We were well into our conversation — she’d already shared a full, rich life: her career with the U.S. Coast Guard, her work in theater and television, her path to becoming a speaking coach. And then we got to the part of the show I think of as the exhale. Two Truths and a Lie.

Beverly leaned in and described an ordinary workday that turned into anything but. Nelson Mandela had just been released from prison and was on his way to Yankee Stadium to speak to thousands of New Yorkers. The Coast Guard had brought him through the New York area, and that meant a stop at Beverly’s office. He was exhausted — barely able to raise his hand in greeting as he left. But while Mandela rested, Harry Belafonte put on an impromptu concert for Beverly and her coworkers in the hallway of her office building. Just them. No one else.

I sat there for a second. That’s a story that never gets to come out in ordinary conversation.

That’s the moment I think about whenever someone asks me why I end every episode with a game.

The Thing People Carry Into the Room: Most of the guests who sit down with me have a story they know how to tell. It’s the one they’ve rehearsed—at dinner parties, in interviews, when someone asks how they ended up where they are. It’s polished. It has a shape. It ties up neatly at the end.

I’m not saying those stories aren’t true. I’m saying they’re not always the whole truth.

The whole truth is often sitting a little further back. It’s the experience that’s too unexpected, too hard to offer without the right opening. The one that doesn’t fit any obvious on-ramp in ordinary conversation.

Alan Mallory gave me one of those. I knew going in that Alan had done something almost no one on the planet has done — he and his siblings were the first family in the world to reach the summit of Mount Everest together. That’s the story he knows how to tell, and he tells it well. But during Two Truths and a Lie, a different story came out. During COVID, Alan and his wife sold most of their possessions, bought a fifth-wheel RV, and spent a year traveling across the country with their three kids. They did schoolwork in the mornings. In the afternoons, they biked through red rock canyons and did night rides through the Arizona desert — headlamps on, rattlesnakes and tarantulas moving in the dark around them — because Alan thought that sounded like more fun than sitting still.

He mentioned it almost in passing. Like it was just something they did.

These are the stories I’m always hoping to find. The ones that are so fully lived that the person telling them doesn’t quite realize how remarkable they are.

What the Game Does That a Question Can’t: I didn’t add Two Truths and a Lie to Project Candor because I thought it would unlock better conversations. I added it because I thought it would be fun — a light way to close out what are often heavy, meaningful exchanges.

What I didn’t expect was what it would actually do.

When the frame shifts from “we’re in an interview” to “we’re playing a game,” something changes. The rules are different. In Two Truths and a Lie, one statement is supposed to be false — that’s the entire point. Permission to be surprising, even a little mischievous, is already built in. Guests who have been thoughtful and measured for an entire conversation suddenly become animated. They lean forward. They start to enjoy themselves.

And in that enjoyment, things surface.

Paula Casey told me, almost as an aside during the segment, about the night she sat down to dinner with Margaret Thatcher. At some point during the evening, the former Prime Minister turned to Paula and asked for a personal tour of the Opryland Conservatory at the hotel in Nashville. Paula’s response — without missing a beat — was: I’d be happy to, but you’re going to need better shoes.

Thatcher went and changed her shoes. Paula gave her the tour. People in the conservatory stopped and pointed, saying, That’s Margaret Thatcher.

She told me this story like it was a perfectly reasonable thing that had happened to her. And I thought: how does something like that almost not come up at all?

The answer is that there’s no graceful way to offer it unprompted. “So, Paula, have you ever given Margaret Thatcher a personal tour of a hotel conservatory?” is not a question that comes up in ordinary life. But in Two Truths and a Lie, Paula had a natural place to put it.

That’s what the game creates. A container for the stories that don’t have a natural container anywhere else.

Why This Matters Beyond the Podcast: I think about this a lot outside the recording room.

Most of us are walking around with stories like Beverly’s, Alan’s, and Paula’s. Moments that shaped us, surprised us, or turned out to be stranger and more wonderful than we could have planned. Moments we haven’t quite figured out how to share—not because we’re hiding them, but because we’re waiting for the right moment, the right container, the right permission.

That’s the idea at the heart of Project Candor. Ordinary people are carrying extraordinary things. The job isn’t to extract those stories through clever questions. The job is to create a space where sharing them feels natural—even welcome. (For more on this, see Life Has a Way of Rewriting Plans.)

Two Truths and a Lie is a small, concrete expression of that belief. It says, “We’re not only interested in the experiences you’ve already packaged for public consumption.” We’re interested in the ones still waiting for someone to ask.

And in my experience, when you give people permission to be surprising, a little unpredictable, a little off-script — they tell you the truth. Sometimes truths they didn’t even know they were ready to share.

In conclusion, Beverly’s story about Harry Belafonte was completely unexpected. What made it so incredible is that Beverly and her coworkers and the stars themselves are the only ones who could ever say this happened to them — and the only reason I got to hear it was because of a game at the end of a podcast.

I think about how many stories like hers are sitting in the people around us. How rarely we give each other the kind of space where something unexpected can surface. How often we stay in the lane of polished and purposeful, when the real stuff is just a little further back.

That’s what I’m always trying to build with Project Candor. Not a place where people perform their best selves. A place where they get to share the rest of themselves, too.

If you want to explore what that kind of candid, self-reflective conversation looks like in a one-on-one setting, I’m currently developing Chart Your Next Course, a new offering in development for those who want to do that kind of thinking in a more personal context.

Sometimes it just takes a game to get there.

Call to Action

Want to hear the game in action? The Two Truths and a Lie segment is one of my favorite parts of every episode — you never know where it’s going to go. 👉 Listen to a recent episode of Project Candor

Think you have a story worth telling? Project Candor guests come from every walk of life. If you’ve lived something worth talking about, I’d love to hear it. 👉 Apply to be a guest

About the author: Jeanne Andersen is the host of the Project Candor Podcast.

The post The Stories My Guests Reveal During the Game first appeared on Project Candor Podcast.

The second question was harder to answer. “Why all the nautical stuff?” It’s a question that, frankly, surprised me at first. I never consciously sat down and decided Project Candor needed a maritime identity. Yet, the language flowed naturally: “charting a course,” “true north,” “dropping anchor,” “ship’s logs.” It felt… familiar. It felt right. This isn’t just another podcast branding personal story; it’s about how deeply our earliest experiences can shape our creative output and the very essence of what we build. As the author Ursula K. Le Guin once observed, “The creative adult is the child that survived.” It’s a fascinating exploration into the subconscious currents that guide our conscious choices, and in this post, I want to share my own journey of discovering the unexpected origins of Project Candor’s nautical soul.

Charting Our Course: The Unseen Currents of Childhood and Lifelong Inspiration

It’s a curious thing, how the seemingly small, unassuming moments of our childhood can lay down deep, invisible currents that guide us through life. We might not even recognize their influence until much later, when a theme or a particular way of thinking feels so inherently us that we can’t imagine it being any other way. For me, the nautical elements of Project Candor are precisely that—a profound example of childhood influences on creativity that were always present, just waiting for the right moment to surface. It’s almost as if our earliest years etch a blueprint onto our hearts and minds, shaping who we become long before we even know ourselves.

Early Navigational Aids: How Childhood Sparks Become Lifelong Guides

One of my favorite childhood television shows was Sailor Bob. Every afternoon, he sat aboard his little tugboat, talking to us kids, drawing pictures, sharing cartoons, and making life on the water seem fun. It wasn’t complicated. It was comfortable. It was an adventure mixed with kindness, curiosity, and imagination. Looking back, Sailor Bob wasn’t just entertainment; he was an early beacon, signaling a world of exploration and genuine connection. He taught me, perhaps without me even realizing it, that wisdom could be found in quiet conversation, and that wonder lay just beyond the pier.

Years later, I joined the Navy and eventually found myself assigned to a tugboat, the USS Waxahachie. The irony of that isn’t lost on me. I doubt Sailor Bob was solely responsible for my career choices, but looking back, I can’t help but smile at the connection. Of course, Sailor Bob wasn’t the only clue. There were summers fishing on the James River, a childhood visit to the Jamestown Settlement, stories about Blackbeard and the Outer Banks, an uncle who served in the Navy, and later my own years in naval service. These weren’t just isolated events; they were cumulative experiences, like individual drops of water filling a reservoir that would one day feed a powerful river. Each one reinforced a fascination with journeys, with the vastness of the unknown, and with the quiet strength required to navigate it. Add in a healthy dose of Star Trek, exploration, and adventure, and perhaps the nautical clues were there all along, patiently waiting for me to connect the dots.

The Silent Architects: Understanding Childhood’s Lasting Imprint

What’s truly fascinating is how these deep-seated origins of creative inspiration manifest. When I created Project Candor, I wasn’t consciously thinking about any of those childhood influences. Yet, the nautical language came naturally. Ship’s Logs. Charting a Course. True North. Anchored in Joy. The Admiral of the Unexpected. It wasn’t a strategic decision to adopt a maritime theme; it was an organic emergence from a wellspring of personal history. This illustrates a profound truth about creativity: often, our most authentic expressions aren’t born from deliberate planning, but from the quiet, subconscious synthesis of our lived experiences. Our past forms a silent architectural blueprint, subtly guiding the structures we build in the present.

This isn’t just a feeling; it’s something many thoughtful observers of human nature have come to understand. Our earliest years, those tender, formative times, are incredibly potent. Our minds, particularly when we’re young, are like fertile ground, soaking up every experience and shaping the very channels of our thinking. What we encounter then – the stories, the adventures, the simple joys – they don’t just fade away. They weave themselves into the fabric of who we are, influencing our interests, our resilience, and even how we navigate challenges as adults. It reminds me of a beautiful sentiment often shared, that “Every child is a different kind of flower, and all together, make this world a beautiful garden.” It gently reminds us that children aren’t just to be molded, but rather “people to be unfolded,” revealing the unique patterns laid down in those early, precious years.

Beyond the Horizon: Finding Meaning in Metaphor and Mission

As I reflected more on why the podcast’s nautical metaphors felt so natural, I realized my fascination wasn’t limited to ships and waterways. I loved being on the water, but I was equally drawn to the journeys, the exploration, and the possibility of discovering something unexpected. This insight was a turning point, helping me understand that the theme wasn’t just a stylistic choice; it was deeply intertwined with the very mission of Project Candor itself.

The Language of the Soul: When Metaphors Choose You

Sometimes, the most powerful metaphors aren’t chosen; they choose us. They emerge from our deepest experiences and intuitively align with our purpose. For Project Candor, the imagery of the sea, of voyages, and of navigation resonates with the very human experience of life itself. We are all on a journey, encountering calm waters and rough seas, charting courses, and sometimes finding ourselves adrift. The authentic podcast voice that emerged from this nautical grounding wasn’t manufactured; it was discovered within.

The idea of “coming alongside” a guest, exchanging experiences, lessons, laughter, and perspectives, then each continuing our separate journeys a little richer for the encounter – this is the essence of a shared voyage. It’s not about me, the host, being the sole guide, but about a mutual exploration. This organic connection between my personal history and the podcast’s theme ensures that the podcast branding and personal story is not just skin deep; it’s woven into the very fabric of every conversation. It’s why the show feels genuine, because it is genuine, rooted in a lifetime of observation and curiosity about the human journey. As Albert Einstein wisely stated, “The only source of knowledge is experience.”

Project Candor’s True North: Exploring the Human Condition

What keeps me curious is that there is always something left to discover. Some guests are new to me. Others are people I’ve known for years. Yet every conversation uncovers something unexpected. I’ve learned that everyone is interesting. We just don’t always know how interesting they are until we sit down, ask a few questions, and listen. That’s what Project Candor is really about. It’s an ongoing expedition into the depths of human experience, guided by the compass of candor.

I’m truly honored to sit down with people from all walks of life. Some are adventurers. Some are educators. Some are entrepreneurs, veterans, authors, artists, or community leaders. Others are simply people with experiences worth sharing. What fascinates me is not the title, résumé, or accomplishment. It is what I discover about the person behind it. Explorers searched for new worlds. Pirates searched for treasure. Sailors looked beyond the horizon to see what was waiting there. In my own small way, I suppose I’m still doing the same thing. The difference is that today, I’m not searching for new places. I’m searching for what makes people uniquely themselves. And after more than two dozen conversations on Project Candor, I’ve discovered that there is always something worth finding. This deep, personal connection to the theme allows Project Candor to offer more than just interviews; it offers a shared journey of discovery, reflecting the very personal story behind the podcast’s identity that birthed its identity.

Conclusion

The journey of understanding “Why do I think this way?” has been as insightful for me as any conversation I’ve shared on Project Candor. It underscores a fundamental truth: our creative endeavors are rarely born in a vacuum. They are deeply rooted in our personal histories, shaped by the currents of childhood influences on creativity and the subtle nudges of our subconscious. The nautical grounding of Project Candor isn’t just a theme; it’s an echo of a lifelong fascination with exploration, discovery, and the unexpected turns of life’s vast ocean. It’s a testament to the power of our personal stories in shaping our purpose and our voice. By embracing these deep-seated influences, we not only create a more authentic podcast voice, but we also connect with our audience on a more profound, human level. As T. S. Eliot eloquently put it, “We shall not cease from exploration, and the end of all our exploring will be to arrive where we started and know the place for the first time.”

Call to Action

Ready to embark on more voyages of discovery?

• Listen Now: Tune into the latest Project Candor episode and let our guests’ journeys inspire your own navigation! Listen Now →
• Share Your Story: Do you have an unexpected story of resilience, reinvention, or a pivotal life lesson to share? We’re always looking for new voices to set sail with us. Be a Guest →
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The post Why Do I Think This Way? first appeared on Project Candor Podcast.

Coming Alongside

The Navy has a term called “coming alongside.” It means bringing one vessel alongside another so people, supplies, mail, fuel, or information can be exchanged safely.

What many people don’t realize is that coming alongside is never done casually. It requires intention. Both vessels must carefully match speed and course. Trust matters. Communication matters. The goal is simple: create a brief opportunity to exchange something valuable before each ship continues on its own journey. I’ve often thought of Project Candor in much the same way.

Every guest who joins me is navigating waters I have never traveled. They have weathered different storms, visited different ports, celebrated different victories, and faced different challenges.

For an hour or so, our paths cross. We come alongside one another. We exchange stories, lessons, wisdom, laughter, and sometimes a few hard-earned truths. Then we continue our separate voyages carrying something we didn’t have before the conversation began.

When I picture Project Candor, I don’t think about microphones, cameras, recording software, or interview questions. I picture a large galley table, a fresh pot of coffee, and genuine curiosity.

My role is simply to provide a place where that exchange can happen.

Life Has a Way of Rewriting Plans

If there is one theme that seems to appear again and again on Project Candor, it is this: very few people end up where they originally expected to be.

As children, many of us imagine a straight line between where we are and where we hope to go. We choose a destination, chart a course, and assume that determination and hard work will get us there.

Then life happens.

• A door opens that we never expected.
• A door closes that we desperately wanted to walk through.
• An opportunity appears.
• A diagnosis arrives.
• A relationship begins.
• A relationship ends.
• A move, a loss, a mentor, a chance encounter, a phone call, or a single decision changes the direction of the voyage.

Sometimes the change happens in a moment. More often, it happens so gradually that we don’t recognize it until years later. Looking back, however, we can often see connections that were invisible while we were living them.

That’s one of the reasons I love hearing people’s stories.

The Stories I Didn’t Expect

One of the greatest joys of hosting Project Candor is that I never know where a conversation will lead.

I’ve spoken with a man who became a quadriplegic and built a remarkable life anyway. I’ve met a woman who sang her way through cancer. I’ve talked with a scholar whose pursuit of a doctorate unexpectedly led him into the world of espionage training. I’ve met people who climbed Mount Everest, walked the Appalachian Trail, became championship fishermen, owned the rights to the Rosa Parks story, and even made one of life’s biggest decisions with a spreadsheet.

Those stories are fascinating on the surface. They’re certainly great conversation starters.

However, the accomplishments themselves are rarely the most interesting part.

• What fascinates me is everything underneath.
• What kept someone moving forward when the path disappeared?
• What gave them courage when they were afraid?
• What did they learn about themselves that they couldn’t have learned any other way?
• How did their understanding of success change over time?
• What would they tell the younger version of themselves standing at the beginning of the journey?

Those are the stories that stay in my heart and mind long after the microphones are turned off.

More Laughter Than Tears

People often assume that meaningful stories must be heavy stories. Sometimes they are. Yet many of my favorite moments have involved laughter. I’ve heard stories about unexpected adventures, family traditions, travel mishaps, chance encounters, lifelong dreams, and moments that still make people smile decades later. Those stories matter too.

A life is not measured only by its hardships. It is also measured by friendships, memories, experiences, acts of kindness, moments of courage, and the people who share the journey with us.

Certainly, challenges shape us. However, joy shapes us as well. The conversations around the Project Candor table often include both.

Why I Keep Asking Questions

People sometimes ask what kind of guests I am looking for. The truth is, I’m not looking for a particular type of person. I’m looking for stories. More specifically, I’m looking for people who are willing to reflect honestly on the experiences that shaped them. The title on a business card isn’t what interests me. The turning points do. The detours do. The lessons do. The moments when life refused to follow the original map do.

Every guest brings a perspective I don’t have and wisdom I haven’t earned. As a result, every conversation teaches me something new. I get to collect souvenirs from places I’ve never been.

Around the Project Candor Table

For an hour or so, we gather around the table and explore a journey together. Then we share that story with listeners who may discover a piece of their own life reflected in someone else’s experience. Perhaps they find encouragement. Perhaps they find perspective. Perhaps they simply realize they are not the only person whose plans have been rewritten along the way.

Life has a way of changing our trajectory. The route changes. The destination evolves. The voyage surprises us.

Yet if Project Candor has taught me anything, it is that some of the most meaningful chapters of our lives are often the ones we never planned to write.

That’s Project Candor.

Ordinary People. Unexpected Stories.

The post Life Has a Way of Rewriting Plans first appeared on Project Candor Podcast.