Fishing meant time with the men who shaped me — my dad, and the family friend

Fishing meant time with the men who shaped me — my dad, and the family friend who became a kind of uncle. They were quiet men, practical men, men who knew things about the world that I took as gospel.

They taught me how to bait a hook, how to be patient, how to read the water. They also taught me — unintentionally — how to shrink.

They were the ones who shut down my teenage declaration about possibility. They didn’t mean harm; they meant realism. But I learned something unintended: that dreaming aloud could be dangerous.

Still, I remember the mornings on the lake — fog rising, coffee steaming, my father humming some tune he never sang fully. These were the moments I felt closest to him, even if he never said much.

Men in my family talked through doing.