The forest behind Angkor Wat carries emotion in subtle ways.
That morning, the troop had shifted locations earlier than usual, moving toward a patch of fruiting trees near the outer temple walls. In the shuffle of movement, young Branda paused longer than the others.
She sat near a wide tree root, small hands resting in her lap, watching the space where her mother had just disappeared into the foliage.
She wasn’t abandoned.
She wasn’t unsafe.
She was simply between moments.
For American readers, it might resemble a child standing in the doorway on the first day of school — watching a parent walk down the hallway, unsure how long the separation will feel.
Branda’s eyes followed every rustle in the leaves.
She made a soft call, not loud, just checking.
The forest answered with wind and distant troop chatter.
And then something remarkable happened.
Instead of remaining frozen, Branda shifted her weight and climbed a low root. She sat higher, scanning the branches with more confidence.
An older female monkey noticed and moved closer — not to replace her mother, but to create space without isolation.
That presence mattered.
Within minutes, Branda was grooming leaves idly, self-soothing in her own quiet way.
When her mother returned shortly afterward, the reunion was calm — natural, expected.
Branda leaned in, but she didn’t cling as tightly as before.
It was as if those few minutes alone had strengthened something inside her.
Under the ancient shadow of Angkor Wat, I was reminded that growth often happens in the pauses — the spaces between dependence and confidence.
Branda wasn’t lost.
She was learning.
And in that quiet stretch of time, she showed more resilience than anyone watching might have expected.
