Chapter 2: Kandis will be Kandis
I’ve always marched to the beat of my own drum—actually, I’m not even sure it’s a drum. Probably more like a tambourine being shaken by a tipsy fairy in cowgirl boots. But nonetheless, I’ve danced to it proudly. And somewhere along the way, people started saying, “Well, Kandis will be Kandis,” like it was both a warning label and a celebration.
What does that even mean? I used to think it meant I gave zero fucks about what anyone thought. And okay, yes—I do give significantly fewer fucks than the average people-pleasing pollyanna. But let’s be honest… I’ve always cared. Like, deeply. That gut-wrenching, childhood-wound, please-pick-me kind of care.
I’ve wanted to be loved, chosen, and told I was magic just for being alive. And maybe that goes back to the way I arrived on this planet—not quite what people expected. Or maybe it’s just part of being human. All I know is, for as much as I strutted around pretending I didn’t need anyone’s approval, I was secretly a gold-star-chasing, love-me-dammit sugar gremlin.
Which brings me to one of my earliest memories.
Picture this: Little Kandis. Age 3. Probably the size of a cupcake. It’s early morning—dark out—so either winter or one of those Utah mornings where the sun’s still snoozing behind the mountains. I had a mission. Operation Beat Dad to the Kitchen.
See, my mom has been making breakfast for my dad for like… forever. Sometimes it was hot oatmeal and toast. Sometimes a bowl with his favorite cold cereal—Corn Flakes—set out and ready for milk and a heap of sugar. (Because apparently in the 80s, sugar was a food group.)
This particular morning, I snuck into the kitchen before my dad. The holy altar was set: bowl, box of flakes, jug of milk, bowl of sugar. And there it was—the crown jewel—Dad’s baseball cap sitting on the table. The temptation was too much for my tiny chaos-loving soul.
So what did I do?
I started spooning sugar into his hat. Little scoop by little scoop—because again, tiny hands—I filled that sucker with enough sweetness to launch a hummingbird into orbit.
And where was my mom during this? Watching silently, of course. I don’t know if she was curious to see how it’d play out or just enjoying the live entertainment, but she didn’t say a word.
Then—the shower turned off. Game time. I giggled so hard inside I almost burst, trying to sit still like I was totally innocent. “Don’t be suspicious,” I whispered to myself like a baby Bond villain.
Dad walked in. Probably said, “Good morning, Kandy,” in that way that made me feel like the center of the whole damn universe. He ate his cereal. I climbed up on my knees because—short. Like, I’m 4’11 now. You do the math.
And then—it happened. The moment of truth. He grabbed his hat and plop—slid it right onto his head.
SUGAR. RAINED. DOWN.
It was glorious.
I laughed out loud and then immediately froze.
Because, duh—the Dad Glare. Oh shit. I’m in trouble.
But instead of yelling or pulling out the parental wrath, he just shook his head, stood up, and took another shower. Victory. I had made a mess, caused a scene, and didn’t get busted. A legend was born.
Kandis will be Kandis.
And that right there? That wasn’t just a prank. That was me being seen. Noticed. Special. Different. It was never just about mischief—it was about being memorable. Making a ripple. Leaving a mark.
It’s no surprise that memory stuck. It’s who I’ve always been at my core—someone who wanted to be seen and celebrated, not for performing, but for being. And now, as an adult who’s done the spiritual deep dives, the healing, the shadow work, the meditations, the “WTF was that breakup” journaling—I’ve realized something bigger.
I wasn’t just seeking validation for me. I’ve been a mirror all along. Holding up the truth that we all want to be seen—not just on the outside, but in the deepest way. We want someone to notice our soul. To say, “I see you. All of you. And it’s beautiful.”
So when I say Kandis will be Kandis now, it hits different. It’s not rebellion. It’s not defiance. It’s not even sugar-in-the-hat level chaos (though I still have it in me). It’s power.
Because I’m not waiting to be chosen anymore.
I’m choosing me.
And if that lights something up in you—if it stirs a little giggle or a tug in your heart—it’s because you’re meant to choose you too.
So go ahead. Be your version of “Kandis.” Start the sugar storm. Let your light pour out. Be noticed by the most important person of all—yourself.
Because trust me, that’s the sweetest kind of rain.
Want to step into this kind of knowing for yourself?
Here’s a simple place to start:
Name your light. Write down three things that make you unmistakably you—even the weird stuff. Especially the weird stuff.
Do one thing this week that feels bold. Not for applause. Not for permission. Just for you.
When you find yourself asking, “Do they see me?”—pause. Instead, ask: “Do I see me right now?” Then show up for yourself like you would for your best friend.
Your soul isn’t asking to be fixed. It’s asking to be witnessed. So witness her.
And let her be a little wild while she’s at it.
