Morning in the forest near Angkor Wat feels almost sacred. The tall trees filter sunlight into soft ribbons that fall across ancient stones. The troop of macaques was moving quickly that day—young ones chasing each other, leaping from root to rock with fearless energy.
That’s when it happened.
One of the smallest babies, barely steady on her feet, tried to follow an older juvenile across a patch of uneven ground. She misjudged the distance. In one quick second, her tiny body tipped forward.
Her head met a hard rock beneath the tree.
The sound wasn’t loud, but it was enough.
She froze. Then came a small cry—more startled than anything else. The kind of cry any parent recognizes immediately.
Her mother reached her within seconds.
There was no chaos in the forest, just a tightening of attention. The other monkeys paused. The baby sat still, eyes wide, processing what had just happened. She touched her head with one tiny hand as if trying to understand the sudden discomfort.
Watching from a respectful distance, I felt that universal jolt of concern. It didn’t matter that this was deep in Cambodia. It didn’t matter that we were surrounded by centuries-old temple ruins. In that moment, it was simply a child who had fallen—and a mother who needed to make sure everything was okay.
The baby leaned into her mother’s chest. The crying slowed.
After a minute, she tried to stand again. A little unsteady. A little more cautious this time.
But she stood.
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The forest resumed its rhythm. Birds called overhead. Sunlight warmed the stones. And the baby, now clinging tightly to her mother, seemed calmer.
What stayed with me wasn’t the fall. It was the resilience.
In American homes, in playgrounds, in backyards—children fall every day. It’s part of growing. Watching this unfold in the wild felt strangely familiar.
A stumble. A moment of pain. A mother’s reassurance. And the quiet courage to try again.
