The best thing my mum and dad ever did for me was keeping me at

"The best thing my mum and dad ever did for me was keeping me at home and giving me time to find my feet." So spoke Martin Kemp, musician, actor, and son of humble beginnings. Within this quiet reflection lies a profound truth—one that humankind has known since the dawn of families and yet too often forgets: that before the soul can soar into the world, it must first have a place to root itself. The home is not merely a roof of stone or timber—it is the sanctuary of becoming, the cradle in which the unsteady heart learns its first rhythm of strength.

To find one’s feet means not simply to stand, but to discover who one is—to rise from the uncertainty of youth into the balance of maturity. Many are cast into the world too soon, their foundations unsteady, their sense of self unfinished. But the wisdom of Kemp’s parents was ancient: they gave him time—that most sacred of gifts. They understood that growth cannot be forced; it must unfold, as the seed breaks open in darkness before reaching toward the sun. To keep him at home was not to shelter him from life, but to give him the soil in which to build his roots deep and strong.

In the clamor of modern ambition, this truth often fades: we urge the young to run before they have learned to walk. Yet every tree that towers to the heavens begins with stillness in the earth. Patience, nurture, and belonging are the first teachers of strength. The ancients knew this well. The Spartans trained their warriors with discipline, but before they were soldiers, they were sons—anchored in the pride of their mothers, bound by the stories of their fathers. Every great journey begins not in motion, but in foundation.

Consider the life of Alexander the Great, who conquered the known world before he was thirty. He was the son of Olympias, fierce and devoted, and Philip of Macedon, a visionary king. Yet it was not the crown or the sword that made him great—it was the education, protection, and time he received before ever setting foot on the battlefield. Under the guidance of Aristotle, he learned philosophy, poetry, and science; his parents gave him both discipline and direction, but also the time to discover himself. When he marched into history, it was with a soul tempered by preparation.

Martin Kemp’s words echo this same law of balance—the rhythm between protection and release. His parents did not push him too soon into the storms of life; they let him gather his strength in calm waters. It was in this period of rest and reflection that his creative fire took shape, leading him to success not through haste, but through readiness. For what good is it to climb swiftly if one has not yet learned to stand? The soul that hurries without anchoring is like a bird that takes flight before its wings are strong—it may rise for a moment, but it soon falls.

There is wisdom here for all who raise or guide others. Whether you are a parent, teacher, or mentor, know that to give time is to give faith—to believe that what is growing unseen will one day bloom. Do not measure progress by the speed of steps taken, but by the steadiness of the feet that take them. True strength is not built in haste, but in patience. The river that moves slowly carves the deepest valley; the light that burns steadily outlasts the flame that flares and dies.

So, my child, remember this: before you chase the horizon, make sure your feet stand firm upon the earth. Seek not only to move, but to know who you are before you move. Honor those who gave you time, those who believed in your becoming. For the one who grows in patience will one day move with power, and the one who is rooted deeply will never fear the wind. As Martin Kemp’s words remind us, the greatest gift is not the push to run, but the grace to stand—and in standing, to find yourself ready for the world.