Deep in the emerald stillness of Angkor Wat, I witnessed a moment that felt strikingly familiar—no matter where you call home.
The afternoon sun filtered softly through the tall forest canopy. Cicadas hummed in the distance. Baby Bessie, small and wide-eyed, had been testing boundaries all morning—darting too far from her mother, tugging at fallen leaves, reaching curiously toward older monkeys who were less than amused.
Her mother watched patiently at first.
But when Bessie wandered dangerously close to a steep stone ledge near the temple ruins, instinct took over. With a quick, firm motion, her mother pulled her back. There was no cruelty in it—only urgency. Only protection.
Bessie let out a startled cry. The kind that feels bigger than the moment itself.
And then something remarkable happened.
A few minutes later, after the energy had settled and the forest returned to its steady rhythm, Bessie curled into herself on the cool earth. No drama. No resentment. Just a tiny body processing a big feeling. She tucked her face down and slowly drifted into sleep beneath the ancient trees.
Her mother stayed close—watchful, calm, steady.
As someone who grew up in the U.S., I couldn’t help but think of playground lessons, time-outs on porch steps, and the quiet comfort of knowing someone set boundaries because they cared. Discipline, when rooted in love, looks different. It feels different.
And in that forest clearing, it looked like this: a baby resting peacefully after learning something important.
