Episode 5: Small-Town Dreams, Big Lessons

There was a foundation being built in my life long before I ever knew I would need it.

In this episode of Resilience with Tasha Schuh, I take you back to my childhood — growing up in a small town, surrounded by family, community, and experiences that were quietly shaping who I was becoming.

From early medical challenges… to moments that tested my confidence… to lessons that pushed me to keep going even when I didn’t want to — this episode begins to uncover the roots of the resilience I would one day rely on.

At the time, these moments felt ordinary. Some felt frustrating. Some felt awkward. Some felt hard.

But looking back now… I can see they were anything but random.

They were preparing me.

In this episode, I share pieces of my story that reveal how resilience is built long before life falls apart — often in ways we don’t even recognize at the time.

Because resilience doesn’t just show up in crisis.

It’s built long before the storm ever comes.

In this episode:

• Early challenges that introduced me to adversity at a young age
 • The mindset that shaped how I handled pressure and difficulty
 • Moments that built confidence — and moments that broke it
 • The quiet lessons that would later carry me through everything

This episode is a reminder that the experiences you’re living right now — even the ones that feel small or difficult — may be shaping you for something ahead.

Because the hardest part of my journey…

Was still ahead.

In the next episode, I’ll take you into one of the most difficult seasons of my life — rehabilitation.

“Rebuilding Me – The Fight of Rehabilitation  (Part 1: The Physical Battle)”

We’ll step into the reality of rehab, the emotional weight I didn’t expect, and the perseverance it took to begin rebuilding my life.

Learn more about my resilience coaching and speaking at: https://TashaSchuh.com

I would also love to hear from you. If there are topics you’d like me to cover or guests you’d love to hear from, please reach out and share your ideas with me at: Tasha@TashaSchuh.com

If this episode encouraged you, please subscribe to the podcast and share it with someone who could use hope and resilience today.

Transcript

SPEAKER_00 0:05

Welcome back to Resilience with Tasha Shu. I am so grateful that you are here. And if you're new to this podcast, this space is all about resilience. Not the Pinterest quote version about resilience, but the real gritty, lived out kind. Because resilience is not about pretending things don't hurt. It's not about positive thinking your way out of hard. It's about learning how to keep moving forward when life does not look the way that you planned. It's about building the mental and emotional strength to navigate change, loss, pressure, setbacks, and still believe that there's hope ahead. Resilience changed my life. And I truly believe that it can change yours also. Each episode, I share either pieces of my story or practical tools that help you build that strength in your own life. Because resilience is not something that you're born with, it is something that you build. So if you listened to the last podcast, the last episode, you know we left off in one of the most fragile moments of my life. I had just come off the ventilator, my body had survived something catastrophic, and I had almost died. Everything about my future felt uncertain. But what I would realize years later was this: the strength I would need, the grit that I would rely on, the mindset that would carry me had been forming long before the accident. So today's episode is titled Small Town Dreams Big Lessons. And today we're going to go back. Back to small town Wisconsin. Back to grocery store aisles and church pews, back to dance recitals and sports practices, back to the girl I was becoming before everything changed. Because when I look back now, I don't see randomness. And I want to show you how the foundations built in my childhood, in your childhood, can shape the resilience that you draw from later in life, often in ways you don't even realize at the time. So let me tell you about the girl I was before the accident. One of the first challenges in my life started before I even knew what a challenge was. I was born without a hammer bone in my left ear, which meant from the time I was born, my parents probably didn't find out until I was probably two or three years old, but I only had about 20% hearing in that ear. So while other kids were just being kids, I was already becoming familiar with doctor's offices, audiology appointments, hearing tests, ear infections, and surgery after surgery. By the time I entered seventh grade, I had undergone about six ear surgeries. And none of them were successful. Part of the reason I was extremely active and clumsy. I was constantly getting hurt, falling off slides, falling off my bike, breaking bones, running into things. And looking back now, I can't help but wonder if there was a connection between my inner ear issues and how often I fell or lost my balance. But at the time, it just felt like I was a klutz. Like I was always the kid getting hurt. And my mom actually used to joke that the doctor's office never put my file away because I was in there all the time. They'd be like, Tasha, it's nice to see you again. And like, yeah, here I am again. Because whether it was an ear infection or a cast for another broken bone, it felt like I lived in the doctor's office. And what made it even more noticeable was that my siblings were not like this. My brother Ryan, who was five years older than me, my sister Angie, who was eight years older than me, they weren't constantly in and out of medical appointments. And it seemed like I was the only one. I was the one with the ear issues. I was the one with the broken bones, the surgeries. And while at the time it felt frustrating and inconvenient, what I didn't realize was that I was learning something very early on. My body might struggle, but I could handle hard things. I was learning how to sit in waiting rooms, how to recover from procedures, how to go back to school after surgeries, and how to keep participating even when things didn't feel normal. And it wasn't, you know, I see now it wasn't dramatic resilience. It was more so a quiet resilience, the kind that gets built when you keep showing up, even when your ear is bandaged, your arm is casted, and you're tired of appointments. And that foundation mattered more than I knew. Now it didn't start with sports or pressure. It actually started with a little girl in tap shoes. Before sports were ever a part of my life, dance was. I started dance when I was three years old at Helmer Dance Studios in Beldenville, Wisconsin. I took tap and jazz, and I loved it. I loved the costumes, I loved the rehearsals, I loved performing. I loved being on stage. There was really something about the lights, the music, the energy, and I just felt alive up on that stage. And I danced for 10 years. As I got older, it became less and less a passion of mine. And actually, I was still kind of that klutzy girl. And so I wasn't progressing the way that my classmates were. And so it was here when I entered seventh grade, I decided to try sports. But in those early dance years, I learned one of my first major resilience lessons. In first grade, I broke my leg. And recital season was coming up. The end of the dance season was coming. And now, if you've ever had a child in dance, you know those costumes, they are not cheap. So my mom had paid a lot of money for that outfit. And so staying home from that recital was not an option. My mom made me perform in my annual recital on crutches. Picture this little first grade me in full costume, hair done, makeup on, crutches, and all. And I did it at the time. I probably thought it was slightly ridiculous, not very happy with my mom. But looking back, that moment was huge. It was one of my first real lessons in you don't quit just because it's convenient. You don't quit just because it's uncomfortable. You don't quit just because it didn't go the way you expected. And that theme carried into our family culture in a big way. Another thing that was deeply instilled in me growing up was this phrase: shoes are not quitters. My dad said that all the time. If we started something, we finished it. It didn't matter if it was a basketball season, a sport, a music commitment, or some other activity. If we signed up, we followed through. There were no mid-season exits. Now I'll be honest, I did not always love that rule, especially as I got older. I started playing sports in seventh grade, as I mentioned, and my dad was a huge sports person. My brother was athletic, my sister wasn't. She didn't play sports. And honestly, I think my dad really hoped that I would be the one who carried that athletic torch. And part of that was because I was tall. Actually, I was really tall. I was the tallest girl in my class from preschool on. And I towered over most of the boys for years. And my dad knew that height was a huge asset in sports. And so in his mind, I had really a built-in advantage. So I played softball. My dad actually coached one of our seasons. I was a pitcher. I also played uh softball in 4-H and I was a pitcher for that team too. And I played basketball and I played volleyball. And for a while, basketball was my favorite. I loved the fast pace. I loved being part of a team. But as the years went on, the pressure grew. Some of my coaches were actually pretty brutal at times. I mean, there was a lot of yelling, a lot of intensity, and really not a lot of fun, which I thought sports was supposed to be. And I struggled under that kind of pressure. I am a sensitive person and constant criticism didn't fuel me. It chipped away at my confidence. And I found myself sitting more and more on the bench. And that was hard. I mean, it's one thing to work and feel like you're improving. It's another thing to work hard and feel like you're just not measuring up. So honestly, I stopped trying hard and I gave less and less effort. There were seasons I wanted to quit, but shoes are not quitters. So I stayed. I finished the season. I showed up to practice. I ran the drills, even though I hated running. Did I mention that I hated running? Hated running. That's actually one of the real reasons I started loving volleyball so much. It felt much more natural to me. It was more hands-on. It didn't require the same level of conditioning as basketball. And I didn't feel constantly yelled at. Actually, I felt encouraged, like I was actually good at it. And so volleyball became my favorite. But here's what I see now that I couldn't see then. Those seasons on the bench, those practices when I felt discouraged, those moments when my confidence was shaky, they were building endurance. Not so much physical endurance, but emotional endurance. And I was learning how to stay when things were uncomfortable, how to finish even when I didn't feel like the star player. How to commit even when I wasn't getting applause. And that lesson, finishing what you start, would matter in ways I could have never imagined. Because years later, when life handed me something, I when I desperately wanted to quit, that phrase would still be echoing in my head. Shoes are not quitters. Now, while sports was building endurance in me, music was building confidence. Music was always playing in our home growing up. And my dad was a really good singer. He sang in multiple music groups over the years, from country gentlemen to the madrigals that met in Red Wing, Minnesota. And he sang at what felt like every wedding and funeral in the town of Ellsworth. If there was an event that needed music, my dad was probably there. So I grew up constantly hearing him sing. At the time, I will be honest, it was a little annoying. He was always humming something, always breaking into song. But as I got older, I began to appreciate his talent. And deep down, deep down, I hoped that maybe, just maybe, I hadn't inherited a little bit of it. Because I was always singing too, in my room, in the car, around the house. And I just wasn't sure if it was any good. And so when I entered junior high and was in choir, my choir teacher noticed something in me. She heard something in my voice that I didn't yet hear in myself. And not knowing it then, but seeing it now, she really took me under her wing. She helped me develop my voice. She pushed me to try things that felt scary. And eventually, she gave me my first solo. And I was terrified. Standing up in front of people alone with no one else singing with you is incredibly vulnerable. And I was scared out of my ever-living mind. But when I did it, something shifted. I loved it. I loved the feeling of telling a story through music. I loved the connection. I loved that rush of adrenaline when it was over. And I had done something that scared me. And I loved it. I loved the feeling of telling a story through music. I loved the connection. I loved that rush of adrenaline when it was over. And I had done something that scared me. And I really loved everyone telling me that they enjoyed it. And I started to believe maybe I really could sing. Not long after that, I had the opportunity to step into something even bigger. A friend of mine was part of a church musical production. And five weeks before opening night, the lead role quit. They were going to have to shut the whole production down. And the role, well, the play was called Nanny Bird, and the role was a Nanny Bird. And somehow I stepped into it. Now, mind you, I had really no formal acting experience. The only plays I had ever done were little productions that my cousins and I would put on for our parents in the living room. Now, we did them a lot, and I love them, but again, they were only for my parents watching. But if I didn't step in, the whole thing would be canceled. So I said yes. Five weeks to memorize lines, five weeks to learn songs, five weeks to become someone else on stage. And I loved it. I loved the lines, I loved the solos, I loved the challenge. And a whole new part of me was blossoming. Now I had always grown up listening and watching musicals. I had many favorites, but my absolute favorite was Greece. So much so when I was in eighth grade, my mom and I went to visit family friends in New Jersey. And while we were there, they took us to Greece. It was playing on Broadway in New York, and we went. And when I saw that production, I was blown away. The lights, the choreography, the voices, the energy. I didn't just enjoy it. I wanted to be up there. I wanted to sing like that. I wanted to perform like that. I wanted to tell stories from a stage. And when we got home, I listened to that Grease soundtrack constantly for the next year. And little did I know, at the end of my freshman year, our school would announce auditions for that very musical. I was just finishing up my freshman year, and I told myself, oh, I would just be thrilled if I could just get any part of that play, even if I got a chorus role. So I went to the audition, and the high school choir director was also the director of my dad's magical group. So he knew my family had musical ability, but he didn't really know if I did. And honestly, I wasn't sure either. But when I finished my audition, I looked up at his face and his mouth was wide open, jaw dropped. And in that moment, I thought to myself, do I have a shot? Because there was one role that I really wanted. I'm sure you can imagine. And I prayed and prayed and prayed that I would get it. It felt like a very long shot because there was a senior in the in the choir who looked just like Sandy. Blonde, petite, the whole picture. Me? I was tall, super tall, lanky, awkward brown hair. I did not even look like Sandy, but I hoped that my voice would give me a chance. And so there were two rounds of callbacks for the main roles. Then one day the cast list was posted in the choir room. I walked up to the board. Oh, I was so nervous. And next to the name Sandy was my name. I could not believe it. I was going to play Sandy in my high school production of Greece. I don't think I slept for a week. I was so excited and so scared. Nobody even knew who I was. But I was about to step into a spotlight I had only once dreamt about from a Broadway seat. And what I didn't know at the time was how much that stage would prepare me for an entirely different kind of spotlight later in life. And while all of this was happening, the dance recitals, the sports seasons, the stage performances, there was another layer shaping in me. Small town life. My parents owned the local grocery store in Ellsworth. And so our family wasn't just part of the community. We were very visible in it. People knew us. They saw us at the store. They saw us at school. They saw us at community events. And my dad served on many village boards, community things. He was really involved a lot in what was happening in our community. And he was incredibly busy. He opened the grocery store every single morning and he closed it every single night. The only day my dad had off all year was Christmas Day. That was it. Now my dad wasn't perfect, but he showed us what hard work looked like. And watching that kind of work ethic close up does something to you. You learn what commitment looks like. You learn what showing up looks like. You learn what responsibility looks like. And every week my family and I were in church, a small country church. My dad, shocker, sang in the choir, and my mom taught Sunday school. And we knew the same families who were really involved in that. And church was something that we did as a family. And it was really part of our Sunday rhythm. But it wasn't necessarily woven into our everyday life. It was more of a Sunday morning thing. Still, church was part of my foundation. And it was part of the environment shaping my worldview. Now, by the time I was 14, I started working at my parents' grocery store. I was bigging groceries, stocking shelves, uh checked out people, still have dreams, actually nightmares about that, helping customers. And it taught me responsibility. It taught me how to talk to adults, how to look people in the eye, and how to work even when I didn't feel like it. And on top of that, I was really busy. I played flute, I took piano lessons, voice lessons, I was also babysitting. I had school, sports, church, friends, and boys. And if I'm being completely honest, early junior high was when I worked really hard to be in the popular group. I thought that popularity would make me feel secure. I thought it would make me feel confident, make me feel important, make me feel enough. But being so tall made that complicated, especially in junior high, because most of my friends were five foot two. And by the time I was in eighth or ninth grade, I was five foot ten. And I would continue growing. I towered over most of the boys for years. And when you're in junior high, that matters. It felt awkward, it made dating confusing, it made fitting in harder at times. And I wanted to shrink myself, both physically and socially. I wanted to blend, I wanted to belong, to not stand out so much, which is ironic considering how much I love standing on stage. But that's adolescence, isn't it? Confident in one space, insecure in another. And yet through all of it, something steady was forming. Work ethic, follow-through, stage presence, team commitment, community visibility, responsibility, grit. And I didn't know it then, but I was being built, not just as a performer, not just as an athlete, not just as a grocery store kid, but as someone who knew how to work hard, who knew how to show up, who knew how to keep going, who knew how to finish. And that foundation, that small town, structured, disciplined, visible upbringing would matter even more than I could ever imagine. Because just as my confidence, Was growing, just as my dreams were expanding, everything was about to change. And looking back now, I can see what I couldn't see then. When you're in the middle of childhood, you don't think about foundation. You're just living it. You're just showing up, trying things, failing, succeeding, feeling awkward, feeling brave, working hard, wanting to belong. But later, much later, you realize that none of it was wasted. The discipline, the stage courage, the follow-through, the responsibility, even the insecurity, all of it becomes something you draw from. And so here's what I want you to think about today. What in your life feels ordinary, but might actually be preparing you? What lesson feels small? What habit feels repetitive? What responsibility feels unnoticed? Because resilience rarely shows up out of nowhere. It accumulates quietly. And when life shifts, you find out what's already inside of you. For me, that shift was coming faster than I knew. ICU was devastating. Hearing I would never walk again was overwhelming. But honestly, the hardest days were still ahead. Rehabilitation would test me in ways I never saw coming. Not just physically, emotionally, relationally, spiritually. I thought ICU was hard, but rebuilding myself, that was the real fight. And that's where we are going next. Next week's episode is titled Rebuilding Me, the fight of rehabilitation. We'll talk about rehab reality, the physical rebuilding, the emotional rebuilding, and the patience and perseverance required when progress feels painfully slow. If this podcast has been meaningful to you, I would love for you to subscribe so you don't miss what's coming next. And if you're finding value here, I would love it if you would consider sharing this episode with someone who might need it or might be interested in hearing more about my story. And if you're ready to build resilience more intentionally in your own life, you can learn more about my coaching and tools at tashashoe.com/slash coaching. Thank you so much for being here, and I'll see you next week for rebuilding me.