Growing up, my father was always quiet – but his love for us was always loud
In my secondary school years, I had a close friend who was both my classmate and teammate in our co-curricular activity, basketball. My friend's father would come to watch all our basketball games and, afterwards, would talk extensively and openly about how he felt our team and my friend had performed.
Whenever father and son had differing opinions, they would have a healthy debate about it, and were comfortable doing so even in front of others. They shared a rapport that seemed so vibrant and dynamic.
My own father, on the other hand, was never the loud or demonstrative type. My teenage self might have described him as reserved, perhaps even stern.
He never criticised me in front of others, but neither did he praise me. Most of the time, he just quietly listened to me talking about what had happened in school and rarely voiced his thoughts or opinions (unless they were about his personal passion, aircraft).
But today, with a son of my own in my arms, I see the deeper truth: My father's love wasn't lesser for being quieter. It wasn't loud because it didn't need to be. It was reliable, patient, and quietly powerful.
SHOWING UP AGAIN AND AGAIN
Growing up, I had scoliosis, which meant frequent hospital visits and brace fittings. My younger brother suffered from asthma and often needed urgent care or hospitalisation.
My dad worked rotating shifts and took on as much overtime as he could to earn more money for our care. He'd take me to all my doctor's appointments, wait patiently with his foldable chair in cold hospital corridors when my brother was warded, and after each visit for either of us, he would make a call from the public payphone to update my mother on how things went.
No loud fuss. No big drama. Just my father, showing up – again and again.
As a child, I didn't always understand or appreciate the sacrifices Dad made. It took me becoming a dad to really, fully understand how deeply love was embedded in those simple acts of him being present. It couldn't have been easy for him to adjust his schedule and work long hours, but somehow he was always there for us when it mattered most.
Medical needs aside, he would also often scrimp on himself, bringing yesterday's leftovers to work for lunch so that my brothers and I could have fresh food. He worked long hours and rarely spent money on himself, saving it all for us.
Like many fathers of his generation, he didn't always articulate his love in words – but now, as a father myself, I see how he lived it every single day.
PARENTING IS NOT ABOUT PERFECTION
Today, my wife and I are fortunate to have more flexibility in our work schedules than my father ever did.
We take turns during those tough newborn nights of changing diapers, soothing cries, and rising early to prep and play before the workday begins. I take a day off each week just to be present with my son – not doing anything special or extraordinary, but just being there and spending time with him.
Over the last year or so, I've come to realise what my dad always knew: Parenting isn't about perfection, it is about presence. It's about being there for your child, consistently and compassionately.
I used to see my father's selflessness as old-fashioned – perhaps even boring, compared to some other dads I knew. But now I see that it was profoundly brave.
Now, whenever I'm doing something 'boring' for my son Noah – packing his bag for a family day out, or making another adjustment to our home so he can safely explore it on his unsteady feet – I think of my dad and how he worked so hard behind the scenes so I could have a loving childhood.
LET GO OF EGO
Fatherhood is a daily exercise in humility, where we need to let go of ego and embrace patience.
Noah's favourite person in the world is my wife, his mother. As it goes with all young children, there are moments when I feel rejected by him – when he clings only to his mother, refusing to be comforted by me.
As much as I would like my son to like me just a little more even at this young, irrational age, I have to remind myself that love isn't always returned in the way we expect it to be.
My own dad never complained, never demanded thanks or gratitude from us, and never once asked to be repaid for all he gave us. He taught me that, as parents, our love doesn't have to be loud or immediate – what matters most is that it runs deep and strong.
No matter our frustrations, we must show up anyway because that is the true essence of fatherhood.
REAL STRENGTH IN LOVE AND CARE
There's one specific quality my dad modelled that I try to carry forward each day: To make the people we love feel seen.
My practical, pragmatic father always supported my choices – even the big, uncertain ones like leaving a corporate career to start my own business. When we began Anglo Caregivers, he even opened up his own home to temporarily house caregivers engaged by us, before they started officially working with their employers.
In a period where I was wrestling with doubt and uncertainty, his quiet trust and belief in me gave me the courage to keep going.
Today, I try to offer that same grounding presence to my son. He's still too young to speak, but I make sure to look him in the eye. I slow down when I hold him. I offer soft words and steady hands. Even before they understand language, children understand love. They feel it in our tone, our gaze, our touch and our attention.
The love and care my father showed me has become such a core part of who I am today. It's what I want my son to feel from me as his father; it's what I want to show my wife as her partner in this life. It's even what I want the families I work with through Anglo Caregivers to experience for their elderly loved ones.
To my dad – thank you for teaching me that strength isn't about being seen, but about seeing others.
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