The jungle was unusually quiet that morning, the kind of silence that made the wind feel heavier and every sound more noticeable. I was volunteering at a wildlife rehabilitation center in Southeast Asia — a lush sanctuary nestled between green hills and dense forest, home to dozens of rescued animals. Our days were filled with cleaning, feeding, monitoring, and often heartbreak. But nothing prepared me for the arrival of the tiny life that would change mine forever.
It started with a call from a local villager. He had spotted a baby monkey alone near the edge of the forest. No mother in sight. The villagers had waited for a day to see if the mother would return, but she never did. Most likely, she had fallen victim to a poacher’s snare or had been killed by predators. Sadly, that wasn’t rare.
When we arrived, we found the baby clinging to a tree stump, shaking, its fur soaked from the previous night’s rain. Its eyes were wide and confused, clinging to anything for warmth. It couldn’t have been more than a few weeks old — far too young to survive on its own.
I wrapped the little creature in my jacket, held it to my chest, and felt its tiny fingers grip the fabric like it was holding onto life itself.
Back at the sanctuary, we placed the baby monkey — a macaque — in a small heated enclosure lined with towels and soft blankets. He refused to eat or drink at first. He kept crying out, looking around desperately, perhaps still hoping his mother would return.
I sat beside him for hours, softly humming, speaking gently, trying to make him feel safe. Eventually, he accepted a bit of warm goat milk from a syringe. I named him Miko — short for “miracle.”
Over the next few weeks, Miko began to bond with me in a way I never anticipated. Monkeys are deeply emotional and social creatures, and without a mother, he needed comfort, familiarity, and constant attention. I became his surrogate — feeding him every few hours, carrying him in a sling as I moved around the center, and even sleeping with him close by to ease his anxiety.
It wasn’t something I had planned, but it happened so naturally. I had, in every way, adopted Miko.
Life with an orphaned monkey was beautiful chaos. Miko was curious, playful, and full of energy once he started feeling better. He’d climb my shoulders, tug my hair, try to grab my food, and steal pens from my desk. He loved playing with water, flipping cups, and tossing fruit across the floor just to see it roll.
But he also needed structure. I learned how to help him develop motor skills and how to teach him independence without making him feel abandoned again. It was a delicate balance.
We built a small climbing area for him in a protected outdoor space, with ropes, swings, and platforms. Every time I brought him out, his eyes lit up with excitement. He’d run, jump, swing, then come racing back to me, arms open like a toddler demanding a hug.
His favorite snack became bananas and boiled eggs. His least favorite thing? Baths. He’d squeal and cling to me for dear life every time he saw a wet cloth — even if he had just rolled in mud.
My bond with Miko deepened beyond what I ever imagined. He wasn’t just a monkey anymore — he was family. He learned to recognize my footsteps, my voice, and even my moods. If I was feeling down, he’d come sit on my lap and rest his head on my arm. If I laughed, he’d mimic the sound with soft chirps and excited claps.
There were difficult moments, too. Like when Miko fell sick for the first time — weak and listless, refusing food, his tiny frame trembling in my arms. We rushed him to the vet, who diagnosed a stomach infection. I stayed by his side all night, gently rubbing his back and praying he would pull through.
He did. And our bond grew even stronger.
As Miko grew, so did the challenges. He became more independent, more mischievous, and more curious about the world beyond me. That was both beautiful and heartbreaking. I knew from the beginning that wild animals should be wild. The ultimate goal of our sanctuary was to rehabilitate and, if possible, release animals back into the wild where they belong.
But how could I let go of this little soul who had become my shadow?
We began the slow process of preparing Miko for life outside. That meant limiting human interaction, allowing him to bond with other monkeys, and encouraging his natural instincts. It wasn’t easy — for him or for me. At first, he refused to befriend the others, always returning to my side. But over time, he grew bolder, spending more time in the communal enclosure, grooming and playing with other rescued macaques.
I watched from afar, heart aching with pride and sadness.
Then came the day we had prepared for.
Miko, along with three other juvenile monkeys, was deemed healthy, socially stable, and strong enough to be released into a protected forest reserve where they could live safely and freely. I walked with the team to the edge of the jungle, Miko clinging to my arm like he did on the first day I met him.
I knelt down, looked into his eyes, and whispered, “You’re ready, my boy. I’ll always love you.”
He nuzzled against me one last time, then turned and joined the others as they climbed into the trees, disappearing into the dense canopy above.
It’s been months since Miko was released, but not a day goes by that I don’t think of him. Sometimes, I visit the reserve, hoping to catch a glimpse. Once, I did — high in the branches, a young monkey paused and looked down. Our eyes met for a split second. He didn’t come down, but he didn’t need to.
In that brief moment, I knew he remembered.
Adopting an orphaned monkey taught me more about love, loss, and letting go than anything else in my life. Miko came to me broken and frightened, and together, we healed. He found strength, and I found purpose.
In saving him, I discovered a part of myself I didn’t know was missing.
And for that, I’ll always be grateful.
