Stephen Michael Hoeck

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He leaves behind a family who loved him deeply and who will carry his memory in their hearts forever.

Stephen Michael Hoeck, age 28, of Woodstock, passed away on August 17, 2026. He was a beloved son who will be deeply missed by his family and all who knew and loved him. He had a big heart, big dreams, and a genuine appreciation for the simple things in life. Behind his smile was a deeply troubled mind that often made life incredibly difficult for him. He fought battles that many people could not see, and those who loved him will always wish they could have carried some of that burden for him. He leaves behind a family who loved him deeply and who will carry his memory in their hearts forever. His life was far more than the struggles he faced. He was a son, a brother, a nephew and a cousin to our family, and someone whose infrequent presence mattered so deeply. The memories of the laughter, the dreams, the conversations, and the time we shared will remain with us always. He will be loved, remembered, and missed every day. No words can express how much he meant to us.

EULOGY "No Words" -Ken Hoeck (Father)

There are times in life when there simply are no words.

And that is where I find myself today.

No words.

Those were two words my son would say when I asked him how he was doing.

Sometimes he would text them to me.   Sometimes he would just say them.

“No words.”

Two simple words, but I knew they meant so much more.

"No words, Padre."  ... His mind would not give him rest. His thoughts would loop and loop, day and night, until even sleep became a stranger. Depression and anxiety brought a torment that was difficult for him to explain and difficult for those of us who loved him to fully understand. He tried to tell me what was happening inside his head. He tried to explain the thoughts that wouldn't stop. But how do you put that kind of pain into words?

Sometimes there were no words.

And yet, my son was so much more than the battles that were going on inside his mind.  That's what I want people to remember about him.

I want to remember his dreams.  He had big dreams. He wanted to become a millionaire. He talked about the things he wanted to accomplish and the life he wanted to build. But at the same time, he could appreciate simple things.  He could be thankful for what he had. And just recently, he had begun a new chapter in his life.  He was only about three weeks into a new job, and he was excited about it. He was loving it. He was learning, working, and beginning to look forward to something new.  That makes the memories of those days even more precious.

I think of how you helped build my front deck, helped paint my fence in the summer heat, how you helped your uncle build his shed. I think about the times at Planet Fitness, working out together. Nothing extraordinary was happening. We weren't doing anything that the world would consider important. We were just together.  We laughed. We worked out. We talked. We lived.  And I didn't know then how precious those ordinary moments would become.

That's one of the cruel things about losing someone you love.  You don't know which ordinary moment is going to become one of the most important memories of your life.  I would give almost anything to go back to one of those moments.

To hear his voice.  To hear him laugh.  To sit beside him. To ask him how he was doing one more time.

And if he answered, “No words,” I wish I could tell him one more time but “You don't have to explain everything. I'm here. I love you.” I know that he knew that fact inside, whether I said it or not.

I wish I could have taken the torment out of his mind.  I wish I could have carried some of what he was carrying. I wish I could have found the right words when he had none. As a father, you want to protect your children. You want to fix what hurts them.  And one of the hardest things I will ever have to accept is that there was a battle inside my son's mind that I could not fight for him.

But I don't want his life to be remembered only by the pain he experienced.

He was my son.  He was brother, a nephew, a cousin ... He was someone's friend. He had hopes and dreams. He had a sense of humor. He had moments of happiness. He had things he loved. And he had a family who loved him deeply.  That is who I want to remember.  Not simply the way his life ended, but the life he lived. The young man who dreamed about his future. The son who spent time with his loved ones. The man who was excited about a new job. The person who could enjoy a workout with his dad and stepmom and simply laugh and be together. Those are the memories I want to hold onto.

My son, I know that you knew how much I loved you. I hope you knew that you never had to earn that love. You didn't have to accomplish anything. You didn't have to be perfect. You didn't have to have the answers. You were my son.

And that was enough.

There are so many things I still want to say to you. There are questions I will probably carry for the rest of my life. There are things I wish I had done differently. Things I wish I had said more often. And there are moments when I still expect to hear from you.

But through all of that, I keep coming back to those two words.

No words.

When I asked you how you were doing, sometimes you had no words.

Today, I have so many things I want to say to you—and somehow, I have no words.

So I'll say the one thing I hope you always knew.

I love you, son.

I loved you through every word.

And I loved you through every silence.

I will love you for the rest of my life.

No words can ever express how much you meant to me.

Goodbye, my son.

I love you.

 ~ DAD