I still remember the soft glow of dawn filtering through the towering trees around Angkor Wat. The ruins lay quiet, draped in mist — but in my arms was the most alive sound in the world: my newborn’s gentle breathing, tiny chest rising and falling. I sat on a mossy stone ledge, the ancient stones cool beneath me. My body ached — every muscle pulled from hours of labor, every nerve feeling every ache and ache again. But as I looked down, the weariness melted.
Tiny eyes, darker than the shadows of the jungle, opened slowly. They fixed on my face — and in that moment, I felt the pulse of something bigger than me. It was not the rising sun, or the grandeur of the ruins. It was a connection as old as time. Her gaze was searching, curious, vulnerable — and in her eyes I saw a longing: for comfort, for warmth, for milk.
I brought her close. Her little hand reached for my chest, as if to steady herself, as if claiming what is hers by right. I felt the warmth of her breath, soft and urgent, and I remembered the pain of delivery: the sweat, the ache, the fear. But pain vanished. All I felt was love — a fierce, tender love that made my heart swell beyond my ribs.
All around us, the forest stood silent. Birds had not yet begun their morning chorus. The only sounds were the rustle of leaves and the tiny sighs of my baby. And as I held her, offering nourishment, I realized how much strength was inside exhaustion. How powerful love becomes when you’re tired.
Her first gulp was tiny, hesitant — but she found what she needed. And in that moment, I found something too: purpose. A new dawn, not just for the jungle or the ruins, but for our two souls.
