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To be a good writer, conventional wisdom says you should write about what you know. That advice may well extend to other fields, too, if the experience of Candace J. Thude, LP (MDT/400, 2007; BSCJA, 2009), is any indication.

As a legal paraprofessional in Glendale, Arizona, she routinely works with clients as they navigate the emotionally charged waters of divorce and custody. “The allows me to provide critical legal services to those who might otherwise struggle to obtain representation,” she explains.

As a Marine Corps veteran, mother of two and wife, meanwhile, she has navigated her share of challenges, ranging from a messy divorce to rebuilding trust with an ex-husband whose lapse in judgment led to his and Thude’s children being harmed.

Her roles and experiences have not only shaped Thude as a human being but also as a professional working toward fairer outcomes and greater access to the family law arena.

Here’s how she went from a Marine recruit to a family law advocate and practitioner. 

Growing up, Thude recalls being shy, quiet and good at writing. Her sister had earned a scholarship to attend a state university in Arizona; her mother had earned her degree at .

Thude, however, wasn’t sure where that left her. She did well in school but not well enough to earn a full-ride scholarship. She knew she wanted to work in law or law enforcement, but she didn’t “want to be stuck behind a desk all day long.” At least not at that stage in her life.

So, she opted to join the Marines. It was a move designed to buy her time to figure out her life goals while also developing life skills — like how to fix a generator. (She was eventually assigned to the engineering platoon.)

Joining up presented some unique challenges, though. Female recruitment to the U.S. Marine Corps is low: According to , just 5.1% of active-duty enlistments are women. And boot camp on Parris Island in South Carolina reduced those numbers further during Thude’s experience. Grueling training, unplanned pregnancies, a calorie-restricted diet and an all-business culture quickly separated those who could from those who couldn’t.

Thude was among the former, but that meant she felt she had more to prove. All the taunting, the shouting, the rules and consequences — it strengthened her resolve to not just see through her training but to make a go of her military career.

There were good times too. She fell in love and got married. Although the marriage didn’t last, it ended amicably when her ex-husband decided to stay on in Okinawa and she returned to the States. “We were just young,” Thude recalls, “and we’re still friends today.”

Looking back, Thude doesn’t regret her military career, but she does recognize the toll it took. 

Although Thude took the scenic route to her education, she eventually completed a certificate in mediation (a now-retired program) and her bachelor’s degree in criminal justice at ��ɫ��Ƶ, which she followed up with a master’s degree in legal studies at a state university.

These experiences prepared her to pursue her career as a legal paraprofessional, but they also equipped her with other skills she uses today. The group projects at UOPX, for example, honed Thude’s interpersonal skills.

“What I enjoy most about my work in family law is the ability to make a difference in people’s lives during some of their most challenging times,” she says. “Navigating complex legal and interpersonal issues requires creative problem-solving and a deep understanding of the laws. These are skills that I apply daily.”

Today, as a legal paraprofessional, Thude can prepare and sign legal documents, provide specific advice or recommendations, appear before a court and negotiate legal rights, among other duties. Her responsibilities exceed those of a paralegal but are not quite to the level of a lawyer.

Arizona is just one of a that offers this limited-license option in an effort to help fill the “justice gap” that exists for many who need legal services but can’t afford a lawyer. The only legal paraprofessional at her firm, she says there are few practicing in the state.

Thude sees the value she brings to clients who have straightforward legal needs, but she also hasn’t quite put to bed the idea of becoming a lawyer herself. It would be nice, she says, if her extensive knowledge and experience could qualify her (and others like her) for a Juris Doctor program. 

To this end, she has drafted a proposal for two Arizona state universities that advocates for . Where law schools have historically relied on threshold LSAT scores, degree requirements and other documentation, Thude would like to see them open the aperture and welcome those who have experience in the legal field as well. Such students, she says, could bring valuable perspective to other students and the field of law in general. 

One of the most interesting things about Thude is the way she wears so much of her life in her demeanor. She is still quiet, but she bears the resolve of her military years in the definitive way she speaks. She doesn’t hem or haw; she owns her positions.

What’s more, she’s formed some of those positions — kids are more resilient than we might assume, fathers are as important as mothers in their kids’ lives — from both personal and professional experience.

Thude recalls one case early in her career where her firm at that time represented the mom in a divorce and custody case. The dad was a military veteran who completed several tours of duty in the Middle East and had some anger issues. The mom had some mental health issues. It was a bitter dispute that ultimately ended with Thude’s team winning custody for the mother.

Shortly thereafter, the father committed suicide.  

“It hit me in a way where I thought, ‘Do we really need to practice like this where we’re destroying families versus creating a safe space?’” Thude says, clearly emotional even after many years. “We can still advocate for our clients but also keep in mind what’s really good for the children and the [parents] themselves.”

That includes fathers. For those dads who could be present in a healthy way for their children but may need extra services to get to that point, Thude is their best advocate. “I do understand the underlying dynamic of what a male faces during his lifetime,” she says, alluding to her days in the Marines. “Sometimes, men work these really hard jobs, … and it’s like, ‘OK, that’s great that you spent 14 hours a day working, but I’m going to take your kids now.’”

Thude’s collaborative approach is even more remarkable given her personal experience with custody battles. She describes her divorce in 2012 as “messy” and complicated by her ex-husband’s girlfriend at that time. The girlfriend, Thude says, abused Thude’s children physically — punching and pinching them, forcing them to stand outside in the cold, putting jalapeños in their mouths — when they were supposed to be spending time with their father.

Thude survived that experience with the same determination she’d applied to her days with the Marines and to earning two degrees. She overcame custody hearings, despair, unemployment (followed by taking on multiple jobs at once to make ends meet) and holding her children’s father accountable.

“After all that,” she says, “I essentially said I was going to try to dream better.”

That is where her commitment to total family well-being enters the picture. Her work at her current law firm supports that mission, and her own family attests to the value of such an approach. Today, her children are young adults who, Thude says, have good relationships with both parents.

Her work and life now are a far cry from the case that inspired her to seek a better, more collaborative path in family law. Back then, she says, no one was asking, “Is there a way to fix this? Can we do this safely? Can we get some services in place, so that way we’re not having to destroy a family?”

As Thude proves, there is a better way. And it’s worth fighting for.

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