I still remember the humid scent of earth and moss that morning, as I wandered through the ancient forest surrounding Angkor Wat. The morning sun was gentle, filtered through a canopy of green, casting dancing patterns of light and shadow over the worn stones of the temple ruins. I felt a quiet reverence — but also a loneliness I didn’t fully understand until that moment.
I was alone. I had come to Cambodia to search for something — maybe a meaning, maybe a memory. I carried grief: the kind heavy with longing, like a cloud that follows you even under bright sunshine. The temples stood silent and grand, but in my heart I felt small.
Then — I heard it. A tiny laugh. Sharp. Clear. Full of irrepressible delight.
At first I thought I was imagining things. But then I saw her: Mother Julla — a soft-furred monkey perched on a low branch, her arms gently holding a newborn baby. And the baby — oh, the baby — peeked over her shoulder and laughed. A laugh so pure I felt it deep in my chest.
The baby’s little fingers curled around a thin vine, the afternoon sun catching in its eyes. The laugh wasn’t loud. It wasn’t boastful. It was simple. Innocent. Radiant.
Time slowed. The ruins, the moss, the stones, everything seemed to fade. All I saw was that baby’s joy.
In that instant, I remembered something I had forgotten: joy isn’t earned. It isn’t given when things are perfect. It is a spark — sudden — that grows from the simplest things.
As I stood frozen, I felt tears prickle at the back of my eyes. I didn’t even register the sorrow I had come with. Instead, I felt warmth. Lightness. Hope.
Mother Julla shifted slightly and looked at me with intelligent, curious eyes — as if she knew I was watching. The baby turned to her, snuggled close, and emitted a soft coo. The forest echoed with birdsong and rustling leaves.
I took a deep breath. The heavy stone walls of Angkor Wat and the towering trees around me felt alive — alive not just with history, but with connection. With life.
I thought about my life back home. The deadlines, the routines, the constant chase. I thought about what I was missing: small moments of wonder, of innocence, of pure, unguarded joy.
I took out my phone and filmed the little baby monkey, laughing under its mother’s watchful gaze — a fleeting moment, but one I knew I’d never forget.
(Here, embed the YouTube video — the one you sent me.)
Watching that laughter again, I felt raw. Vulnerable. Human. And I realized: this — this moment — was a gift.
A gift from Mother Julla and her baby: a reminder that joy can live even in the most ancient, heavy stones. That life — fragile, wild, unpredictable — can still surprise you.
I left the forest that evening changed. The weight on my heart had lifted. The grief I carried felt softer, more bearable.
Since then, every time I feel lost, I close my eyes and remember that baby’s laugh. I hear it echo in the rustling leaves of Angkor, taste the damp earth after the rain, feel the gentle warmth of sunlight on mossy stones.
Because of that tiny creature — because of its unguarded joy — I rediscovered something I thought I lost forever: hope.
If you visit Angkor Wat, keep your eyes open. Maybe you’ll find Mother Julla and her baby too. And maybe — just maybe — you’ll let their laughter remind you what it means to be alive.
