I still can’t believe it happened.
The sun had barely risen over the misty canopy of the Angkor Wat forest — that sacred stretch of ancient roots and moss‑covered stone — when I first saw her: Baby Berila. Tiny. Wide‑eyed. Curious beyond words.
Birds called out in soft whistles, and the ruins seemed to breathe with golden light, but nothing in that moment could compete with her gentle, fragile beauty. When Berila lifted her head and blinked toward my camera, I swear time stretched — the wind hush, the leaves paused mid‑rustle. It felt like I was seeing wonder itself come alive.
Berila clutched the thick fur of her mother, her small fingers grasping at life the way a newborn human might cling to safety. She wasn’t just cute — she was present. Fully here. As if she knew everyone around her was watching not just her tiny body, but her fierce spirit.
This wasn’t staged. It wasn’t some exotic zoo encounter. It was real life — wild, primal, breathtaking — and unfolding right beneath the timeless stones of Angkor Wat.
I watched her mother nuzzle her gently, murmuring soft chimp‑like coos that sounded almost like lullabies. The moment was so intimate I instinctively lowered my voice as I talked to my crew. Some experiences don’t need commentary; they need reverence. And reverence is something Americans — so often rushed and distracted — rarely get to feel these days.
When Berila let go of her mom’s fur and did that tiny little wobble toward the edge of a mossy root, my heart leapt. It was a baby’s first tentative step into the world, and somehow, in that moment, I felt like I was learning something about courage.
The ancient forest, ancient stones, echoed with life. Cicadas buzzed. Leaves swayed. Sunbeams danced on Berila’s soft fur. Not far off, tourists watched quietly, faces softened by awe — not phones held high, but hearts moved.
A man from Tennessee whispered to his partner,
“This… this is what peace feels like.”
And he was right.
There was no screaming traffic. No news alerts. No notifications buzzing in pockets. Just Berila’s first steps — small, hopeful, and powerful — into a world full of noise, but right now, at that moment, truly alive.
I thought about how easily we miss beauty — in our inboxes, in our feeds, in our deadlines — until something pure stops us in our tracks. Berila did that. Without even trying.
She wasn’t trying to be adorable. She wasn’t performing. She just was. Curious. Carefree. unguarded. Like the sort of innocence we forget exists outside our memories.
Watching her play — reaching for a fallen leaf, or blinking curiously at an ant crossing her path — reminded me how much of real wonder depends on attention. On being present. On letting go of fear, and instead embracing wonder.
At one point, Berila’s mother lifted her up, held her toward the sunbeams filtering through the trees, and for a heartbeat, it looked like the whole forest was bowing in blessing.
I don’t know if Berila will remember me. She probably won’t. But I will never forget her.
Because the world feels better when you stop long enough to witness true innocence — unfiltered, unfiltered, wide‑eyed — in a forest that has stood for a thousand years.
A few days later, I was back in the United States, sitting on a plane with my notebook open and this memory swirling in my mind. I thought about my own child, and how I’d describe this moment to them when they grow older:
I’d tell them that somewhere beneath the ancient trees of Angkor Wat, a tiny monkey named Berila showed the world what it means to discover your first joys — not with noise, but with quiet awe.
That’s what real wonder looks like. And I’m so glad I got to witness it.
