I wasn't allowed to go to movies when I was kid; my father was a

Hear now the words of Denzel Washington, who spoke of his youth with simplicity and truth: “I wasn’t allowed to go to movies when I was kid; my father was a minister. 101 Dalmatians and King of Kings, that was the extent of it.” In this memory lies more than the tale of a boy deprived of cinema; it is the story of discipline, of boundaries, of a childhood shaped not by excess but by restraint. The great actor, who would one day command the screen, began life with almost no screen at all.

The meaning is thus: Washington’s father, a minister, sought to guard his son from what he saw as the corrupting influence of worldly distractions. To him, the flickering lights of the theater were not harmless diversions, but dangerous temptations. Only works deemed pure—like the innocence of “101 Dalmatians” or the sacred reverence of “King of Kings”—were permitted. Though to some this might seem a deprivation, Washington speaks of it not with bitterness, but with calm acknowledgment. It was within these limits that his character was forged, and within these narrow windows of art that his imagination first glimpsed light.

The ancients knew that restraint is not always punishment but training. Consider Sparta, where children were raised with stern discipline, denied softness so that strength might grow within them. What Washington experienced was a kind of artistic asceticism, a stripping away of frivolous indulgence, leaving only the sacred and the innocent. And from this foundation of restraint, he later discovered the breadth of cinema with a deeper appreciation, having not been dulled by excess from an early age.

History bears a similar story in the life of Abraham Lincoln, who as a child had almost no books—only the Bible, Aesop’s Fables, and a few classics. From such scarcity, his hunger for knowledge grew fierce, and he read those works with a depth of attention many surrounded by abundance never achieve. In the same way, Washington’s limited exposure to films may have deepened his later artistry, for he did not take storytelling for granted; he tasted it as a gift, rare and precious.

At the heart of this reflection lies the truth that deprivation can sow greatness. To be denied something in youth is not always to be weakened, but often to be strengthened. For when the floodgates of choice are closed, the few drops that pass through are treasured all the more. Washington, who would become one of the most respected actors of his generation, began with almost no exposure to movies. Yet perhaps this sharpened his hunger, deepened his focus, and gave him a reverence for the art that others, saturated from childhood, could not possess.

The lesson, then, is clear: do not despise discipline or limitation. What feels like denial in youth may become the soil of greatness in maturity. Boundaries can train the heart, scarcity can sharpen hunger, and restraint can purify desire. Whether imposed by parents, by circumstance, or by life itself, such limits may serve not to crush, but to forge strength.

What, then, should you do? If you are given boundaries, embrace them as training, not chains. If you have known scarcity, let it fuel your hunger, not your resentment. And if you are surrounded by abundance, learn to discipline yourself, to choose less so that you may savor more. For greatness often arises not from having all, but from learning to treasure little.

Thus let Denzel Washington’s words echo: “That was the extent of it.” For in that “extent” lay the seed of a vast career, a reminder that greatness does not always require abundance at the start. Sometimes, it is born in the narrowest fields, watered by discipline, and strengthened by restraint, until it grows into a tree whose branches shade the world.