The forest around Angkor Wat wakes slowly in the early morning.
Mist hangs low between the ancient stones. Cicadas hum like distant static. And in a clearing near a crumbling temple wall, I saw something that stopped me in my tracks.
A baby monkey — impossibly small — was bouncing with wild confidence.
Its tiny hands grabbed at leaves twice its size. Its tail flicked like it had something to prove. And right behind it, an adult macaque watched closely.
At first, it looked like rough play. The adult scooped the baby up with surprising force, rolling it gently onto its back. The little one squealed — not in fear, but in protest — as if saying, “I can do it myself!”
For a split second, my American instincts kicked in. I wondered if it was too much.
But then I watched more closely.
The adult wasn’t being harsh. It was teaching.
Every time the baby wobbled too far, the adult nudged it back. When it leapt too boldly, a steady hand anchored it. When it grew frustrated, the adult leaned in, almost nose-to-nose, grounding it.
It wasn’t dominance.
It was preparation.
In that quiet Cambodian forest, I realized something that felt deeply familiar. It reminded me of playgrounds back home in the U.S. — parents hovering at the edge, letting their children climb just high enough to learn courage.
Not stopping them.
Not shielding every fall.
But staying close.
The baby monkey eventually tumbled into a pile of leaves, stunned for a second. Then it looked up at the adult.
And the adult didn’t rush.
It waited.
The baby stood on its own.
And that was the moment that stayed with me.
Sometimes love looks like stepping back just enough for growth.
In a place as ancient as Angkor Wat, surrounded by centuries of history, the lesson felt timeless: strength is taught in small, everyday moments.
Not loudly.
Not dramatically.
Just steadily.
And in the forest light, that tiny monkey seemed just a little braver than before.
