Happy Friday,
Father’s Day has its roots in early 20th-century America, first celebrated in 1910 in Spokane, Washington, to honor the quiet strength and dedication of fathers. It wasn’t until 1972 that it became an official U.S. holiday—decades after Mother’s Day. And while moms often get the spotlight, this is a perfect moment to celebrate the dads, stepdads, grandpas, and father figures who impact our lives in countless ways.
Put It Into Words: Honoring Fathers Through Writing
One beautiful way to honor them is through writing. Using the Word of the Day Writing Practice, you can reflect on a memory, a lesson, or a simple moment that captures their influence. I’d love to read what you write. Email your blog to wordofthedaypractice@gmail.com, and I’ll provide a 15-minute FREE consult/critique of your writing.
This Week’s Blog: A Tale of Two Fathers
This kind of personal storytelling is exactly what I explore in this week’s blog, where I share the story of the two fathers who helped shape me—different as night and day, yet each left a lasting imprint that still guides me.
Free Webinar: Recognize and Rewrite Unproductive Thoughts
And don’t forget to join me for our free webinar on Wednesday, the 18th, where we’ll dive even deeper into how storytelling can free us from unproductive thoughts and patterns.
Here’s to your success and peace of mind,
Professor Marilyn Horowitz
My Two Dads: A Story of Brilliance, Bravery, and Becoming Myself
by Marilyn Horowitz
If you had to design two men to be as different as possible, you might come up with the pair who raised me.
One of my fathers was a wunderkind—a prodigy who graduated college before he was 20, helped found MTV, and climbed the ranks of entertainment with flair, brilliance, and a lot of charm. The other was a career Marine who never rose beyond sergeant but who earned a Purple Heart and a rack of medals for bravery that Hollywood screenwriters would probably tone down for being too unbelievable.
One was my biological father. The other was the man who showed up after the divorce and stayed.
To say my childhood was dramatic is like calling the ocean damp. I was 14 when my parents divorced, but truthfully, the house had been a stage for tension for as long as I could remember. My mother and father’s marriage was built on sparks—creative, volatile, relentless—and I often played the role of scapegoat. I was labeled difficult, not too bright, and generally more of a problem than a person. I became fluent in the language of criticism. It echoed through every room of our house.
My biological father had a genius for reinvention. He could sell anything, pitch anyone, build whole worlds from ideas. But when it came to fatherhood, his presence was fleeting. He worked long hours and traveled often. When he was home, though, he read to us. And I mean really read. He brought books to life. Those evenings—curled next to him, disappearing into stories—are some of the brightest points in my childhood. They planted the seed of imagination that would eventually save me. Those books, more than anything else, gave me a sense that another world was possible.
But, like many gifted people, he didn’t always know what to do with someone who didn’t match his mold. My future, in his mind, should follow a neat script: law school (or at least paralegal work), and maybe, just for variety, a stint as a Mary Kay saleswoman. Nothing builds a young girl’s confidence like being told your highest potential lies in cold-calling strangers about blush.
Still, he was generous. And I do believe he did his best—with the tools he had.
My other dad, Al, was the exact opposite.
Al was born in Chicago, the son of a man who ran a speakeasy. Life started rough, and when things got complicated, he was sent to live in Montana with his grandfather—a sheriff. The kind of man who met with FDR and shook hands like his word was a signature. That early exposure to law, justice, and integrity planted a seed in Al. He decided early on that he wanted to be a protector.
When World War II broke out, he didn’t wait. He ran away, lied about his age, and enlisted. He made a name for himself as a combat diver, ultimately becoming a hero at Iwo Jima. He never bragged, but the medals told their own story.
Unlike my father, Al and my mother were soulmates. You could feel it. No fireworks, no chaos—just deep recognition and mutual respect. From the time I was 15 until I left home at 18, Al was my champion. He was my friend, my protector, my sounding board. He didn’t see me as broken or “difficult.” He saw me. He believed in me.
Where my father prized intellect and ambition, Al valued heart, loyalty, and quiet courage. He didn’t judge me for not fitting into the mold of our family. He just stood beside me until I could stand on my own.
If my first dad introduced me to stories, Al taught me how to survive the ones that hurt.
Two dads. One dazzling and disapproving, the other steady and scarred. I didn’t always know how to make sense of them growing up. But I see now that they both shaped me. One taught me how to dream. The other taught me how to endure. Together, they gave me the strange, fractured foundation I eventually built a self upon.
I wasn’t what either of them expected. But maybe I’m exactly who I was supposed to become.
And now, in my work—teaching others how to rewrite their inner stories, helping people heal through self-acknowledgment and imagination—I carry both of their legacies. From one, I inherited the power of language. From the other, the unshakable will to survive. I’ve learned that transformation doesn’t come from choosing one story over the other. It comes from embracing the whole library—and writing your own ending.
Bad Girl Pie Available for Pre-Order Now!
If you’ve ever wondered whether life would be better if you ate dessert first, Bad Girl Pie is the novel for you. Dorothy Sherlock, is a celebrity cookbook ghostwriter who’s always put others’ names on her work-until a dream and a dose of grief push her to finally write her own book!
Take a bite and pre-order your copy here:https://www.amazon.com/Bad-Girl-Pie-Marilyn-Horowitz/dp/1803417633
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