08/03/2026
Today is International Women’s Day, but I want to speak about a man. My father.
He was born on this day, exactly 80 years ago, in a small village in Moldova, Romania, during the famine of 1946. He was born prematurely and so tiny that his parents believed he would not survive. My grandfather used to say that when he was born, he was not bigger than a spoon.
They were 11 children in the family, but only 6 survived childhood. Life was harsh, illness was common, and medicine was almost nonexistent. He didn’t speak until he was 4. Still, my father grew strong. In his first year of school he finished top of the class. My grandfather was a respected carpenter in the village, and because people trusted him and came to him for advice, the communist regime later imprisoned him as a political prisoner. My grandmother remained home to raise the children alone.
My father had a talent for art, so at 14 he left his village and traveled by train to Iași to attend the art high school. He lived in the school dormitory and depended on a bursary because his mother had no money for food or accommodation. Studying well was not a choice. It was survival.
Later he continued at the Art University in Bucharest, studying glass. He became a stained glass artist, devoted to traditional techniques, creating windows for churches and private homes. In those years he lived the bohemian life of Bucharest, surrounded by poets, actors, and artists. They gathered together, drinking wine and talking about philosophy and art late into the night.
That is where he met my mother. They had me when she was 29 and he was 36. I was a deeply wanted child.
At 50 he was diagnosed with leukemia and doctors gave him two years to live. Instead of surrendering, he chose to fight in his own way. He began studying nutrition and health and eventually undertook a 42-day water fast. When he returned to the hospital for tests, the doctors were shocked by the results.
From that moment on, every year in spring or summer he would fast and pray for 42 days.
He built himself a house in the mountains near the Argeș river. For 17 years that place became his retreat. A place of silence, discipline, art and prayer.
He lived 17 more years.
He used to say: “It is ugly to be sick. But it is even uglier not to fight.”
He died at 67.
When he passed away I was 8 months pregnant with my first child. He never had the chance to meet her, but he saw her ultrasound photo. He smiled and said that surviving 17 years instead of two was already a great victory.
In the past months I painted this work of him during one of his fasts in the mountains. Painting it was deeply healing. I cried a lot. I also laughed.
My father was a rare kind of man. A man of moral and spiritual principles, with extraordinary self-control and an iron will. Dignified, proud, generous and deeply fair. He never complained and never liked to burden others with his problems. He avoided conflict and always tried to restore balance.
He was incredibly intelligent and logical, but also profoundly faithful. A wise man without hatred or bitterness.
Up there in the mountains he lived almost like a monk, in obedience to God and respect for his own body. Anyone who came to him with a heavy heart would leave lighter. Somehow he always knew how to lift the weight from someone’s soul.
This was Ioan Cadar.
It has been 12 years since he left this world.
But he is still very present. 🤍
“The Pathfinder” oil on canvas, 2026
