There was once a small tapir named Tiku, whose feet were still soft, whose ears were still round, and whose courage was about the size of a peanut.
Tiku lived in a deep shady patch of The Rimba, near the river’s bend, where the ground was damp and cool, and the air smelled of wild ginger and sweet rot. He lived there with his mother, who was very wise, very large, and very good at spotting trouble before it even thought about arriving.
And every day before they set off to forage for young shoots and crunchy fern tips, she would say the same thing, “Stay close, Tiku. Don’t wander off. The jungle is bigger than you think.”
And every day, Tiku would nod and stay close.
That evening, the sky was clear, the breeze was soft, and the jungle felt like a place made for adventures.
Tiku, who had recently decided he was nearly grown up (just look at the extra white stripe behind his ear!), didn’t want to be treated like a baby anymore.
So when his mother paused to sniff the wind, Tiku crept away.
Not far—just a few paces.
Then a few more.
Then—oh!—a curious smell.
And then… he was gone.
After a while, Tiku realised he was not in any part of the jungle he recognised.
He also realised he could not remember which way he had come from.
But he did not panic.
Because grown-ups don’t panic.
(They puff up and walk faster and pretend they know where they’re going.)
So that’s what Tiku did—until he nearly walked into a very sparkly peacock preening himself in a shaft of dusk light.
The peacock paused, eyeing Tiku from head to hoof.
“You there,” he said, with a slow blink and a fluff of his tail, “you look lost.”
“A little,” Tiku admitted, standing taller. “But I’m a grown-up, so I’m not afraid.”
The peacock gave a haughty chuckle. “Well, you certainly don’t look grown-up.”
“I don’t?” said Tiku, glancing down at his stubby legs and muddy knees.
“No, no, no,” said the peacock, turning to admire himself in a puddle. “To be taken seriously in this jungle, you must look the part. Head high. Tail flared. Shine helps—something with a bit of drama.”
“Drama?”
“Flash, sparkle, mystery. The jungle notices the ones who dazzle.”
So Tiku tried.
He stood taller—so tall his back wobbled like jelly on stilts.
He stuck a red hibiscus petal behind his ear and tucked fern leaves along his back like a cloak.
He found a shiny beetle wing half-buried in the dirt and pressed it to his nose like a badge.
And best of all, he dragged a long, curly strip of bark behind him—just like a peacock’s tail.
He took a deep breath.
He looked… well… ridiculous.
But also, just maybe, a little impressive.
With his chin high and his tail dragging, he set off down the path.
He passed a squirrel, nibbling on a nut.
Tiku gave him his best grown-up nod.
The squirrel looked up… blinked… and scurried off.
Not even a wave.
He passed a butterfly, flitting daintily between flowers.
He tilted his head just so, so the light would catch the beetle wing.
But the butterfly was too busy dancing in the moonlight to notice.
The beetle wing slipped off and plopped to the ground with a quiet thunk.
Next, he approached a pair of chatty mynas gossiping on a low branch.
“Excuse me,” Tiku said, puffing out his chest. “Just passing through, on official grown-up business.”
One myna paused and tilted her head. “Why are you wearing leaves on your back?”
The other giggled. “Is that… bark tied to your tail?”
Tiku flushed beneath his fur.
“It’s fashion,” he muttered. “Very mature. Very… sophisticated.”
But they had already flown away.
His hibiscus petal drooped sadly over his eye.
A breeze came and lifted the fern cloak straight off his back.
The bark tail tangled between his legs, and he nearly tripped over it.
Tiku stopped.
His shoulders slumped.
He didn’t feel impressive.
He didn’t feel grown-up.
He felt… like a small tapir in a costume no one cared about.
Just as he was about to sit and rest, he heard a rustle in the branches above.
A monkey dropped down in a blur of arms and chatter, landing with a dramatic thump in front of him.
“Whoa there, little guy,” the monkey said, grinning. “Where’s the party?”
“I’m not lost,” said Tiku quickly. “I’m just on a grown-up adventure.”
The monkey raised an eyebrow. “A grown-up adventure, huh?”
Tiku nodded seriously.
“Well, then you can’t go around looking confused,” the monkey said. “If you want to be seen as a grown-up, you’ve got to act like you know everything.”
“Everything?”
“Everything. Grown-ups never say ‘I don’t know.’ They nod. They use big words. They make loud, confident guesses and hope no one asks questions.”
Tiku’s eyes widened. “That’s it?”
“That’s it,” said the monkey, swinging back up onto a low branch. “Just pretend you’ve got it all figured out. Works for me!”
So Tiku pressed on.
First, he came across an old porcupine, poking around a patch of ginger root.
“You look a little far from home, young one,” the porcupine said kindly.
Tiku lifted his chin. “Oh no, I’m not lost. I’m conducting… a personal expedition through uncharted foliage.”
The porcupine blinked. “Is that so?”
“Yes,” Tiku said, squinting at the moon like he was reading it. “I’m mapping migratory moss patterns.”
“Moss doesn’t migrate.”
“It might,” Tiku said quickly. “Under certain… wind conditions.”
The porcupine tilted his head, then slowly went back to his roots.
Tiku marched off in the wrong direction.
Next, he stumbled across a frog sitting on a smooth rock, humming to himself.
“You’ve passed this way three times,” the frog croaked. “You sure you’re not going in circles?”
Tiku scoffed (just like the monkey had taught him). “Ah, yes. That’s part of my… strategic loop assessment. Very advanced.”
“Strategic what now?”
“I’m testing multiple directional outcomes before final route confirmation,” he added, like he knew what that meant.
The frog blinked one eye. Then the other.
“Well alright then, general,” he said, hopping off the rock. “Good luck with your loops.”
Tiku spun in a circle, trying to find a new path. He tripped on a root and landed in a patch of soggy leaves.
Then came the mosquitoes, humming in thick clouds near a low stream.
Tiku tried to walk through confidently, like a grown-up on a mission.
He swatted once. Twice.
“It’s just… microclimatic shifts,” he muttered, puffing up like he wasn’t itchy at all.
The mosquitoes followed him anyway.
He trotted faster. They stayed close.
He sprinted. They kept up.
Eventually, he dove head-first into a muddy puddle just to escape them.
Soaked, scratched, and completely turned around, he flopped onto his side with a groan.
Everything he said had sounded smart.
But none of it had helped.
Tiku was more lost than ever.
He was hungry, itchy, and starting to feel very… small.
As the moon rose higher and the jungle turned silver and shadowed, Tiku heard a voice like silk brushing against stone.
“Well, well… what do we have here?”
A long, glimmering python uncoiled himself from a tree root, his scales catching the last light like drops of oil.
Tiku stiffened. He had never spoken to a python before.
“Lost, are we?” the python drawled.
“No,” said Tiku quickly, though his knees felt a little wobbly. “I’m just… taking the scenic route.”
“Ah,” said the python, eyes narrowing in amusement. “Very mature. I like that. Not all younglings dare wander so deep.”
Tiku puffed his chest slightly. “I’m not a youngling. I’m nearly grown.”
“Of course you are,” the python nodded, tongue flickering. “And since you’re clearly grown, you won’t want to waste time with silly detours.”
“Detours?”
“Mm. The jungle path you’re on… terribly long, terribly twisty. But I know a shortcut—just through that hollow log, around the bend, past the dark thicket. Very efficient. Very adult.”
Tiku hesitated.
“You want to get where you’re going quickly, don’t you?”
Tiku thought of how grown-up it would be to find his way back all on his own—and fast. Maybe his mother would be impressed. Maybe the python was right. Maybe this was what grown-ups did—took clever shortcuts instead of asking for help.
So he nodded. “Yes. I’ll take the shortcut.”
The python smiled, which was mostly fangs. “Good lad.”
Tiku stepped through the hollow log, his hooves echoing softly on the inside.
It smelled of damp bark and something… older.
On the other side, the jungle was different.
The trees here were tall, yes—but thinner, and leaning slightly, as if listening. The ground was spongy with rotting leaves. The air was cooler, and not in the nice way.
It was the kind of cool that slid down your back like a wet leaf.
Tiku trotted forward anyway. Because grown-ups didn’t get nervous.
But the path grew narrower, more tangled. Vines caught his legs. Twigs cracked underfoot, loud in the silence.
And that was the thing—it was very, very quiet.
No buzzing.
No birdsong.
Not even a breeze.
Just the creak of branches and the quiet thud of his own footsteps.
He tried to remember what the python had said.
“Past the hollow log… around the bend… through the dark thicket…”
Which bend?
Which thicket?
He turned left. Then right. Then back again.
The shadows thickened. Everything looked the same.
He passed the same crooked tree twice.
Or maybe it was a different crooked tree.
He didn’t know anymore.
Soon, the vines were brushing his face, and the trees crowded so close he had to squeeze between them.
Every effort he’d gathered to look grown-up had slipped away.
All that remained… was a very small, very tired tapir.
His legs trembled.
His stomach ached.
His ears drooped.
And that’s when it hit him—he was lost. Truly, terribly lost.
He sat down with a squelch on the damp jungle floor, and at last, the bravado cracked.
Tiku began to cry.
Not loudly. Not dramatically. Just quiet little sobs that got soaked into the moss and leaf litter.
He missed his mother.
He missed the sound of the river.
He missed knowing where he was.
And for the first time that day, he didn’t care about being grown-up.
He just wanted to go home.
Tiku curled into himself like a fallen fruit, letting the jungle swallow his sniffles.
And then—somewhere between the silence and the shadows—he remembered something.
Something his mother used to say whenever he got too excited, too bold, too far ahead, “When you don’t know where you are, stay still. Let the jungle find you.”
Not “look impressive.”
Not “act like you know.”
Not “keep walking.”
Just stay still.
Be quiet.
Wait.
Tiku rested beneath the thicket canopy, legs folded under him, ears heavy with silence. The jungle no longer felt like an adventure. It felt… vast. Unforgiving. Too big for one small tapir.
His eyes, still wet, scanned the shadows, but there was nothing familiar—no scent of the river, no rustle of his mother’s tail, not even a breeze to nudge him forward.
He wiped his nose on a leaf (it was not the most grown-up thing, but it worked).
And he stayed.
He listened.
He waited.
And in that stillness, with the sounds of the forest slowly returning around him—the soft chirp of a frog, the distant buzz of a cicada, the crackle of something shifting in the underbrush—Tiku began to think.
He thought about the peacock, with all his feathers and fluff, and how no one had stopped to look at Tiku even when he’d tried his best to look important.
He thought about the monkey, and all the big, clever words he’d used—and how none of them had helped him find his way.
He thought about the python, and the shortcut that had led him deeper into nowhere.
He thought about the beetle wing. The bark tail. The hibiscus on his ear. All gone now.
And finally, he thought about how hard he had tried to be grown-up.
And now, all he wanted was to hear the voice that made the world feel small again.
All he wanted… was his mother.
He tucked his chin down and closed his eyes.
And just as he did—
A sound.
A voice.
Low. Tired. Familiar.
“Tiku?”
His heart jumped.
He bolted upright. “Mama?”
No answer, just the rustling of leaves—getting closer.
He called again, louder this time. “Mama, I’m here!”
The underbrush parted, and there she was.
Her eyes scanned the clearing until they landed on him—and then she rushed forward, gathering him up into her chest like he was still small enough to fit in her shadow.
She looked wild with worry and smelled of crushed herbs and river water.
“Oh, Tiku,” she said, her voice shaking as she checked him over. “I looked everywhere. What happened?”
He didn’t know where to begin.
So he just said, “I didn’t listen. And I tried to be grown up. And I got… very lost.”
Her nose pressed against his. “Oh Tiku.”
They sat together for a long while in the clearing.
Eventually, she asked softly, “Do you still want to be grown-up?”
Tiku thought about it.
And shook his head. “Not today.”
“Good,” she said, standing and nudging him gently. “Because today, I just need you to be safe. Come home now, little one.”
And under the first stars of the evening, they walked together—slow and steady—back toward the place where the river curved just so, where the trees leaned like old friends, and where a soft patch of moss waited by the firefly rock.
And so, if you ever find yourself wandering too far, trying too hard to be something you’re not—remember little Tiku.
Not every adventure begins with knowing where you’re going.
And not every grown-up knows what they’re doing, either.
Sometimes, the wisest thing you can do…
is be patient, and stay where you are.
Because growing up doesn’t have to happen all at once.
And the world will still be there, waiting, when you’re ready.
Corporate Trainer, Consultant, Entrepreneur & Author | Therine Goh 
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