When Observation Becomes Connection: A Journey Through Birth and Respectful Care in Argentina

The following professional account forms part of the secondment of Stella Villaermea, carried out between 22 April and 26 May 2025, from the Universidad Complutense de Madrid (Spain) to the Hospital Materno-Infantil de San Isidro (Argentina), within the framework of the European project IPOV – Respectful Care.

A Reflection from Stella Villaermea’s Secondment in Argentina

It was Wednesday morning. Stella attended the “Update on Hypertension in Pregnancy” meeting as a listener, where she observed and experienced a scientific and medical encounter. But more than anything, the real reason for going to the hospital that morning, on 30 April 2025, was to accompany me to the High-Risk Pregnancy outpatient consultations.

We had already agreed on it during our return journey from Junín. Stella simply wanted to be present during a morning of consultations at the maternity ward. She had respectfully asked to just sit quietly in a corner and observe. Naturally, I said yes—and even invited her to contribute if she felt the need. I knew she would be respectful. Her presence, her focus, were also important to me. I, too, was “observing” her.

That Wednesday’s patient list was full. And not only that—one of the patients was attending for the first time, referred from Zárate, a town nearly 100 km from San Isidro. It was a referral… but I didn’t know why.

1. Encounter

I called in María (a fictitious name). She was sitting with her partner—let’s call him Pedro. They both stood up. María was clearly in the later stages of pregnancy, as evidenced by the prominent bump that emerged when she got to her feet. They entered the consultation room. Stella introduced herself. I introduced myself too, as we hadn’t met before. It was their first appointment. They were what we usually call “patients without a medical history”… although in truth, they carried a very strong story with them.

And so our encounter began: medical history, personal background, family history, obstetric history… First pregnancy.

They were in the 35th week of pregnancy. It was a pregnancy that, by all accounts, had been welcomed with much joy and hope, like most pregnancies. After routine first trimester check-ups in Zárate—with normal blood tests and normal scans—came the 20-week scan: the fetal anomaly scan.

María paused in her story. I looked at her and noticed that tears had started to fall. Pedro was standing to the side—I could barely see him. I turned my head to look at him and saw that his eyes, too, were about to overflow. We breathed. We sat in silence for a moment. I gently placed my hand on María’s knee—she was sitting on the examination bed—as a gesture of support, a way of sharing in her sadness and trying to lighten it.

The difficult introduction—why they had come all this way, from 100 km away—had already happened. María explained that their baby had been diagnosed in utero with cleft lip and cleft palate.

After the pause, and with things a little clearer, we began to talk again. I tried to shift the focus to all the “normal” things about this baby. I asked what name they had chosen.

They said: Ciro.

Ciro, beyond the diagnosis, was a healthy baby with normal growth and otherwise normal anatomy. But they needed to know what was going to happen with Ciro. We spoke about probabilities, possible treatments, timelines, and many other matters relating to this “issue” their baby had.

Stella watched from behind. I could feel her presence in this intimate space we had created. We talked about breastfeeding. María wanted to know what would happen with her ability to breastfeed. We gave her every reason to hope: whether directly or indirectly, Ciro could still receive her milk—her nourishment, her life. The same life María was giving him now through the placenta, she would be able to continue giving him once he was born, through her milk.

María smiled. Pedro did too. Stella, with her calm, measured and loving voice, added her own conviction that María would indeed be able to breastfeed.

I updated the blood tests, the scan, the culture results… and scheduled a follow-up appointment.

I looked at María. She was quiet. There was sorrow in her expression, in her face, in her eyes. I looked at her. She looked at me. And I told her, with conviction, that everything was going to be all right.

Her eyes flooded with tears. I looked at Pedro. He, too, was crying—silently, inconsolably—trying to hold back his “man’s tears”. Stella, standing behind, was also visibly moved.

I instinctively embraced María. And Ciro. Pedro approached, and the four of us shared a strong embrace—of solidarity, unity, support and comfort. I repeated to all three of them, almost like a mantra: “We’re going to take care of all of you.”

Stella stepped closer. With immense respect for what was unfolding, she gently placed her hand on this circle of arms, as if to add her own energy to this infinite, holding, necessary embrace. And so she joined our embrace too.

That embrace went far beyond science, statistics, or scan results. It was an embrace of trust, of presence, of empathy. The kind of embrace we all need at times—María, Pedro, Stella, and myself.

Stella then asked, very respectfully, if she might say a few words. She looked at them and said:

—One of my best friends was also born with a cleft lip. She had surgery when she was very little—and that was that. She lives a completely normal life, just like mine.

From her immense love and sensitivity, Stella simply wanted to tell them that Ciro was going to be a “normal person”. We all laughed.

Before the consultation ended, while María and Pedro were gathering their papers, Stella added one more comment:

—Oh, and by the way—do you know who Ciro is? Ciro is the biggest and brightest star in our galaxy. So Ciro is going to bring a lot of light…

I knew the brightest star in the Milky Way as “Sirius”—perhaps that’s where the name Ciro comes from, I don’t know. But what does it matter if it’s Ciro or Sirius? The most beautiful thing is that both María and Pedro left that day knowing, deep down, that Ciro is likely to bring much light into their lives.

01/05/2025 – 23:16 h

Labour

It was 1 May—International Workers’ Day here in Argentina and around the world. But it was a Thursday… and I was on duty. Stella had asked Yamila (midwife) and me that, should any woman go into labour during our shift, we call her. Even though it was a public holiday, she would come anyway.

We had already spoken with Stella about her past experiences in birth settings. Her only previous births had been her own: a traumatic and heavily medicalised caesarean after an attempted vaginal birth at the Gregorio Marañón Maternity Hospital in Madrid, followed by a second, fully respected water birth at Acuarius—a birth centre in Alicante—surrounded by love, joy and freedom. That second birth had been a balm for her, a healing experience after the first. She had shared all of this with us during the rich conversations we’d had on our trip to Junín.

In our two Zoom meetings prior to her secondment in San Isidro, Stella had expressed repeatedly that, beyond the academic sessions and clinical observations organised for her, what she truly wished was to spend time with us in our everyday reality—in the daily life of a public maternity hospital. That’s why, the day before, during a sunny lunch with Nuri (another midwife), Yamila and I, Stella had asked us to call her so she could experience, for the first time, being present during a birth as an observer.

Perhaps because it was a public holiday, the first labour assessment by the midwives didn’t happen until 9 or 10 p.m. A woman at term arrived with a history of a previous term birth that had been medically intervened. She was now in active labour. Yamila sent Stella a WhatsApp message inviting her to join them—if she was awake and available. Stella replied immediately that yes, she could leave for the maternity ward right away.

As it was late and the city was quiet due to the long weekend, I offered to pick her up myself. I wanted her to experience and witness the full magic of labour and birth.

Stella was waiting outside her accommodation, adrenaline and anticipation flowing. She knew full well that what she was about to witness would be intense, unique, and a great privilege: to be present at a birth.

We arrived at the maternity unit and went straight to the delivery room. Stella put on scrubs over her clothes. Yamila was already inside with Ana (fictitious name) and her partner. Although Ana was in active labour, the atmosphere in the room was one of calm, alive silence—intimate and sacred. The delivery room was dimly lit, with only a soft lamp projecting waves of blue light on the walls, creating the sensation of being submerged at sea. Tiny lights sparkled on the ceiling, as if enclosing us in a protective dome.

Stella quietly immersed herself in that space, sitting cross-legged in a corner. I stayed outside. I felt that this was Ana’s space—with her partner, Yamila and Stella—and it needed to remain untouched. I waited just beyond the room, in the adjoining maternity area. I could hear Ana flowing between “I can’t take this anymore” and deep, endorphin-filled breaths. Time passed, calm prevailed, but those primal, guttural moans—those pre-birth sounds—began to emerge. There was a sound of miracle… of life.

23:16 h – The moment arrived.

Ana, on all fours, chose to receive her baby in that position. It was a two-stage birth, according to Yamila. And after that magical printing—after that real encounter between mother and child—that baby passed directly from Ana’s body to her skin, to her space, to her only rightful territory: her mother.

From outside, I could hear the exchanges—congratulations and thank-yous. Joy escaped through the cracks in the door. The room was flooded with life, with love, with oxytocin. We were all soaked in oxytocin.

After a while, Stella came out of the room. She was radiant, her eyes wide and sparkling.

She came up to me, moved, and told me that after giving birth, with her baby skin-to-skin, Ana had looked at her and said:
“You are a woman full of light.”
And she wasn’t wrong. Pregnant and postpartum women never fail in their intuition. And Stella is a woman full of light.

Stella began to recount everything she had witnessed inside the delivery room, while I, from the other side of the door, had been holding space for this new life. She described Ana’s body seeking positions, her moments of despair, wanting to give up—and how Yamila supported her with empathy, never directing, only holding.

She spoke of scents—Stella had noticed a particular smell upon entering the delivery room, one that changed as the birth progressed, transforming completely after the baby was born. I had never noticed it before—perhaps because no one had ever taught me to stop and pay attention to that.

After more than an hour of uninterrupted skin-to-skin contact, Ana was gently prepared to move with her baby and partner to their postpartum room. While the baby was being wrapped, we chatted with Ana. She was glowing, empowered, whole. A wide smile revealed perfect white teeth. Ana was a fulfilled woman—just as any woman feels after birthing her child without unnecessary intervention.

We bid farewell to Ana and her partner with a warm embrace.

Then Stella, Yamila and I headed to the on-call doctors’ lounge. All three of us were exhilarated—buzzing with oxytocin. We just needed fresh water.

01:30 h – It was already too late to request a car service. I offered to drive Stella back to her place in Martínez. For me too, it was a way to breathe in the night air after such a moving experience.

During the drive, Stella told me—in broad strokes—about her emotions and sensations from the birth. She was deeply moved. She had been able to witness, from a different place, the sheer magic of birth. The smell of being born…

When we arrived at her home, we shared a strong, knowing hug. A hug of complicity. We were both immersed in the same energy, the same experience just lived. The experience of having witnessed—directly or indirectly (me from the other side of the room)—the miracle of birth. The transformation of a woman into a mother, of a couple into a new family.

We agreed to meet again soon, once Stella had had time to process the bundle of emotions and sensations she carried with her from that night—1 May 2025.

15 May – San Isidro Labrador

Aime’s Birth

The lights turned blue, with a few tiny green stars flickering here and there. The new birthing room was attempting to be something different. A home. A refuge. A temple. I had always heard that birth is an intimate act—that it needs shadow, silence, and above all, patience. Yesterday, it happened once again.

That little corner of the operating theatre wing, which had stood almost unused for so long, was transformed into a small “house”. Yesterday, Yamila accompanied a young pregnant woman through birth. I don’t recall her exact age—she was very young, maybe 17 or 18. Her partner was the same age. His name was Oscar. Hers, Lucía.

When we arrived with Stella, Lucía was already deep in “birth mode”. You could feel it in the air, in her moans, in her body… like the energy coursing through her canal was disassociating her. One part of her was a fierce, primal animal, producing sounds from deep within, in the raw act of giving birth. The other part was a rational girl, asking how much time had passed, how much was left, asking for a drink of water, making decisions. Saying “I can’t go on” — and yet continuing, trusting in herself, in her body, in her innate ability to give birth.

Stella and I were witnessing yet another miracle—one that would once again transform everyone involved. The birth of Aime, a baby who only needed 36 weeks to say, “I’m ready. My time here is done. The encounter is near.”

I entered the “temple” a little later. But Stella was already there, sitting on the floor, her back against the wall, respectfully silent, cross-legged. She looked almost meditative. She matched every one of the mother’s breaths. The father, too, was vibrating. Rarely have I heard a father breathe in rhythm with the mother. He was giving her his vibrational energy, steadying her, calming her with his frequency. He was setting the rhythm.

Birth was in full swing—female, male, and child. Woman, man, and newborn. A perfect trilogy. A female system in full freedom: hormonal, circadian, energetic and sexual.

The atmosphere wrapped us like a warm cloud. We were all enveloped in the oxytocin radiating from that woman’s hormonally charged body. We were all hormonally transformed.

Stella observed, and every now and then would whisper a comment to me:

—“What’s the name of that woman? She has a special energy. She looks so comfortable here.”

And she was right. It was Loly, a neonatal nurse who completely understands what this is all about. She knows when to enter, when to speak, and when to approach without intrusion. Stella picked up on her energy immediately.

Oscar sat in a small chair. Lucía was on all fours—her knees on the floor, her arms resting on Oscar’s thighs. It was an energetic circle: earth, mother, father. That vital connection needed to draw life upward from below.

Stella and I watched in silence. We knew we were witnessing, once again, one of the most sacred acts of human experience. We hesitated to speak. Stella took notes. I focused all my attention on Lucía’s breathing—on her cry, which grew deeper and more primal, announcing that the moment was near. I watched her movements…

At one point, she lifted one leg and placed her foot flat on the ground, while her other knee remained on the floor. Her body was seeking expansion, opening to life.

Yamila asked if the sensation was frightening. The baby had already descended and was resting on her pelvic floor. Lucía didn’t answer. Perhaps she was too afraid to speak?

Yamila transmitted calm, trust, and belief in her body and the journey she was undertaking. Her body became restless. There was something now that could not be stopped. Life force is never something that can be stopped.

One long, eternal cry—between pain and love—made way for the baby’s head. It began to crown. Perhaps some deity was hovering nearby, helping guide her first breath.

Yamila invited Lucía to reach down and touch her daughter as she was arriving. She tried, but fear held her back. Then, in two gentle pushes, Aime was born: shoulders, torso, legs.

Aime was born.

Yamila helped her receive her daughter, placing her directly onto her chest. Skin to skin. Mother and daughter. Oscar wept. He could only rest his hand on Lucía’s shoulder. On this new mother. On the woman who had just given birth to his child.

The energy was so powerful that the moment became sacred. This is a moment that repeats again and again—but each time is unique. Often, men struggle to enter this energetic circle of birth. Despite Oscar’s strong presence and full involvement in the process, the passage between “two worlds” remains deeply feminine.

We looked at each other—Stella, Yamila, and I—moved to the core. Everyone in that room was emotional. Birth is emotion. Love. Happiness. All of that—and even more—was present. We could all feel it.

Stella needed to step out. That moment belongs to three. And so it was. Aime lay skin to skin with her mother, now resting in the bed, still connected to her root, her nourishment, her placenta. That young woman—that new mother—was glowing with happiness. The peak of oxytocin in her life was unfolding.

Slowly, she began to emerge from her birth-world. She asked how much time had passed. We began talking about little anecdotes—like Oscar’s perfume, which she disliked and scolded him for during contractions! She started describing her feelings—“so far inside, and yet so outside”—until she finally gathered her baby tightly into her chest.

Oscar came closer. He kissed them both. He spoke to them. Surely, the most beautiful, tender, and genuine words a man can say—having witnessed his partner’s immense strength and courage. The strength of a woman who dares to trust her body, her bravery, and her power.

Experiences from a European Exchange on Respectful Maternity Care

IPOV (Innovative Approaches to Prevent and Overcome Violence in Perinatal Care) is funded by the European Union under the HORIZON-MSCA-2022-Staff Exchange programme (grant agreement no. 101130141). The project began on 1 January 2024 and will run for four years. It brings together a wide international consortium coordinated by the University of Udine (Italy), comprising 19 institutions from six European and three Latin American countries.

This collaborative initiative seeks to transform perinatal care through a feminist, interdisciplinary and human rights-based lens. Stella’s visit focused on mutual learning, observation, and reflection within the everyday context of a public maternity ward in Argentina.

Her experiences—shared below—offer a vivid and heartfelt perspective on respectful childbirth practices, professional exchange, and the emotional and human depth of maternity care. They also serve as a powerful testimony to the project’s commitment to building a cross-border community of health professionals engaged in promoting dignity, empathy, and equity in birth.