That’s harder to answer than it sounds, mostly because most people I know—including me—carry insecurities that eventually show themselves if you spend enough time around them. I don’t mean that critically. It’s just true. Confidence usually has cracks if you look closely enough.
My own father had confidence, but it often came wrapped in bluster. He could fill a room when he wanted to, but underneath it I think he still carried something of the classic middle child—always a little unsure of how much he was valued, always pushing a little to make sure he was seen.
My mother had a different kind of confidence. She wasn’t bold in every setting, but put her on a church platform and everything changed. She didn’t need theatrics. She simply sat at the piano, opened her mouth, and the room belonged to her. Her voice was flawless, her playing steady, and there was a kind of quiet magnetism about her. She wasn’t flashy, but people watched.
Then there was my stepfather. He was almost the opposite of both of them—an introvert by nature, never wasting words. But when he did speak, people listened. In a board room, in a pulpit, or across a desk, he had a presence that said he understood the room and expected the room to understand him. He was large and in charge without ever needing to announce it.
The truth is, I’m not sure I know anyone like that now.
Maybe that’s one reason I miss them more than I realize. Confidence like that doesn’t just impress you—it steadies you. It lends strength to the people standing nearby. Their certainty had a way of making uncertain moments feel manageable.
I’ve tried to borrow from each of them over the years, though I’m not sure I carry it as naturally. Maybe they had insecurities too and simply learned how to master them so well that the rest of us never saw the seams.
If so, they taught me something important: confidence doesn’t always mean fearlessness. Sometimes it just means learning how to stand there as if you belong until eventually you do.
Copyright © 2026 Doug DeBolt.
