be anything other than polished. The idea of showing up imperfectly—pronouncing a word wrong, fumbling over my thoughts—made me feel less than.
But we did it anyway. Day one turned into day two, then week one, and before I knew it, we’d recorded over 1,000 episodes!!
That podcast wasn’t just a way to make ends meet; it became a lifeline. The parts of me I wasn’t ready to confront. And in the process, I learned something incredible: people weren’t looking for perfection. They wanted honesty, connection, and realness.
What I didn’t expect was the community that formed around us. They didn’t just show up for the content; they showed up for us. They supported Dave from the very beginning, and by extension, they supported me too!
The experience wasn’t easy. Doing a daily podcast with your husband means you’re bound to encounter truths—about him, about yourself, about your relationship. Some days, it was exhilarating; other days, it felt like standing in front of a mirror I wasn’t ready to face.
If I could go back and tell myself anything, it would be this: Breathe. It’s okay not to be perfect. It’s okay to stumble, to feel vulnerable, to not always have the right words. Showing up isn’t about grace; it’s about courage.
It was the beginning of a new me.
Where It All Began: A Story of Birth, Oceans, and Change
Our stories don’t begin when we take our first breath; they start long before. They’re shaped by the lives of those who bring us into this world, the choices they make, the struggles they endure, and even the prayers whispered into the wind.
For me, my story begins with my mom. I was her third child, conceived during a time of heartbreak and resilience. She had already faced struggles to bring my older siblings into the world, relying on fertility pills for both pregnancies. But when it came to me, something was different. She received the prescription but never filled it. Somehow, I was already on my way.
My mom was navigating the complexities of raising three children with a husband who was often absent—gone on trade shows, caught up in the demands of work. She knew about his infidelities but wasn’t ready to let go. When she was five months pregnant with me, life took her to Hawaii for a work trip with him.
Standing where the sand meets the ocean, she prayed. She prayed for strength, for her children, for herself, and for the little life growing inside her. She planted her feet firmly in the sand and spoke her hopes into the waves, letting them carry her prayers far beyond the horizon.
Years later, I found myself standing on that same beach. It was a moment of transition for me, leaving one life and stepping uncertainly into another. The sunset that evening was breathtaking—colors so vivid they seemed to sing. I stood there alone, letting the ocean’s rhythm steady my heart.
A stranger approached me, a woman I had never met. “Let me take a picture of you,” she said, her voice kind. “You are gorgeous in this light.” I handed her my camera. She took the photo and then walked away, pausing just long enough to say, “You’ll be glad you have that picture one day.”
She was right. As I write this today, I look back on that moment and treasure it deeply. It wasn’t just a picture; it was a reminder of where I came from and where I was going.
My birth was by C-section, and my father didn’t meet me until I was two weeks old. My mom, ever the survivor, moved from Manitoba to Brooks, Alberta, to keep our family together after my dad was transferred. It wasn’t an easy life, but it was one rooted in a mothers love, hope, and an unyielding desire for something better.
From those beginnings, I learned to love the ocean, the sand, and the promise of change. Moving has been a constant in my life—seeking new places, new opportunities, and, ultimately, a sense of home. My mom’s prayers on that Hawaiian beach and her courage to keep going have been a quiet, steady presence, guiding me through each transition and reminding me that no matter where I am, I have the strength to keep moving forward.
And so, here I am today, carrying forward the lessons learned from her, ready for whatever comes next.
Rebuilding From the Inside Out
For years, I focused on gratitude, telling myself that if I could just stay positive, everything would be okay. But this year, something shifted. I began to feel the pain I had buried—how much I had been carrying, and all the ways I had ignored it just to keep moving forward.
The year started with what I thought was the answer: a stable job that could help me tackle the debt from years of fighting a lawsuit. I liked the job. I loved my clients, and I found joy in client services. It felt like something I could do well.
But I was exhausted.
Waking up at 5 a.m. to drive Dave to work (we shared a car), getting my kids to school, and working a full day just to scrape by—it became too much. The exhaustion built up, and my health began to unravel. At the same time, I was grappling with anxiety attacks which I had never had before and a growing realization: I couldn’t keep living this way. Then, a family crisis hit. A loved one fell into addiction, and I became a caregiver for my niece—a role I desperately wanted to fulfill but felt unequipped for.
I felt broken.
I tried to fix it all. I quit drinking, changed my eating habits, and detoxed. But no matter what I did, nothing worked. The harder I tried to hold it all together, the more everything seemed to fall apart. I found myself in and out of hospitals, undergoing test after test.
The results have been unsettling: a cyst on my liver, a heart with extra beats, endometriosis, and a compromised digestive system. My body was waving a giant red flag. Was this the wake-up call I needed to start to feel?
I allowed myself to feel the sadness, the fear, and the anger. And oh, how angry I was. I stopped pretending I could handle everything on my own. I reached out for help and started therapy, knowing I needed to prioritize my healing.
Admitting that I couldn’t do it all was hard. Writing this now feels incredibly vulnerable. But therapy taught me an important truth: when we disown our difficult stories to appear whole or acceptable, we lose the chance to grow. As Brené Brown says, “Only when we are brave enough to explore the darkness will we discover the infinite power of our light.”
For years, I was too scared to share what was in my heart, terrified of judgment. Fear can be paralyzing, especially when you’ve lost your home, your possessions, and even relationships.
But I’m learning that while facing the truth is painful, it’s also the only way forward.
So here I am, picking up the pieces and starting to rebuild. There’s no neat, tidy ending to this story—just the raw, messy process of self-discovery.
