A professional witch, a mermaid-for-hire and everything in between: These may be some of the most unusual jobs in Atlantic Canada

These may be some of the most unusual jobs in Atlantic Canada, but they're determined to make their own way by following their passions

Raina Norman in a yellow mermaid tail in 2017. She began mermaiding professionally after launching Halifax Mermaids. Contributed

A professional witch, a mermaid-for-hire, a death doula, a VR simulation builder and a military clarinetist walk into a story. No punchline—just a reminder that the world of work is wider, weirder and more wonderful than most of us imagine.

In a post-pandemic economy where gig work and digital platforms have redrawn the job map, Atlantic Canadians are forging new ways to make a living—often in roles that defy traditional labels. From spellcraft to military parades, these five people share how they turned uncommon paths into viable—and even fulfilling—full-time work.

The witch store of Charlottetown: spells, herbs and small-business hustle

In a narrow shop off a quiet street in downtown Charlottetown, a carved raven watches from a high shelf. Glass bottles filled with herbs line the walls. A black witch’s hat dangles from the ceiling, and handwritten spells made of herbs are pinned between crystals and velvet tarot cloths. This is The Little Witch—and no, it’s not a Halloween store.

“There’s still a lot of stigma,” said Tiffany MacPhee, the store’s owner. “Some people walk in and whisper like they’re in a church.”

MacPhee had been interested in paganism since she was 15 years old—quietly, while juggling other jobs. Now, in her thirties, her store offers tarot readings, ritual kits, ethically sourced herbs such as sage, spell consultations and metaphysical workshops. But it also serves as something else: a community hub for the spiritually curious and serious and everyone in between.

She joined the store as an employee in 2024. But later, when the original owner left to pursue nursing, MacPhee took over. Demand for spiritual tools, inclusive spaces and custom spell kits had been growing since the pandemic. She saw a chance to turn something lifelong into something full-time.

“But again, it’s a massive spectrum,” said MacPhee. “I see people in here that are very brand new, just spiritual, curious, want to play with the spell kit and not commit to it—and there’s nothing wrong with that. And then I have people in here that have their more strict belief systems and things that they do and they follow the sabbats.”

She now runs the store full-time, growing her customer base through word of mouth, social media and reputation. “There’s no rule book with paganism,” she said. “There’s no specific way to be a witch. The big thing is, I say, you don’t want to be a [bad person].”

“So we’re not flying on brooms,” she added. “It’s like a tactile form of prayer, like spellwork. But there’s a recipe for the prayer, if that makes sense. It’s not just holding your hands together and focusing on the intention.”

Her work reflects a broader trend. According to Architectural Digest, the global death-positive and alternative spiritual movement has grown significantly since 2020, with increased interest in rituals and personalized spiritual spaces.

From splash to startup: the Halifax mermaid

Raina Norman didn’t grow up thinking she’d become a professional mermaid.

She dreamed of becoming a marine biologist, but struggled with undiagnosed chronic illness and learning disabilities that made science-heavy courses nearly impossible. Then, one day, bedridden at her aunt’s house in Halifax, she rewatched the 1984 movie Splash—and had a revelation. The mermaid wasn’t CGI. She was real—wearing a practical tail.

Norman googled everything she could and stumbled onto a small community of professional mermaids around the world. They weren’t mythical. They were women using costumes to raise awareness, teach, entertain and swim—professionally.

After weeks of swimming practice, she put on a homemade tail and posed in a lake. She felt clumsy. But when she saw the photos, everything changed.

“I looked like a mermaid,” she said. “I looked strong, I looked healthy and capable. This started my journey into mermaids.”

Norman spent years volunteering at libraries and children’s events, then launched Halifax Mermaids—a business she ran for over a decade with her partner. “At the peak of my mermaid career, I was never not working,” she said. “I was in constant procurement mode.”

To make mermaiding financially sustainable, Norman diversified her income: performance gigs, YouTube content, speaking engagements, mentorship, licensing, and publishing her book series Fish Business.

She maintained the work until the pandemic shifted both the market and her personal life.

“I had spent over a decade caring for and entertaining everyone else’s kids,” she said. “Now I wanted to take care of my own.”

Today, Norman continues mermaid work on a freelance basis through agencies and online platforms. She has nearly 750,000 YouTube subscribers.

“Mermaiding is so empowering,” she said. “I have never met a person, male or female, young or old, who worked up the courage to try it and didn’t love it.”

According to the US The Guardian, in an article called “‘We can be weirdos too’: the Black mermaids creating their own fantasy worlds” published in Jan. 2025 there were around 1,000 professional mermaids in the U.S. by 2015, with a growing amateur community and increased diversity. Academic research shows the market includes steady income opportunities from performances, training and content creation, with professional-grade silicone tails often costing over $3,400.

The warrior musician: a life in march and fire

At 17, Jennifer Barlow was having a family dinner when her mother asked a very normal question.

“What did you do in school today?”

“I joined the military,” Barlow answered.

That morning, her high school band had been visited by a uniformed officer. The military reserves needed musicians—and she could play clarinet.

“He told me they were short on musicians in the reserves and asked if I’d ever thought about joining the military,” she said.

She hadn't.

Barlow lived in Niagara Falls at a time when car manufacturers had pulled out of the area, leaving few full-time, above-minimum-wage jobs.

“I got all excited about it because they said, ‘you’ll get paid to play your instrument,’” she said.

After enlisting, Barlow trained at Canadian Forces Base Borden, learning both music and combat skills. “We had our rucksacks and our instruments tucked into them—running around with guns during the day, then sitting on logs in the forest playing music at night.”

She performed at parades, toured internationally and supported herself through university. “Being in the reserves gave me flexibility to pursue school while earning a real income through music.”

“I call myself a ‘warrior musician,’” she said. “I fought a forest fire in Algonquin Park, drove a tank, and learned how to splice communication wires—all while being a clarinetist.”

Canada has six full-time military bands and 53 reserve bands, providing ceremonial, morale and community support roles across the country, according to the Canadian Armed Forces. Reserve musicians often receive accelerated pay increments and signing bonuses, while continuing education.

After ten years in the force and a teaching career, today, Barlow is executive director of Under the Spire in P.E.I., a summer music festival known for its classical and folk concerts hosted in a historic church in Kensington, P.E.I.

Training and virtual reality

In rural P.E.I., Harrison Olajos spends his days designing virtual worlds for skilled trade workers across Canada.

“Working remotely means I can live somewhere affordable, homestead, and still do high-tech work,” he said.

Olajos fell into VR in 2016, after watching early headset demos. “I never got into VR because I wanted to make money,” he said. “I got into it because I just genuinely enjoyed it.”

He co-founded UP360, a company that builds immersive training environments for industries such as auto mechanics and wind turbine technicians.

“The next five years, we're going to need 465,000 new auto technicians,” he said. “We're going to have a shortfall of 180,000 people, and it's going to cost the industry over $20 million in revenue. Yet the sector hasn’t changed how it trains in decades.”

Canada’s immersive training market brought in US$1.3 billion in 2024 and is projected to grow to US$5.9 billion by 2030, according to Grand View Research. The broader immersive tech market is forecast to reach US$14 billion by 2030.

Olajos started out doing unpaid work to build experience. At its peak, UP360 employed 35 people; today, it’s 10. “That’s just the reality of tech right now,” he said.

“So somebody has a cool idea—we can build it for them. But it's really a project-by-project model. We might spend a year on a $2-million project, and then wait six months for the next.”

The Death Doula: talking about the thing no one talks about

Cindie Smith’s career began with grief. Her daughter, Maggie, died over 30 years ago. At the time, her family had little support.

“The primary objective of my practice is to normalize conversations about death, dying and bereavement,” she said.

Smith is now a full-spectrum death doula in Truro, N.S., helping individuals and families prepare for death the same way they might plan for birth.

“If we plan our birthing space with care, why not our dying space too?” she said. “You die the way you live—loud, soft, joyful, messy. My job is to support whatever that looks like.”

Working with Tidal Doula in N.S., her duties include writing personal directives, sitting with the dying, and guiding loved ones through grief.

“I work in one of the in one of the few sectors. Where older women walk in the room and everyone pays attention", Smith who is now 65, said. "Older women are often invisible—but in this work, they command the room.”

“This is ancient work,” she added. “Our great-grandmothers did it. We’re just reclaiming it.”

According to the End of Life Doula Association of Canada, demand for palliative-care and doula training has increased nearly 700 per cent over five years. More than 500 Canadians completed such training in the past three years.

These careers may not appear in high school guidance brochures. None of them followed a traditional path. But all of them prove that "fun" or "unusual" doesn’t mean unserious. These are real jobs—with real paycheques.

In other words: it’s not about escaping reality. It’s about shaping it—sometimes with words, a tail, a headset, a spell or a clarinet.