Tag: media professional

The switch up

For a long time, Wood Bully lived in two worlds at the same time. One foot was firmly planted in the day-to-day public construction grind—quotes, timelines, weather delays, materials, client expectations, and the constant pressure of doing everything right while still staying profitable. The other foot was already standing in media—filming builds, telling stories, educating, entertaining, traveling, collaborating, and building something much bigger than a single job site. For years, we tried to balance both. And for a while, that worked. Until it didn’t.

The truth is, the construction side started demanding more and more of our energy while giving us less room to grow creatively and strategically. Not because we don’t love building—we do—but because running a public-facing construction company comes with a level of responsibility and risk that makes innovation harder, not easier. Every job meant real clients, real deadlines, real stress, and real consequences if anything went sideways. At the same time, the media side kept pulling us forward. The audience was growing. The impact was growing. The opportunities were growing. And we were constantly asking ourselves why the thing that was clearly working had to be treated like a side hustle.

So we made a decision that looks big from the outside, but honestly felt inevitable on the inside. We chose focus. We chose to stop splitting ourselves in half and go all-in on what Wood Bully has already become: a media brand built on real construction knowledge, real personalities, and real storytelling. Moving away from day-to-day public construction wasn’t about walking away from the industry—it was about serving it better. Through content, we can reach millions instead of dozens. We can educate, challenge, entertain, and push the trade forward without being limited by one project at a time.

What’s important to say clearly is this: the Wood Bully channel is not changing. The builds don’t stop. The chaos doesn’t stop. The honesty doesn’t stop. The sawdust doesn’t magically disappear. If anything, this shift allows us to do more—bigger builds, better production, deeper education, more behind-the-scenes, and more time spent actually creating instead of constantly firefighting logistics. We’re not becoming a talking-head media company. We’re doubling down on being builders who know how to tell a story.

We’re excited because this move gives us control. Control over our schedule. Control over our creative direction. Control over how we grow and who we collaborate with. It allows us to build sustainable systems, invest in our team, and think long-term instead of job-to-job. It also lets us protect the Wood Bully brand in a way that public construction simply doesn’t anymore. No rushed timelines. No compromising quality. No forcing creativity into the cracks of an already overloaded calendar.

This isn’t an ending—it’s an evolution. Wood Bully was never just a construction company. It was always a voice, a perspective, and a way of showing the industry as it actually is. Going full-time media doesn’t take us away from that. It finally puts us exactly where we were heading all along.

You heard it here first …

We’re starting a podcast.

Not because it’s trendy. Not because “everyone has one.” And definitely not because we needed another thing on our plates. We’re starting it because there are too many conversations happening off-camera that deserve to be heard — the real ones, the uncomfortable ones, the funny ones, and the ones that never make it into a perfectly edited video.

If you follow our work, you already know we don’t do polished-for-the-sake-of-polished. Our world is loud, chaotic, opinionated, and built on real experiences — wins, mistakes, lessons, and a lot of trial by fire. The podcast is an extension of that. It’s a space where we can slow things down just enough to actually talk, reflect, and say the things that don’t fit into a 60-second clip or a build montage.

This podcast isn’t about teaching you how to build something step by step. It’s about the people behind the tools. The mindset. The behind-the-scenes decisions. The stuff no one posts because it doesn’t look good on a highlight reel. We want to talk about the industry honestly — the good parts and the parts that make you want to throw your phone across the room. The successes, the failures, the burnout, the ego, the pressure, the money conversations, the loyalty conversations, the “what the hell are we even doing?” moments.

It’s also not a sales pitch. You won’t hear us reading off scripts or pretending everything is perfect. If something’s working, we’ll say it. If something didn’t, we’ll say that too. Guests aren’t coming on to impress anyone — they’re coming on to talk like real humans who have been in the trenches, made mistakes, learned lessons, and lived to tell the story.

At its core, this podcast is about paying attention — to the details, to the people, to the things most get wrong, and to the truths that get ignored because they’re uncomfortable. It’s about calling things what they are, laughing when it’s ridiculous, and being honest even when it would be easier not to be.

If you’re looking for something overly polished, perfectly structured, or filtered to death — this probably isn’t for you. But if you want real conversations, real opinions, and real stories from people who are actually living it, then welcome. This is us, unfiltered, on a mic — and we’re just getting started.

The Most Important Lesson I’ve Learned Working in This Industry

If there’s one thing this industry has taught me — the kind of lesson you only learn after years of trial, error, and stubbornness — it’s this:

If you don’t know what you’re building toward, everything around you will pull you in a hundred directions at once.

And not gently.

This space is loud. Everyone has an opinion, everyone has a strategy, everyone swears they’ve cracked the code. And if you’re not anchored by something real, you’ll find yourself scrolling Google for escape plans and foreign residency requirements before your coffee gets cold. (Hypothetically. Maybe.)

People see the final outcome — the polished videos, the polished projects, the audience numbers — and assume there’s a straight line connecting all of it. But nothing about what we do is linear. Growth has a personality disorder. Some seasons feel electric and effortless; some feel like you’re dragging the entire internet up a hill.

What has surprised me most isn’t the workload. It’s the emotional weight of leading something that has its own identity now. Wood Bully and Bully Media aren’t just “our businesses” anymore — they are a living, breathing thing with expectations, momentum, and people who rely on it. There’s a responsibility that comes with that, one that grows louder the bigger this gets.

And that’s exactly why Gordon built this the way he did.

Not for attention.

Not for clout.

Not for internet fame.

He built it because he hoped that someday, all of this effort would circle back to his family — to more time, more stability, and more choices than either of us had growing up. Wood Bully started as a way to build something that would outlive the hustle. Something that could create freedom, not chaos. Something that could rewrite what “work” looks like for our family in the long run.

The part people don’t see is that purpose evolves.

It’s not a moment — it’s a discipline.

A practice.

A constant recalibration.

Purpose is what forces you to make decisions that aren’t popular but are necessary.

Purpose is what keeps you from taking shortcuts when the easier road is right there.

Purpose is what stops you from letting ego run the show.

Purpose is what keeps the entire thing aligned when the outside world feels messy.

And in a space where trends flip every five minutes, where platforms reinvent themselves overnight, and where everybody swears they found a “new formula,” that purpose has become the only compass worth following.

I’ve learned that success isn’t one big decision — it’s a thousand tiny agreements you make with yourself:

Who you want to be.

What kind of company you want to run.

What kind of impact you want to leave behind.

What kind of example you’re setting while you build it.

Everything around Wood Bully has evolved. The audience, the content, the direction, the opportunities — all of it has changed dramatically from where we started. But the intention behind it hasn’t drifted even an inch.

We’re here to build something that outlasts trends, noise, and algorithms.

Something anchored in the kind of values that don’t go out of style.

Something our kids can look at and understand exactly what we stood for.

That — not the numbers, not the platforms, not the industry chaos —

is the reason we’re still standing.

And the reason we’ll still be standing ten years from now.

OC Lumber x Wood Bully

If you told me five years ago that I’d be traveling across the U.S. for two months straight with Gordon, building, filming, and chasing an idea that had been in my head for years, I probably would have laughed and told you that stuff just doesn’t happen to anyone. And yet, somehow, that idea — this crazy, half-dreamed, half-insane notion of a traveling carpenter media tour — actually happened. Twice. In 2024 and 2025, we set out on what became the OC Lumber Tour, and it was everything I thought it would be and nothing I expected at the same time.

The whole thing started in January 2024. I’d been talking about the traveling Wood Bully idea for years, begging Gordon to do it. And then, out of nowhere, we met Casey ( in person anyways) And Casey had been thinking the exact same thing. For a moment, it was almost unreal — like someone finally spoke the same language we’d been dreaming in all along. From that instant, everything clicked. Casey became more than a planner or organizer; he became a guide, a partner, and someone whose expertise we leaned on in ways I can’t even describe. He knows every hotel in the country, but he also listens, believes in your vision, and somehow manages to make chaos feel manageable. Having him there made this impossible dream feel achievable.

We left for the first tour on June 29, 2024, right after our son’s grade 12 graduation ( he graduated with honors 🎉) We drove to Washington, D.C., jumped on an overnight auto train to Sanford, Florida, and began the whirlwind. From there, we drove down to the Keys, settling into a hotel in Marathon right on the water. Huge iguanas wandered around the pool, completely unbothered by humans, and it was one of our first “holy shit, we’re actually doing this” moments. Florida stole my heart immediately.

From Marathon, the stops came fast: Key Largo, Fort Lauderdale, Fort Myers, Cape Coral(which Gord kept calling Cape Canaveral – I have the videos to prove it!) Sarasota (Siesta Key sunsets!), Bradenton, Winter Haven, and Orlando — after Orlando we flew home for four days for our son’s birthday. Then Clearwater, St. Pete Beach, a pizza stop in tiny Tarpon Springs, Hudson, Daytona Beach, Jacksonville, Savannah, Dutch Island, Charleston, Greenville, Birmingham, Nashville, Knoxville for a competition series, Charlotte, Wilmington (where we surprised Gordon for his birthday), Newport News, Baltimore (never again), Atlantic City, Barnegat, Long Island, Butler, NJ, and finally Providence, Rhode Island.

Every day was early mornings, building or appearances, sleep, then driving to the next city. Just Gordon and me traveling together. I handled production, logistics, and everything at home, while Gordon was the creative genius on camera. Casey and Kevin were there almost every stop, keeping everything organized, anticipating problems before they happened, and somehow making the tour feel possible. Casey’s dedication went far beyond logistics — he was our mentor, our problem-solver, the calm in the chaos, and someone who believed in us when we were still figuring out if we believed in ourselves.

Some moments were unforgettable. Watching Gordon, who couldn’t swim, get on water skis ( TWICE! ) was absolutely hilarious — and terrifying. He had practiced swimming in hotel pools for days beforehand. He was sore for a week. I laughed so hard I cried ( I also have videos of this). And there was that pizza in Wayne, New Jersey. I swear I dream about it all the time. And then there were the contractors everywhere recognizing Wood Bully — telling us we’d inspired them, taught them what they knew, or motivated them to start their own companies. That part hit me in a way nothing else did. All the chaos, stress, and long drives suddenly had meaning.

2025 was different. We went back to the drawing board and decided to slow down. Instead of flying in and out of job sites in a day, we stayed a week, really building relationships, learning from crews, and creating more meaningful content. We started in Detroit with Theo Von ( watching his stand up show ), then Cleveland, Massachusetts, Boston, Fargo (a two-day drive!), Short Grass Resort in South Dakota, Billings, Montana (where our brand-new vehicle broke down, nightmare), Toledo for the Owens Corning headquarters, and finally a bowling alley hangout before heading home. Spending more time at each stop made everything feel more connected — less rushed, less stressful, and way more rewarding.

Even the tough moments are now part of the story. The Billings breakdown could have broken me emotionally — six of us stranded, rentals, flights, logistics — but we somehow made it work. That experience taught me more about adaptability, patience, and teamwork than anything else on either tour.

Through it all, the biggest lesson was about people. Casey became family. Contractors became friends. Gordon and I learned how capable we really are, how adaptable we can be, and how incredible it feels to turn a five-year idea into a tangible reality. I also learned that I can thrive in chaos, that I can hold everything together when needed, and that relationships — real, honest, human relationships — are what make the grind worth it.

If I had to sum up both tours in one sentence, it would be: holy shit, that was epic. I can’t wait to do it again, and I know that with Gordon and the incredible people we met along the way, the next chapter will be even bigger.

I put some photos at the bottom because writing about this just doesn’t do it justice –

-Samantha

Q: How do you price brand partnerships? Is there a formula to make sure you’re not undercharging or overcharging?

When I asked Gord this question, he didn’t hesitate. He said, “No. There’s no formula. The best advice I was ever given—and it actually makes sense—is you charge what the market will allow.” He explained that in this space, we’re not negotiating with regular people who saved up for their backyard. We’re dealing with corporations. These companies are handed budget money, and their job is to take that budget and generate as much buzz and visibility as possible. So when they come to you, they’re not coming with emotion or personal sacrifice. They’re not stretching their personal savings. They’re looking for a return.

“That humility, that blue-collar shame that gets built into us from the time we’re kids—the idea that we shouldn’t ask for more, or that we don’t deserve more—that’s wrong. Corporations don’t care what your rates are. They care what fits in the budget. They’re not taking it personally. Smaller companies might take it personally, and honestly, you might have to avoid those, the same way you avoid small construction jobs that cause more trouble than they’re worth.”

He pointed out how strange the landscape is. “These companies will go pay ten times more to a magazine that nobody reads anymore, or a TV show that doesn’t give them proper credit, or some outdated website with no audience. They’ll throw huge amounts of money at dead marketing channels, but hesitate with creators who get millions of views. That’s the part people forget—you’re not just making content. You’re editing, producing, hosting, broadcasting, and your likeness also costs money. You’re basically the production company, the network, the actor, and the editor, all in one.”

Then he made the comparison that most creators never say out loud: “We actually perform better than TV. Our company reaches more people in a month than HGTV does. So technically, we should charge more than a traditional TV commercial. But we don’t. And that’s because the space is still new, and a lot of the decision-makers are older. They don’t always understand the value they’re getting.”

What about when a brand gets offended by your price? Gordon was blunt: “If someone’s offended that you asked for the rate you feel you deserve, that’s not someone you want to work with anyway.”

He also talked about something that creators rarely discuss publicly—the tension with certain marketing directors. “Some smaller companies hire marketing directors who went to university, got their marketing degree, and they’re very proud of that. They look down on people like me—a construction worker who one day tossed his apprentice a phone and started this whole thing. But now they need me to push their product. They’ll give you attitude, try to micromanage your edit, or ‘fix’ your video. Yet when you look at their socials? Nothing going on. They might know a lot academically, but they don’t know what I do.”

He wasn’t bitter about it—just realistic. “You have to ignore the egos. Keep moving. Don’t let someone else’s pride or credentials make you doubt your worth.”

Then he said something I think every creator should hear: “You can’t take yourself too seriously, but you’ve got to know what you’re worth. And you can’t work backwards. You can’t work for free. You can’t work just for money. And you can’t let your ego drive the bus.”

He talked about creators who will do massive work for almost nothing, just so they can say they have a “paid partnership.” “That’s an ego thing. It’s not business. For me, I’ve always stayed away from paid partnerships. I don’t want my whole page to turn into a commercial. I don’t think that helps build a brand. In fact, I think it hurts it. You’ve got to be selective. You’ve got to pick partners who understand value and respect your work.”

In the end, Gord’s answer wasn’t a formula—it was a mindset. Know your worth. Know the market. Don’t let old-school thinking or someone else’s ego convince you that you deserve less. And price based on value, not fear.

Q: In YouTuber vs. Real Carpenter, how much is real and how much is staged? Are there rules or time limits we don’t see?

When I asked Gordon this, he didn’t even let me finish the question before he jumped in.

He said, “There’s nothing staged. Literally nothing. When that timer says ‘go,’ and when that timer says ‘stop,’ that block of time is sacred. There are no shenanigans, no retakes, no recreating anything for camera. That time is competition. We take that part extremely seriously. Everything else you see—the interviews, the talking heads, the commentary—those are done before or after, not during. Sometimes on the longer builds we’ll call a break halfway through so everyone can breathe, grab water, maybe film a couple quick interviews, have some food, but the timer stops. I usually don’t leave those breaks in the final edit because they just don’t make sense in the flow of the story, but they’re real. The competition itself though? Completely legitimate. The timer is real. The rules are real.”

He added, “Even the judge has no idea what’s happening. They’re completely blind. Except for that one time where we tried having the judge watch the whole thing—that was an experiment, and we won’t be doing that again. Fun to try, but yeah, not happening again. It’ll always be blind from now on.”

When I asked him about materials, he explained that the goal is always fairness. “The usual structure is two identical piles of materials. You pick what you want to build within the parameters, and both piles have more than enough to do any style you can think of for that type of challenge. Now, we’ve had a couple of the bigger episodes where, because of budget, competitors could request special items. I can’t buy two of everything—we don’t have a million dollars to make an episode—so sometimes someone would ask for something specific. And then the other guy would complain that he didn’t get the same special thing. It turned into chaos. So no more special things. Equal piles only. It keeps it simple and fair. And honestly, when people lose, they get sore. They’ll point out things we didn’t even think about. That actually helps us keep improving the rules so they’re impenetrable. Equal time, equal materials, equal parameters. That’s the formula.”

So I asked him what he says to the people online who comment that it’s rigged.

He said, “They’re just saying that. People say things. Sometimes we edit episodes to look closer than they were because that’s how storytelling works. So the audience thinks it was neck-and-neck when really one person absolutely dominated. But if we showed it exactly as it happened, it might not be as fun to watch. Then people get mad because in their head, the guy who lost ‘almost won.’ But they weren’t there. And some people think I care whether I win or lose. I don’t. I’ve lost before. I want this thing to be bigger than me. This competition is for the entire carpentry community. Carpenters deserve representation, respect, a platform. People watch reality shows where someone cooks a steak. I promise you building a house is harder than cooking a steak—I know, because I cook steaks after building houses. No disrespect to chefs, but what we do deserves a spotlight too.”

I asked him how competitors and judges are chosen. Competitors apply through the JotForm link that’s in every episode description. “Skill level matters,” he told me, “but attitude and availability matter way more. We’re working around the camera crew’s schedule, my schedule, the judge’s schedule, sponsors, materials… so many moving parts. Sometimes we make a shortlist. If you’re worried because you don’t have a million photos of perfect work, don’t be. We’re looking at how you represent yourself and whether you can actually show up.”

For the judges, he keeps it simple. “The judge has to match the challenge. I’m not bringing in someone who tiles bathrooms to judge a staircase. That makes no sense, and it’s not fair to the tradespeople watching at home. And to the people saying I know the judges—yeah, I do, because our industry is small. But they don’t see anything beforehand. They show up on judgment day, they’re handed a scorecard, and that’s it. They have no context. They’re blind for a reason. And honestly? I think some of them want me to lose. Some come in thinking they’re going to pick the other guy just to see me go down. But sometimes they choose the wrong one assuming it’s mine, or they assume it’s the competitor’s when it’s really mine. There’s no way for them to guess. I build something different every single episode, and we flip a coin for which side I’m on, so the judges can’t identify anything.”

Before he wrapped up, he said “My goal has always been to keep this as official and fair as possible. This is one of those things I always wished someone else had done years ago, but now that we’re actually doing it, I understand why nobody did. It is hard. I don’t think TV could do this. I don’t think Netflix could do this. The challenges are too big, the materials are too big, the equipment, the space, the logistics, and honestly the price tag is enormous. That’s why this has to be independent and on YouTube. But I love doing it, and as difficult as it is, I’m not stopping.”

Travelling + Being a parent

People romanticize travel like it’s some dreamy montage of airports, hotels, new cities, and “living the life.” But when you have kids—five kids, to be exact—travel stops being glamorous real quick. For us, travel started back in 2020 when my youngest was almost three, and honestly? It hasn’t really stopped since. Most families take a vacation once or twice a year; we somehow built a life where suitcases never get fully unpacked, passports live permanently in our backpacks, and every month we are figuring out what’s next. And sure, there are cool moments. There are memories we’d never have if our life looked “normal.” But nobody warns you about the part where traveling without your kids creates a version of parenting that looks nothing like what people imagine.

People hear “touring all summer” or “trade show season” and picture adventure, momentum, and opportunity. And yes—it’s absolutely all of those things. But it’s also the reality of hugging your kids goodbye for weeks or months at a time, missing birthdays and school events, and knowing that life at home keeps moving whether you’re there to see it or not. Even though our tours, trade shows, and appearances are all within North America, the distance still feels huge. You’re working, creating, and building something meaningful, but a part of your mind is always anchored at home. You think about the routines you usually run, the conversations you’re missing, and all the little things only a parent really notices.

And when you are home? It’s not the “rest and reset” people assume it must be. It’s catching up on everything that piled up while you were away. Laundry, meals, school updates, appointments, schedules, and the hundreds of small decisions that keep a household running. The stress doesn’t disappear just because you’ve crossed a border back into your own driveway—it just shifts from work mode to home mode. Running a household from the road becomes a full-time side job: coordinating schedules through spotty service, FaceTiming during the only hour that overlaps, helping with homework between commitments, and managing life from hotel rooms and highways. It’s a juggling act that no one trains you for.

With five kids, there’s always someone who needs something—support, structure, attention, reassurance—and when you’re away, you feel every single missed moment a little differently. Not in a dramatic or guilt-heavy way, just in an honest, “this is the reality of our lifestyle” way. You parent from a distance, you stay involved however you can, and you remind yourself constantly that you’re doing this for your family, even if it means being physically away from them more than you’d like. It’s a strange balance: loving the work and the opportunities, while knowing there’s always a version of home you’re temporarily stepping out of.

Traveling without your kids isn’t glamorous, and it isn’t terrible—it’s just real. It’s beautiful, messy, fulfilling, overwhelming, and meaningful all at once. It’s the constant back-and-forth between showing your kids what hard work looks like and wishing you could bottle every moment you miss. People see the photos, the projects, the places, the highlight reel. But the truth is simpler: traveling without your kids comes with its own weight, its own sacrifices, and its own rewards. At the end of the day, no trip, no tour, no project compares to walking back through your front door and hearing five voices yelling for you all at once.

And honestly, even with the challenges, I know we’re giving our kids a life I never imagined for myself. They’re growing up with experiences, opportunities, and perspectives I didn’t have—and that makes all of this worth it. We’re lucky, and I don’t take that for granted for a second.

-Samantha