I still remember the first time I saw her—soft light filtering through towering banyan roots, shadows dancing across mossy carvings, the hush of Angkor Wat’s forest enveloping us. The air was rich with earth and memory, cool against our skin. A young mother, kneeling in the leaf-strewn temple ground, each breath a prayer. Her newborn lay silent beside her. I watched as she reached down—with a gentle strength that took my breath away—lifting her tiny child for their first breastfeed in this sacred place.
It was familial, timeless, utterly human. The child’s eyelids fluttered open to look up at her, lips parted in that instinctive search for warmth. And when their mouths met, it was as though centuries of guardianship and love passed between them, rooted in the same sacred soil. A hush fell deeper, like a blessing from the forest.
I will never forget how she cradled her baby then: one hand under their head, fingertips grazing the soft curve of their ear; the other arm rounding around the body, holding the newborn close against her heart. Her breath steadied; she exhaled a soft sigh, and I swear a single petal drifted from above, landing at her feet. It felt like nature itself was offering reverence to that fragile moment of connection.
And there, between ancient stones and forest echoes, I saw something universal—every mother, every child, at once eternal and fleeting. The miracle of motherhood, in its simplest form: nourishment, protection, presence. I felt tears prickling my own eyes—not of sadness, but of quiet awe.
The sound of distant birds lifted. She paused, gazing around as though to ask permission of the forest. No hurry in her eyes. Time had slowed down to the rhythm of that soft suckle, of her steady breathing, of the baby’s tiny fingers that curled around her chest like withered vines seeking home. I thought of halfway around the world, of mothers in suburbs and cities, reading these words and seeing themselves in this tender image—lifting their own newborns. My heart ached with kinship.
I imagined writing this not as a distant observer, but as someone who’d held my own baby in that moment—feeling the pulse of life rekindled in me, as ancient as the temple stones. The forest seemed to hold us still, honoring that union of mother and child. Even as insects hummed and leaves whispered, the world felt at peace, suspended, sacred in its simplicity.
I stayed until the baby had finished, their eyelids heavy, warmth radiating between them. As she gently set the child back toward the ground, her movements were tender protocols of care—momentary goodbye before rest, before exploring the world’s soft dawn. She whispered something into their ear, words only a baby hears, words meant to become whispers of memory.
They settled onto her chest, and I stepped away, careful not to break the spell, though the image followed me: ancient ruins, a mother’s lift, the forest holding its breath. It stayed with me, whispered in my mind, and I wrote it here so you might feel it too.
To you reading this now, especially if you’re a mother or have loved a mother—you are not alone in these moments of quiet devotion. Across the world, across time, that same light of love flickers. Let this image of Angkor’s forest cradle your heart when you think of first feeds, first lifts, first breathes of life.
May you feel held by something bigger—by nature’s quiet chorus, by human softness amid stone, and by the eternal rhythm of a mother lifting her child.