I was on another overnight shift in the OB/GYN emergency department. The air was thick with tension, as it always is when the night is full of contractions, cries, and codes. One woman arrived in active labor — her first baby, frightened eyes, and no family by her side.

Everyone rushed to prepare for the delivery. Monitors beeped. Gloves snapped. Orders flew around the room. The focus was on the baby. Get the fetal heart tones. Check cervical dilation. Prepare the warmer.

But no one looked her in the eyes.

She trembled, silent. I saw her lips moving, barely forming a prayer. The pain was loud, but her fear was louder. And in that moment, it struck me: We were taking care of her baby, but no one was taking care of her.

I knelt beside her. I took her hand. I said, “You’re safe. You’re not alone. I’m here.”

She looked at me — really looked — and the tears came. I squeezed her hand as she pushed. And together, we brought her baby into the world.

She didn’t thank me for the stitches or the IV or the monitoring. She thanked me for holding her hand.

Sometimes, in medicine, we get so caught up in saving lives that we forget the people living them. Sometimes, they don’t need more technology. They just need more humanity.

Loubana Ahmad is an obstetrics-gynecology resident.