Not long ago, a 26-year-old woman messaged me on WhatsApp asking if I could be her doula. She was kind and calm, and I explained how I work and what kind of support I provide. She thanked me and said she needed time to think about it. We hadn’t signed any contract yet, and we hadn’t even met in person.
After one week, something unusual happened.
I went to bed early—around 10 p.m., which is rare for me. I slept deeply and then suddenly woke up at 4 a.m., wide awake and peaceful for no clear reason. My heart felt calm, and I didn’t feel sleepy at all. I picked up my phone—and saw a message from that same woman.
She wrote: “Can you help me? I’m alone at home.”
I hesitated for a moment. We hadn’t finalized anything. I didn’t know where she lived. But something in my heart said, “Answer her.”
So I called.
She told me she thought she was in labor. We stayed on video call for almost an hour while I timed her contractions, coached her breathing, and tried to understand how far along she was. That’s when I learned more about her situation: she lived alone in a rented apartment, her husband was abroad, and her first child—a three-year-old son—was being raised by her parents.
She had been to the doctor the day before and was already overdue. The doctor suggested staying in the hospital, but she hoped for a natural birth and planned to come in the next morning for a checkup. Labor, however, started spontaneously that night.
I told her I was coming.
When I arrived around 7:30 a.m., she was already in active labor. I brought fruit, helped her eat, massaged her through contractions, and supported her breathing. We packed her hospital bags and she took a warm shower. I ordered a taxi—but just as we were about to leave, she said the words that made my heart race:
“I feel like pushing.”
We tried to get to the elevator. She could barely walk. Outside, she couldn’t manage the stairs, so I asked a stranger for help, and he kindly carried her toward the parking area. The taxi couldn’t find us. Her urge to push was getting stronger. I kept encouraging her to breathe.
Among the parked cars, we noticed someone sitting inside one. I knocked on the window and asked if he could take us to the birth clinic. Without hesitation, he said yes.
I asked her to climb into the back seat on her hands and knees. I stayed behind her, rubbing her back and guiding her breathing. I asked the driver to call the clinic so they would be ready.
Then she said, “Something is coming out.”
When I checked the diaper I had helped her put on earlier, I froze.
Two tiny feet.
The baby was already there, and it was breech.
I didn’t tell her—I didn’t want to scare her. I just kept my voice calm and told her she was doing wonderfully. With the next breath, the whole baby slid out into the diaper.
I gently lifted the baby up and said, “Congratulations… you have a daughter.”
A big, beautiful baby girl.
The mother smiled in disbelief and whispered how smooth the birth had been—especially compared to her first, which had been traumatic.
We covered them both with her robe to keep the baby warm and stayed like that until we reached the clinic. The doctors were waiting when we arrived. Later we learned the driver wasn’t shocked at all—his own second child had been born on the sidewalk years earlier. He refused payment and simply said he was glad he could help.
Both mother and baby were examined.
Perfectly healthy.
I stood there afterward, overwhelmed with gratitude. I suddenly understood why God had woken me at 4 a.m.
