I still remember that humid, sticky morning in the forest around Angkor Wat — the kind where sweat beads on your skin before you even finish your first breath. The sun was just creeping through thick green leaves above, casting dancing shadows on the ancient stones, as I cradled Lily in my arms. I could feel her warm little body, soft and gentle, but something was off.
My heart skipped when I saw her face wrinkle, and then … she pooped. Tiny Lily, just a few months old, made a sound that jolted me with panic. It wasn’t the kind of soft, relieved sigh a baby might make. No — this was small but sharp, like she was in pain. My stomach twisted.
I’m Alika, a 22-year-old mom, and I’d come here with dreams of peace, of connecting with something ancient and beautiful. But right now, sitting on the mossy ground next to a crumbling temple wall, I felt anything but serene.
I whispered her name, but she didn’t calm right away. Her little legs quivered, and I watched as the color in her cheeks shifted. The forest around me was still — the cicadas, the distant calls of birds — everything seemed to pause, waiting. My breath caught in my throat.
Tears welled up in my eyes. I tried to stay calm: “It’s okay, baby. Mommy’s right here.” I rocked her gently, but each time she pooped, a wave of dread washed over me. I knew babies poop. That’s normal. But her look … it was worried. And I couldn’t help but feel like I’d somehow failed her.
I looked up at the towering stone faces of Angkor Wat through the trees, their weathered smiles ancient and knowing, and I wondered: would they understand what it’s like to be a young mother, far from home, feeling so powerless?
My mind flashed back to earlier that morning: Lily giggling softly when I sang her lullaby, her tiny fingers curling around a leaf I gave her. I had laughed, thinking how perfect this trip was. But now, the laughter felt hollow. In that moment, she was not just my baby — she was fragile, and I needed to protect her.
I tucked her close, feeling her heartbeat flutter against my chest. The rough bark of a tree scratched gently behind me as I leaned back. I closed my eyes, smelling damp earth, moss, and the sweet, ancient scent of stone warmed by the rising sun. Every sense sharpened: I could hear the faint rustle of leaves, her soft breathing, and my own heart pounding.
“Please, be okay,” I whispered, more to myself than to her.
The minutes crawled by. I checked her tiny diaper again, wiped her gently, and tried to keep her calm. She hiccupped, whimpering softly, and I felt the familiar knot of anxiety tighten in my chest. I tried to focus on the sound of my own heartbeat, counting each beat, grounding myself. This is what motherhood does to you — it makes fear tangible, almost physical.
I remembered my own mother and how she had calmed me as a child. The thought made me ache with gratitude. I wished I could have her here, in this forest, beside me. But I was alone, with only ancient stones, the chirping of birds, and my tiny Lily depending entirely on me.
Finally, after what felt like an eternity, Lily relaxed. Her legs stopped trembling, and her eyes blinked slowly, trusting again. I hugged her close, closed my eyes, and let a few tears roll down my cheek. Relief mingled with lingering anxiety. This wasn’t just about a diaper or a tiny tummy problem — it was a raw reminder of how vulnerable she is, and how deeply I care.
I shifted carefully, keeping her balanced in my arms, and sang softly — the lullaby I had made up for her — and she drifted off into sleep. Her tiny chest rose and fell in gentle rhythm, and I marveled at the weight of trust in her small body. I had promised to protect her, and in this moment, I felt like I’d honored that promise.
I looked around, letting my gaze wander over the moss-covered stones of the temple ruins. Each weathered carving, each ancient wall, seemed to watch over us like silent guardians. I realized that motherhood is like this forest: unpredictable, sometimes overwhelming, yet full of profound beauty and hidden strength.
The sun climbed higher, spilling golden light across the trees. I felt the warmth on my skin, the soft brush of leaves against my arms, and a sense of calm slowly returned. Lily stirred slightly in my arms, still safe, still trusting me, and I whispered, “I’ve got you, baby girl. Always.”
Being a mother is not just about the milestones — the first smile, the first steps. It’s also about the moments no one sees: the sudden panic, the little crises that make your heart race and your mind spin. And it’s in those moments that you discover the true depth of your love, the unshakable strength you didn’t know you had.
I leaned back against the cool stone of the temple wall, cradling Lily close. The forest breathed around us, the cicadas and distant birds resuming their chorus. I felt small, yet invincible, connected to something bigger — the ancient history around me, the life in my arms, and the love that had carried me through fear.
In the heart of Angkor Wat, amidst moss, stone, and sunlight, I understood something profound: motherhood is not about perfection. It’s about presence. It’s about showing up, even when your heart pounds with worry, and your hands shake with fear. It’s about loving fiercely, endlessly, and without reservation.
And for Lily, for that tiny baby who had startled me with a simple, human act, I knew one thing for certain: she was safe, she was loved, and together, we could face whatever the world threw our way.
