An abridged version of the speech I delivered at my Depart with Dignity on Thursday, 11 Jun 2026.
Bonjour à tous. Merci d’être ici aujourd’hui. Je suis honoré de partager ce moment avec vous.
Good afternoon everyone. Thank you for being here.
As I was preparing for today, I spent a lot of time thinking about what stories I should tell.
After twenty-three years, there are a lot of them.
There are stories from summers at cadet training centres.
Stories from expeditions. Stories from the more than half a dozen cadet corps at which I’ve had the privilege of working. Stories from my time at the Area Office and Regional Headquarters. Stories that are funny. Stories that are ridiculous. And a few stories that are probably best left untold.
The problem is that if I tried to tell all the best stories, we’d be here until supper.
That’s why, in a couple of weeks, Shaun and I will be hosting a more informal gathering at our home, where the storytelling can continue well into the evening.
For today, I’ve decided to tell just one story.
It’s a story about mud.
It’s not necessarily the funniest story. It’s not the most important story. But looking back, I think it explains what I learned during my career.
Before I tell it, though, I should probably provide a little context.
When I joined the Canadian Armed Forces as an Army officer in the Cadet Instructor Cadre twenty-three years ago, I was… a work in progress.
A few days into my Basic Officer Qualification course, during a by-the-bunk inspection, I was asked by then-Captain Allan why I hadn’t shaved that morning.
I replied:
“Because I shaved yesterday, ma’am.”
That answer was not received as positively as I had hoped.
I had a lot to learn.
In fact, during my first summer at what was then called Argonaut Army Cadet Summer Training Centre, I managed to create what I believe was a self-sustaining administrative feedback loop.
I would unknowingly do something wrong because I was so new and naïve, and I’d be assigned company duty to reinforce expectations.
Because I was on duty, I would have to stay up late. Because I was up late, I would be tired the next morning. Because I was tired, I would be late for the morning O Group. Because I was late for the morning O Group, to reinforce expectations, I would be assigned company duty.
This process repeated itself with remarkable consistency.
In fact, I believe I achieved fourteen consecutive days of company duty.
Fortunately, throughout my career, people had a remarkable ability to look past my mistakes and see potential.
Mentors gave me opportunities that often exceeded normal levels of responsibility for my rank and experience. Supervisors trusted me to work with independence. Leaders took chances on me.
Not because I had everything figured out. But because they saw what I might become.
Which brings me to my story.
It was the summer of 2007.
I was the platoon commander on the Army Cadet Leader-Instructor Physical Education and Recreational Training Course.
As an eager young officer, I had enough confidence to take initiative. Unfortunately, I had not yet developed enough wisdom to know when not to take said initiative.
One evening, I decided to take my platoon for a walk in the woods. Now this wasn’t just any walk in the woods. I had conducted a recce of an abandoned trail behind the training centre. Along that trail, I had discovered what could best be described as an extraordinary mud bog. Not puddles. Not a bit of mud. The mother of all mud. This was deep, black, foul-smelling muck.
The kind of mud that makes a young CIC lieutenant stop and think, “Someone should probably take cadets through this.”
I told the platoon to change into combats because we were going on an adventure.
As we left the training centre, I asked, “Who wants to get muddy?”
There were cheers.
Then I asked, “Who doesn’t want to get muddy?”
A few hands went up. To which I replied, “That’s unfortunate.”
Eventually we arrived at the mother mud. There was no way around it. Only through it. And through it we went.
Some cadets had mud to the tops of their boots, and liquid began to seep in behind their trouser blousers. Then some had mud to their waists. Some stumbled and emerged looking like creatures from the swamp. Those who didn’t stumble were encouraged by their peers to flop down into the mud until every set of olive drab combats was blackened from boot bands to collars.
When we arrived back at the training centre, we proudly marched as a formed platoon around the roads, leaving a trail of organic material behind us. The cadets thought it was fantastic–even those who had said they didn’t want to get muddy.
The following day, I was summoned to the office of the Chief Instructor.
Standing at attention, I was informed that my decision to take cadets on a journey through the mud had been irresponsible, dangerous, foolish, and very much not approved.
To be fair, there may have been some truth to that assessment.
But here’s the interesting thing. So many years later, when I run into cadets from that platoon, that’s the story they tell.
Not because of the mud. They remember it because of how it made them feel. They remember the adventure. They remember the challenge. They remember discovering they were capable of more than they thought.
Looking back, I realize the mud mattered.
Not because it was mud. It mattered because it was an opportunity. An opportunity to step outside a comfort zone. An opportunity to try something difficult. An opportunity to discover confidence that wasn’t there before.
And the more I reflect on my career, the more I realize that wasn’t just a lesson for those cadets. It was a lesson for me.
When I joined the Cadet Instructor Cadre, I was inexperienced, naïve, and still figuring things out. Fortunately, people saw something in me anyway. They saw potential. They trusted me with opportunities I had not yet earned. They gave me room to grow. They gave me room to fail. And sometimes they gave me room to surprise myself.
Looking back, that may be the greatest gift one person can give another. To believe in them before they fully believe in themselves.
Over time, I realized that leadership is not really about directing people. It’s about creating opportunities. It’s about helping people discover strengths they didn’t know they possessed. It’s about seeing potential and giving it room to grow.
Whether that happened in a kayak on the ocean, on a hiking expedition, during a field exercise in the rain, or in a mud bog behind a training centre, the principle was always the same. Growth rarely happens inside a comfort zone.
The cadet program, and for that matter the Canadian Armed Forces, has always been full of young people discovering who they are and what they are capable of. I’ve had the privilege of watching that happen for twenty-three years. I’ve watched nervous cadets become confident leaders. I’ve watched young people discover strengths they never knew they possessed. I’ve watched them surprise themselves.
And while all of that was happening for them, it was happening for me too. This program didn’t just develop cadets. It developed me.
Now, if the story of the mother mud ended in 2007, it would just be a story about questionable judgment by a young officer. But it doesn’t. Seventeen years later, I found myself serving at Argonaut Cadet Training Centre as the Chief Instructor. Not as the young lieutenant standing at attention in the Chief Instructor’s office. But as the Major sitting behind the Chief Instructor’s desk. The very position held by the officer who informed me that my mud adventure was irresponsible, foolish, and very much not approved.
And that summer, on one hot Sunday afternoon, I rounded up about fifty cadets and invited them to join me on an adventure. Because by then I understood something that twenty-two-year-old Lieutenant Wheaton only understood instinctively. The mud mattered.
Not because of the mud itself. But because of what it led to. And when those cadets emerged once again from the woods, covered in mud—and one of them missing a sneaker that was never recovered from the bog—they were all grinning from ear to ear. And I knew the experience had achieved exactly what it was meant to achieve.
Like any twenty-three-year journey, there were incredible highs and difficult chapters. There were moments of adventure, growth, friendship, and pride. There were also challenges that tested me in ways I never expected. Yet even during those difficult times, people continued to invest in me. They offered encouragement. They offered support. They reminded me of my own potential when I sometimes struggled to see it myself.
Looking back, I realize that lesson was just as important as any expedition or leadership appointment. Sometimes people don’t need someone to solve their problems. Sometimes they simply need someone who believes in them.
In recent months, I’ve spent time reflecting on what comes next. And ultimately, I came to realize it was time for a new chapter. Not because I stopped believing in the cadet program. Far from it. But every chapter eventually reaches its natural conclusion.
As I prepare to hang up this uniform for the final time this afternoon, I do so with gratitude. Gratitude for the opportunities. Gratitude for the adventures. Gratitude for the friendships. And gratitude for the privilege of spending twenty-three years helping young Canadians discover what they are capable of.
Nobody remembers the lesson plans. Nobody remembers the enabling objectives. They hardly remember the practical performance checks.
What they remember are the adventures. They remember the challenges. They remember the friendships. They remember the moments that changed them. They remember the people who believed in them.
When I look back on twenty-three years in uniform, that’s what I will remember too.
The expeditions. The friendships. The people. The opportunities.
And all the individuals who saw potential in a young officer who was still very much a work in progress. Because those people changed my life.
And if I’ve managed to do the same for even a few cadets along the way, then every year was worthwhile.
Because growth rarely happens inside a comfort zone.
And because, in the end…
the mud mattered.
Thank you.
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