If you're lucky enough to come from, I was very lucky when I grew

When Martin Kemp spoke the words, “If you're lucky enough to come from, I was very lucky when I grew up, I grew up in a house full of love, my mum and dad had no problem showing love in front of me, which I think is why I want to teach my kids how to love,” he was not merely recalling his childhood — he was honoring the sacred inheritance of love. In those tender words lies a truth as ancient as humanity itself: that love, when openly given, becomes a living legacy that shapes the hearts of generations. It is not wealth or status that builds noble souls, but the warmth of affection, the gentleness of example, the everyday miracle of being cherished and seen.

Kemp, born into the working-class heart of London, was not surrounded by luxury, but by something far richer — unconditional love. In an age where pride often silences tenderness, he witnessed a rare beauty: parents unafraid to express their affection before their child. This simple, powerful act is the seed from which all kindness grows. For children who see love made visible learn that it is not weakness, but strength — not a thing to be hoarded, but to be shared like light. And so, when Kemp spoke of teaching his own children how to love, he was fulfilling the most sacred of duties: passing down the art of the heart.

The origin of his words rests in both gratitude and understanding. As a man who has known fame, struggle, and the fleeting glitter of success, Kemp recognizes that true fortune lies not in riches, but in roots. His parents’ love gave him a foundation unshaken by the storms of life. Many achieve greatness, but few carry peace; his peace was born in that home of open hearts. It is the same truth known to the ancients — that a child reared in love grows into a man who can love the world. Such love cannot be taught by speech alone; it must be lived, demonstrated, and practiced.

Consider the story of Marcus Aurelius, emperor and philosopher of Rome. Though burdened with empire and war, he often spoke of his teachers — and foremost among them, his family. From his mother, he said, he learned piety and generosity; from his father, kindness and modesty. These were not lessons of words but of example. The emperor who ruled the world also cherished the gentleness he had witnessed in his youth. So too did Kemp — though centuries apart, both men were formed not by conquest, but by love witnessed and absorbed.

In the modern world, where affection is often hidden behind distraction or pride, Kemp’s words are a quiet act of rebellion. To say, “I want to teach my kids how to love,” is to say, “I will not let hardness rule my house.” It is to choose openness over restraint, to pass on warmth instead of cold distance. For love unspoken fades, but love expressed endures — it fills rooms, mends hearts, and creates legacies that outlast flesh and time.

The lesson, then, is clear and eternal: to love openly is to teach immortally. Every embrace before your children, every kind word spoken, every act of gentleness shown — these are lessons that outlive you. A house filled with love becomes a temple of memory, where the spirits of kindness dwell long after the walls have fallen. The wealth of nations cannot equal the wealth of one child who grows up knowing that love is safe, constant, and beautiful.

So, my child, take this wisdom to heart: do not hide your tenderness. Let your children, your friends, your beloveds see it. Tell them you love them. Show it without shame or hesitation. Build your home upon the foundation that built you. For if you are lucky enough to have known love, then your duty — your sacred inheritance — is to teach it onward. And when you do, as Kemp did, you will not only raise children, but you will raise beacons of light in a world that too often forgets how to shine.