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. Their families knew each other, so one sunny afternoon, we boldly walked across his 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 wine 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 design—constructed from several iron plates riveted together to form a rounded bowl helmet at the end of the chain.

I’ll never forget it. Stu climbed onto the bench, 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. We all three started laughing. 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.

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?