Loving a child doesn't mean giving in to all his whims; to love

In the immortal words of Nadia Boulanger, master teacher of music and mentor to generations, there is revealed a truth not only for the classroom but for the raising of souls: “Loving a child doesn’t mean giving in to all his whims; to love him is to bring out the best in him, to teach him to love what is difficult.” Here she speaks against the shallow counterfeit of love, the indulgence that weakens rather than strengthens, and she exalts the higher love that demands discipline, patience, and the courage to guide another toward greatness.

True love is not permissiveness. It is not the surrender to whims, for whims are fleeting winds that change with every mood. To give in to every desire is to abandon the child to his own impulses, which left unchecked will enslave him. Instead, love is the patient labor of calling forth the hidden strength within, of teaching the young to delight not in what is easy, but in what is hard—because the difficult, once mastered, becomes the pathway to freedom, mastery, and virtue.

History is filled with examples of this principle. Consider the story of Aristotle and Alexander the Great. The young prince might have been indulged in all his whims, surrounded by luxury and flattery. Yet Aristotle, his teacher, demanded more: the discipline of study, the pursuit of philosophy, the love of wisdom. By being taught to embrace difficulty, Alexander grew into a man who, though often flawed, possessed the strength and vision to command empires. Without such discipline, he might have remained a spoiled prince, remembered by no one.

So too in music, Boulanger’s own realm, this truth resounds. The child at the piano may wish to play only what is pleasing to the ear, skipping over scales, avoiding the rigors of theory. But the true teacher, who truly loves, insists that the student face the long hours of practice, the struggle with dissonance, the discipline of craft. For only by loving what is difficult does the musician gain freedom to create beauty that endures. To spare the child this challenge is not love—it is theft, for it robs him of the chance to discover his fullest potential.

The wisdom of Boulanger’s words strikes deeper still. In every life, the greatest treasures lie behind walls of difficulty: character formed by trial, wisdom born of suffering, strength forged in perseverance. If a parent or teacher smooths every path, removes every obstacle, and gives in to every whim, the child may grow comfortable but will never grow strong. To love rightly, then, is to prepare the young to meet hardship not with fear, but with eagerness—to see in the difficult not a burden but a gift.

The lesson for us is clear: whether we are parents, teachers, or mentors, our calling is not to shield the young from all hardship, but to guide them through it. This means setting boundaries, insisting on effort, praising perseverance more than talent, and teaching them that the struggle itself is part of joy. The true test of love is not how easily we please, but how faithfully we equip others to face the demands of life.

Practical wisdom flows from this. Praise your children not only when they succeed, but when they strive with patience. Do not rush to remove obstacles, but help them to confront them. Teach them to find beauty in the slow work, in the challenges that test their spirit. And above all, let your love be firm as well as gentle, so that they learn the greatest truth: that to love what is difficult is to become truly free.

Thus, in the voice of Nadia Boulanger, we hear a teaching that must be passed down through the ages: love is not indulgence but discipline, not surrender but guidance. To love a child is to lead him to the mountain of difficulty, to climb with him until he learns to love the ascent. For in that ascent lies greatness, and in that greatness lies the truest gift of love.