I didn’t grow up with much, but I grew up with work.
Real work — the kind that starts before sunrise and ends when the light fades, not when the clock says it should. On the ranch, you learned quickly that comfort came second and responsibility came first. It was the kind of life that burned lessons into your bones: feed the animals before yourself, fix what’s broken, never leave a job half done.
That’s where I started.
And it’s where I learned the simplest truth I’ve ever known — you just keep trying.
The Early Grind
When you grow up with calloused hands, you see the world differently. You don’t expect anything to be handed to you. You know that progress is built one fence post, one paycheque, one cold morning at a time.
After the ranch came the oil fields — long days, hard men, and the kind of exhaustion that earns respect. I worked whatever jobs I could find, not because I wanted titles, but because I needed momentum. I wasn’t chasing luxury; I was chasing stability.
Odd jobs paid the bills and kept the lights on. Skiing trips kept the kids busy. Camping kept us close. Those simple things — the smell of pine, the crackle of a fire, the laughter that fills the night air — they mattered more than anything money could buy. I didn’t have to tell my kids about hard work; they saw it. They lived it with me.
Building Forward
Somewhere in between the shifts and the side jobs, I made a decision: I was going to do better. Not for image, not for approval — just because I believed I could.
So, I went to university. I was older than most of the students, but that never bothered me. I was there to learn, not to impress. Education wasn’t a ticket out of the working class; it was a way to understand the world I’d already been living in — to give words and systems to what life had already taught me firsthand.
From there, I built. One idea at a time. One risk after another.
A net café when the internet was still new. A jazz bar when live music meant more than playlists. Construction projects when everyone else said the market was too tough. Every venture had its lessons, and some had their scars. But the common thread through it all was the same — I kept trying.
Owning What’s Yours
Here’s the thing about ownership — it’s not just about property.
It’s about control. Freedom. Integrity.
I never had a mortgage. Never financed a thing. If I couldn’t afford it, I didn’t buy it.
When you own it outright, no one can take it from you. You don’t owe anyone an explanation, and you don’t spend your life working to pay for something that’s already half-owned by the bank.
Owning what’s yours — your land, your tools, your mistakes, your life — that’s the truest kind of wealth there is.
Legacy and Lessons
My son made it to the NHL.
That still feels surreal when I say it out loud. Not because of fame or status, but because it stands as proof that perseverance runs deep in our bloodline — even if the generations before us were broken.
I came from a fractured family.
But somewhere along the way, through the long nights and hard lessons, I built a focused one. I turned pain into direction. I learned that if you give your children purpose, they’ll find their own path — maybe even a better one than yours.
It’s not about being perfect. It’s about staying in motion.
Finding the Gaps, Filling the Needs
If there’s a niche out there, I’ll find a way to fill it. That’s how I’ve always lived. You look around, see what’s missing, and make it exist. Whether it’s a product, a service, or just a better way to live — creation beats complaint every time.
People talk about luck like it’s the key to success. But I’ve learned luck only shows up after you’ve worked hard enough to deserve it. You can’t wait for opportunity; you make it. You build it with tired hands and a stubborn heart.
Still Moving
After all these years, I’m still trying.
Still learning. Still building. Still believing that effort is the one thing in life that never betrays you.
The world’s changed — faster than I ever imagined it would — but the fundamentals haven’t. Work hard. Stay honest. Take care of your people. Own what you build.
When you live that way, you don’t need much else.
You may come from a broken start, but you can end up whole — not because it was easy, but because you refused to stop trying.
And that’s what Balan-cing is all about — not perfection, not arrival, just the steady rhythm of persistence.
The quiet pride of a life built by hand.