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When I was 19, my friend Jody and I dreamed of becoming professional wrestlers. I’d been watching wrestling on T.V. since I was a little girl—Stampede Wrestling, the drama, the thunderous entrances, the spectacle of it all. It felt like a calling. Stampede Wrestling was a prominent Canadian wrestling promotion founded by Stu Hart in Calgary, Alberta, in 1948.  It operated for decades and was a major developmental territory for future WWE and WCW stars, including Bret Hart and Owen Hart.

Jody’s neighbour just so happened to be Stu Hart, a titan in the wrestling world. We were told not to be afraid of him, even if we heard screams from his house, because he trained wrestlers. Their families knew each other, so one sunny afternoon, we boldly walked across the lawn. When he answered the door, he looked every inch the classic brawler: grey shirt, salt and pepper hair, and a torso that could’ve double as a life-sized barrel.

I was brimming with confidence—back then, as now, I didn’t often let a challenge sit unanswered. Jody and I launched into our pitch, all passion and ambition. Stu listened, his massive frame filling the doorway like a living barricade. Then, he laughed—deep, booming, and in our faces. “No,” he said.

But I’ve never been one to fold easily. I stood there, 5’6” or maybe 5’7” (depending on my hair height, honestly), weighing 127 pounds, and insisted. What did I know? I figured wrestling on T.V. looked easy, right?

Eventually, he caved and brought us down to his basement gym. The walls were lined with well-used machines, weight machines even nestled in the corners. In the back sat what could only be described as a Viking torture device: a lat pulldown machine reimagined featuring a spangenhelm designed helmet—constructed from four top iron bars riveted together to a circle base. Then to form a rounded bowl helmet at the end of the chain. Looked like the electric chair skull cap before the colander design. 

The bench sat off to the right, lit by a single beam of sunlight streaming in through the tiny basement window above and off to the left. 

I am serious. It looked as if the Good Lord himself were sending a ray through that little pane, and the light opened up, bathing and illuminating the left side of the pull‑down machine. If you were perched on the bench, your right side would be lit by the beam. If you’d just walked into the space and stood still in the dark, your left side would be lit. It was a piece of art, ’cause the moon would also throw its glow on the machine. 

He’d built a workout‑machine sundial.

A sundial is a device that tells time by using a spot of light or a shadow cast by the Sun’s position on a reference scale. As the Earth spins on its axis, the Sun appears to travel across the sky from east to west, rising at sunrise from beneath the horizon, reaching its zenith at midday, then sinking again at sunset. Both the azimuth (direction) and the altitude (height) can be used to create time‑keeping devices. Sundials have popped up independently in every major culture and became more accurate and sophisticated as societies grew. Jody stood there to the left, silent and confident. The rest of the room was dark, yet I could see the red bricks of the house’s foundation through the sunlight filtering in.

From the bench he stared into my eyes and smiled. I smiled back.

I’ll never forget it. While staring into my soul, Stu slung the helmet over his head, and lifted the entire weight stack with his NECK, multiple times. Bellow after bellow, grinning wide, all teeth. His neck muscles were GIGANTIC. Me and Jody cheering. We all three started laughing. I have always been impressed by displays of strength, both physical and character wise. Next, Jody—6 feet tall, blonde, and built like a Viking herself—gave it a shot. The chain screamed, the weights didn’t budge, and we all laughed.

Then it was my turn. I channeled memories of my Olympic dreams swimming training days, hopped on the bench, and nothing. The helmet and the weights stayed put. Like trying to lift 30 gold bricks with your forehead. My face must’ve been a comic book of shock. The Hart father laughed, Jody laughed, I laughed. Even the weight machines seemed to giggle.

Me and Jody and our skinny necks.

As we left, Stu leaned in and whispered only to me, “You won’t be the next wrestler, but Jody… yes.” It was his company, his choice, and he was right. Jody had a gift—her height, her strength, her charisma. I didn’t mind one bit. Instead she later chose a different adventure—raising babies, bless her—and that was just fine too.

Another lesson I took from Mr. Hart that day was this: even if I couldn’t move that weight stack with my own strength, by using my head and having the guts to try, I could lift any amount, a limitless number of times, all while smiling and not even breaking a sweat. And you know what? I do.

Using your smarts and having a good plan will always beat raw power.

This brings me to now. A wrestler once told me that the sport takes a toll: some stars limp down stairs backwards, knees all shot. Two years ago, my knees were in such pain from rebuilding my body from the cellular level up, I worried I’d lose them entirely—wheelchair, anyone? Nope! Instead, I tried red-light therapy, the kind with a handheld wand.

I’d run it over my knees, joints, tendons, and let me tell you—it hurt in the good way. Like when a bruise finally starts to fade. Now? My legs still get a workout, but I do lunges up staircases two steps at a time, and the pain’s gone.

If you’re a wrestler, an athlete, or just someone battling knee trouble, give red-light therapy a try. Thirty minutes a day, every day, for a year. It might just give you back your legs—and maybe a little bit of your childhood, too.

Here’s the thing about dreams: sometimes they shift, and that’s okay. Jody’s a mom now, and I’m… well, I’m still laughing at my humbling experience. But we both got more than we asked for: a lesson in grit, a story worth telling, and the kind of memory that sticks with you like a backstage pass to a world that never stops surprising.

Canada in it, eh?

P.S.

Jody was a dead ringer for the legendary lady “Honey”. 

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