I still hear the forest’s hush before dawn — the soft rustle of leaves, the distant call of birds waking up, the warm air heavy with the scent of damp earth and moss. It was there, deep inside the forest near Angkor Wat, that I saw her: a lynx, curled low to the ground, her body trembling, her eyes dull but heavy with sorrow. She lay there without movement, as though the weight of motherhood — of being a mother who never sleeps — had finally broken her.
I couldn’t tear my eyes away. I knew then this was no ordinary moment. This was a truth few of us take the time to witness: the raw exhaustion of a mother doing everything she can — and then some more.
For weeks I had followed her from afar, watching as she nursed her cubs beneath the towering ancient ruins and sprawling forest canopy. She was strong, graceful, protective — a silent guardian bearing the weight of tiny lives depending on her. But over time I saw something shift. The spring in her step faded. The watchful eyes lost their sparkle. The forest, once alive with her energy, started to feel quieter.
That morning, she didn’t rise with the sunrise. She didn’t stand, didn’t stretch, didn’t hunt. She simply lay there — alone. Alone on the forest floor. And I, a silent witness, felt tears burn in my throat.
I approached slowly, kneeling at a respectful distance. The lynx didn’t raise her head. She didn’t lurch in fear. She simply lay, chest rising and falling in shallow, slow breaths. I could almost hear her heartbeat mingling with the forest’s pulse — slow, steady, weary.
In that moment, she was no longer just a wild creature. She was a mother — a mother who gave everything, until she had nothing left. And as I looked at her, I felt a surge of love and sorrow, a pain so profound I couldn’t name it.
I whispered a soft apology into the humid air: “I’m sorry you had to carry this much.” But my words felt hollow. How could I begin to understand the depth of her sacrifice?
Still, I stayed. I waited by her side until the forest around us glowed golden with the light of sunrise. Birds sang, insects hummed — life carrying on. But she remained there, still, fragile. And I wondered: who would notice, if not me? Who would tell her story, if not me?
Because in the wild — especially near ancient, majestic places like Angkor Wat — we often see the beauty: the rain-slicked stone, the creeping vines, the mist drifting through pillars at sunrise. But we rarely witness the heartbreak. We rarely see the cost.
So I tell her story now. Because she deserves to be seen.
If you watch the video above, you’ll see the same pain I saw reflected in her eyes. You’ll feel the ache of a mother who has given more than any child should ask for. And as you watch — maybe in your bedroom, your living room, scrolling on your phone late at night — remember this: motherhood, even in the wild, is heavy. Heavy beyond what we often imagine.
There are more lynxes like her. Mothers deep in forests, under canopies, in the silence of dawn or dusk — giving, giving, giving. And rarely do they get a break. Rarely does the world stop to notice. Rarely do they get to rest.
But for one morning in that ancient forest near Angkor Wat, I stopped. I saw her. And I hope you’ll see her too.
