In the dense, ancient shadows of Angkor Wat, morning broke slowly through the towering fig trees, casting golden light across moss-covered roots. The troop had just woken. Mothers nursed. Youngsters played. But on this day… something felt different.
Joyce, barely five months old, was always the brave one. She’d wander just a bit further than the others. She’d test boundaries, hop through dry leaves, climb low branches, and return with curious glances at the older monkeys.
But today, her small form froze.
I was watching quietly from a distance—camera in hand, sitting low behind a stone wall—as Joyce wandered toward a break in the trees. Her mother, Mira, was grooming herself nearby, seemingly unaware of her daughter’s small adventure.
Then it happened.
Joyce stopped walking. Her tiny feet stopped moving. Her hands dropped to her sides. And slowly… very slowly… she rose to her two feet, like a human child startled in the night. Her little chest moved quickly—up, down, up, down. Her eyes were fixed—unblinking—toward the tree line ahead.
I couldn’t see what she saw. Not yet.
But in that moment, her entire energy shifted. No longer playful, no longer curious—Joyce was frightened. It was the kind of fear that babies feel when something they don’t understand grips them deeply. The kind that lingers.
A soft, trembling sound left her lips—not quite a cry, but a questioning whimper.
That sound broke Mira from her calm. The mother monkey turned, and in an instant, sprinted to her daughter. She grabbed Joyce, pulled her close, and held her tightly to her chest as she retreated quickly back into the troop.
Only then did I see what had startled Joyce.
Just beyond the trees, slinking through the underbrush, was a long-bodied monitor lizard—slow, but powerful. A creature unfamiliar to little Joyce but instinctively terrifying. Its tongue flicked at the air. It paid no attention to the troop, and quickly disappeared.
But for Joyce… the moment was life-changing.
It wasn’t just the presence of a predator—it was her first realization that the forest, though full of love, can also carry danger.
Back in her mother’s arms, Joyce clung harder than I had ever seen before. Her face buried in Mira’s fur, her small hands gripped like vines in the wind.
That night, I couldn’t stop thinking about her eyes—so wide, so innocent. The way she stood on two feet, as if by rising, she might better understand what was out there. As if facing the unknown upright would somehow protect her from it.
It reminded me of my own daughter, the first time she saw a dog run at her in the park. She didn’t scream—she just stood. Still. Shaken. The way only a child can stand when the world suddenly feels much too big.
Joyce is just a monkey. But she’s more than that.
She’s a soul discovering her place in the world. Her fear was real. Her curiosity was pure. And her mother’s embrace… was everything.
🌿 Reflections from the Forest
In the Angkor forest, moments like this pass quickly—gone with the wind through banyan trees. But for those who notice, for those who feel, they stay forever.
Joyce taught me something that day. That bravery doesn’t mean not feeling fear—it means standing to face it. Even if you’re just a little monkey.
I watched her from a distance the next morning. She stayed close to Mira. She didn’t wander. She didn’t explore.
But then… in the quietest hour of sunrise… I saw her peek out again. Just for a second.
That’s how healing begins.