How I Almost Killed My Kids Twice

and very well may do it again

Photo by Steffen Bertram on Unsplash

When my kids were little, I wanted to give them the world—not just its comforts or conveniences but its raw, untamed beauty. I wanted them to fall in love with something wild and vulnerable, to understand why it’s worth protecting. So, when Max was 4 and Kayla was 9, I packed us up and headed into the jungles of Sumatra to see the last remaining wild orangutans.

This wasn’t an Africa safari experience—no tents with cots or Range Rovers with knowledgeable guides. This was sweat-soaked hiking, slipping through mud, carrying our own gear, and sleeping on the ground under tarps while monsoon rains poured down. I carried Max on my back most of the way; Kayla walked with remarkable grit for her age.

When we saw the orangutans, perched in the trees, I felt the kind of awe that makes your heart ache. On the way to the sanctuary, we’d passed the edges of their disappearing habitat, clear-cut for palm oil plantations. The contrast was devastating—this fleeting glimpse of something wild, surrounded by the creeping evidence of its end. It was everything I’d hoped for: the kind of experience that etches itself into your soul.

But that’s not what this post is about. It’s about what happened the next morning.

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The River of No Good Options

After a long day of hiking, we were supposed to float back to camp on the river. Normally, the river was slow and meandering—a lazy ride through the jungle. But after the rains, it had swelled into a fast-moving, muddy beast. Then I saw the boats: inner tubes lashed together.

I asked about life vests. What they produced barely fit me, let alone my kids. Max and Kayla would have slipped out of them with no effort if we capsized. As a former white-water rafting guide, I knew what we were facing: rivers like this can kill. But here’s the problem. Taking the raft was a 10-15 minute ride to base camp. Refusing meant hiking all the way back through a drenched, slippery jungle. I wasn’t sure I could do it, let alone drag a 4-year-old and a 9-year-old along.

Credit Ait said ourahou Abdelhamid

In that moment, I made a choice. I McGyvered the vests as best as I could, clung tightly to my kids, and stepped onto the “raft”. The river roared around us, my heart in my throat the whole way. Somehow, we made it. My kids still talk about that trip as an amazing adventure. When I tell the story, people respond with admiration or awe.

But here’s the thing: that’s only because no one died. The line between triumph and tragedy is razor-thin. Had the raft flipped, had one or all of us drowned, I would’ve been the reckless idiot mom who killed her kids. The same choice, viewed through a different outcome, tells a wildly different story.

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Elephants and Déjà Vu in Laos

A year later, I did it again. This time, we went to Laos to visit an elephant sanctuary. These weren’t wild elephants, but a sanctuary was doing its best to preserve another dying species. We rode the elephants into the jungle and into the Mekong River—not in touristy baskets but on their necks, the way they work when clearing logs. It was breathtaking, connecting with these sentient creatures in such an intimate way.

And yet, once again, there was risk. A stumble, a charge, an unexpected surge in the river—and this might have been a very different tale. I wish I could say I learned my lesson the first time, but maybe the truth is that parenting is one long gamble between risk and reward.

If you think about it the real difference is if you “follow the rules” and don’t step out of the box no one judges you when bad things happen. Isn’t that a little sad. Did we really come here just to play it safe?

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The Razor’s Edge Between Triumph and Tragedy

What strikes me most, looking back, is how much of our judgment—of ourselves and others—is based on outcomes, not intentions. No one sets out to make bad decisions, but that doesn’t mean we avoid them. And whether we’re seen as adventurous or reckless, inspiring or irresponsible, often depends on which way fate tips the scale.

Life is unpredictable like that. It doesn’t offer guarantees. And yet, we still have to choose. We still have to weigh the risks and hope the reward is worth it.

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The Moral of the Story

So, what’s the lesson here? That I shouldn’t have taken those trips? Maybe. But I can’t regret them. My kids came back with stories etched into their memories, a deep connection to something wild and beautiful. They came back changed. And so did I.

But if I’m honest, the real lesson isn’t about taking risks—it’s about humility. There’s a saying in 12-step circles: “There but for the grace of God go I.” Even if you’re not religious, you can recognize the truth in it. Life is full of moments when things could have gone horribly the other way. We tell ourselves we’re in control, that good intentions and careful choices will lead to good outcomes, but sometimes, the line between triumph and tragedy is razor-thin, and we don’t know how close we’ve come to falling.

The line between triumph and tragedy is razor-thin, and we often don’t know how close we’ve come to falling.

Humility is the recognition that we’re not always in charge of how the story ends. It’s about holding our choices lightly, with compassion for ourselves and the understanding that sometimes, we don’t get it right. And even when we do, when the outcome is good, it’s not just our wisdom or courage—it’s also a gift. It’s understanding that our lives are shaped not just by our choices but by forces beyond us—chance, circumstance, and, yes, maybe even grace.

And maybe, in the end, humility is also knowing that life’s a little like floating down a flooded river on a raft of inner tubes with two kids and a prayer. You just hope to make it to the other side—and if you do, you hold on tight to those kids, kiss the ground, and lie to yourself that you’ll never do that again.

There are only approximately 55,000 orangutans left in the wild. All three species are critically endangered. There are only about 40,000 Asian elephants left in the wild. This breaks my heart.