In a short span of time, I lost both of my fathers.
My Dutch father passed away after a sudden and all-too-brief battle with cancer. The diagnosis came out of the blue, and the speed with which the illness progressed left us in shock. The loss still feels surreal.
My Norwegian stepfather passed away a few months later, in a very different way. Slowly and gently, he grew older, weaker, and finally passed on – at 84 years old, after a long life lived with quiet strength and dignity.
Two men. Two lives. Two fathers.
My Dutch father was a true businessman. Driven and focused. When he retired, he made a choice that said a lot about who he really was: he left the business world behind and turned to art. He spent his later years working with glass and ceramics – shaping with his hands what he had once shaped with his mind. He was outgoing, though never the loudest, a man who loved life and good food – but above all, his wife, my stepmother.
My Norwegian father was of a different kind – equally admirable. Steady. Thoughtful. A man of few words, but with shoulders strong. He came from a long line of fishermen and rural life, where you built what you needed with your own hands and a will forged by hard work. He built every house he lived in from the ground up. He was generous and kind to everyone around him, yet he had clear expectations of those closest to him. There was strength in his stillness, and comfort in knowing exactly where you stood with him.
These two fathers of mine were very different – but equally important. One taught me about passion and freedom and the power of creativity and positivity. The other taught me about strength and responsibility, about the quiet power of showing up and standing up for that what matters.
They carried the role of father in their own ways – but they carried it well.
And perhaps that’s what defines a father: not one particular way of being, but a presence that shapes and anchors us. Sometimes a father is the sail, sometimes the anchor. Some express love with words, others through action. Some build with bricks, others with words. Some speak in silence – and when they are gone, their absence is deafening.
I’m left with deep gratitude. For the love, the wisdom, the strength – and the imperfections too, the humanity. For everything they were. For all they gave me, often without knowing it.
This is a tribute to them – and to all fathers who have carried, loved, built, and supported. You may not always be the ones with the loudest voices in everyday life.
But in many of our lives, you are the loudest words.
