I could have probably raised them in L.A. and they would have

In the voice of a mother, there is often a wisdom more ancient than stone, for it springs not from books or councils, but from the well of love itself. So speaks Jennie Garth, confessing: “I could have probably raised them in L.A. and they would have been great and had so many things at their fingertips and been exposed to so many things. But we travel a lot, so I don't think that moving out of town is sheltering the girls at all. Maybe protecting them a little bit more, trying to prolong their youth.” Here is no idle musing, but the eternal struggle of every parent—to balance the abundance of the world with the preservation of innocence.

The city, bright with its lights, offers endless treasures: exposure, opportunity, the chance to grasp knowledge and skills swiftly. Yet alongside its gifts dwell dangers: the hurried pace, the temptations, the loss of simplicity before its proper season. Thus the mother weighs the scales. She does not deny that her daughters could flourish among the glories of L.A., but she discerns that flourishing too quickly may cost them the sweetness of being young. To protect is not always to confine; sometimes it is to delay the burden until the child is ready to carry it.

Such wisdom was not unknown to the ancients. Consider Cato the Elder, who raised his son not in the lavish luxury of Rome, but among the fields and the discipline of rustic life. While others’ children learned first of excess, young Cato was taught restraint, strength, and simplicity. His father knew that indulgence comes easily to a Roman noble, but character is forged in the humble rhythms of daily labor. By prolonging his son’s innocence, by keeping him from the premature seductions of Rome, Cato ensured that when his son entered the city, he did so with roots unshaken.

Garth’s words reveal the same spirit. To withdraw from the city is not an act of fear, but of wisdom. The mother does not bar her daughters from the world; she merely chooses the timing of their meeting with it. For to meet the world too soon is to risk losing the joy of play, the wonder of discovery, the purity of youth unburdened by the weight of adult concerns. Just as a fruit picked before its time cannot ripen fully, so too a childhood cut short cannot blossom into wholeness.

We must remember, however, that protection is not the same as sheltering. The parent who shelters denies reality, hides truth, and builds walls of illusion. The parent who protects equips, delays, and strengthens, so that when the child steps forth, they do so with steady feet. Therein lies the difference between fragility and resilience. Garth’s vision is not to keep her daughters ignorant, but to allow them to grow at the pace of their own hearts.

What lesson, then, falls to us who hear her words? It is this: guard the sacred seasons of life. Do not hasten what is meant to unfold slowly. The child deserves the patience of childhood, the youth deserves the grace of discovery, and even the adult deserves time to mature into wisdom. We err when we demand growth too quickly, for growth without roots does not last. In our own lives, too, we must learn to accept the rhythm of seasons, not forcing the harvest before the planting is complete.

Practically, this means making choices that honor time. Parents, give your children moments of wonder unhurried by the world’s demands. Workers, do not rush so quickly into wealth that you forget to build character. Seekers of wisdom, do not hunger for answers so desperately that you neglect the journey itself. Protect what is fragile until it can endure, and you will find that what emerges is not weaker but stronger, not stunted but whole.

Thus let us cherish Garth’s insight, for it is not only about raising children, but about preserving the dignity of human growth. To prolong youth is to allow innocence its rightful span, so that maturity may come not as a thief but as a friend. And when maturity arrives, it will find not a weary soul, but one ready to stand, ready to give, ready to flourish. This is the ancient balance: to protect without imprisoning, to guide without rushing, to love in such a way that life unfolds in its fullest, richest measure.