The Peak Illusion

From the Soul on Call series
Note: These reflections are fictional and intended for educational and reflective purposes only. They are not medical advice and do not represent the views of any employer or institution.

“If we streamline phase two of the impact matrix,” said Dr. Ima Peake, laser pointer raised like a wand, “we’ll see Q4 ROI across all verticals—especially in the empathy pipeline.”

Dr. Solan Call sat two rows from the front, somewhere between comprehension and cognitive shutdown.

The boardroom projector murmured overhead. The walls were painted the color of initiative. So was the coffee.

Ima stood at the front like she’d been born for it.

Emergency physician. Director of Innovation. The kind of person who could spin four pilot programs before breakfast and still remember your kid’s name.
Crisp blazer. Slides tuned to TED tempo. Every word placed with intention.

She was fluent in systems, respected by staff, kind to interns.
Solan didn’t dislike her.

In fact, part of him admired her.

Another part… braced.

Behind her, a pie chart glowed in optimized gradients. Next slide: a rising line graph labeled Trajectory of Care Experience.
The font had ambition. So did the room.

“To summarize,” Ima said, sweeping one hand toward the screen,
“this is more than a model. It’s a mindset.”

“Love that,” murmured someone near the Chief of Innovation.

“So elegant,” said another.

Solan scratched his wrist—not because it itched, but to confirm he still existed.

He didn’t remember the next twenty minutes.

When the lights came back on, there was polite applause and the unmistakable scent of catered resolve.

Ima handed out branded protein bars—Peake Fuel™—and posed beside a pop-up banner that read:
Excellence. But Scalable.

Solan slipped out the side door and into the corridor.

The lighting dimmed. The floor tiles lost their gloss.
Outside the boardroom’s glass doors, it already felt like a different planet.

He kept walking.

Down the staff stairwell.
Out the back exit near Receiving.
The door clicked behind him, and the air hit like an unscheduled meeting with reality.

The service bay was nearly empty—just a recycling bin, a tilted hand truck, and the lingering scent of warm plastic and spilled sanitizer.
Somewhere in the distance, a backup generator pulsed.

He stood beside a concrete wall, near a weather-worn NO IDLING sign and a rust-flecked bucket of salt for winter slips. His badge swung forward slightly, as if it had something to say.

He didn’t resent Ima.

She was smart. Tireless. Thoughtful.
She cared—about patients, about outcomes, about doing things well.

But something in her presentation had left him weightless.

Not because it was wrong. But because it was so polished.

So certain.

Like all the difficult, beautiful parts of care—grief, awe, futility—had been reformatted to fit a quarterly dashboard.

A voice broke the quiet.

“Boardroom survivor?”

Dr. Ray Diant stood a few steps away, holding a banana like a ceasefire.

Ray always looked like he’d just come in from somewhere a little quieter.
Palliative care. Canvas jacket over scrubs. More silence than slogans.
Known across OMH for saying less than most and meaning more than most of them combined.

“She said we’re optimizing our empathy vertical,” Solan offered.

“With synergy, I hope,” Ray replied, peeling the banana.

They stood there a moment.
A crow landed on the rooftop, stared like it was filing a report, then took off again.

Ray took a bite, chewed thoughtfully.

“Ima’s brilliant,” he said. “And she means well.”

“I know,” said Solan.

“But sometimes… good people get swept into momentum that isn’t theirs.”

Solan looked at the pavement.

“Feels like I’m the one not moving.”

Ray shrugged.

“Standing still is still a kind of movement. Just not the kind that graphs well.”

Solan stayed after Ray left.

Watched a delivery truck reverse into place.
Let the sounds of compressors, clanging bins, and far-off telemetry blend into a kind of static prayer.

He imagined, briefly, not going back inside.

He would, of course. There were notes to finish. A teaching session. A patient who needed someone to be human with them.

But in that moment, all he could think was:

What happens when the language of care outpaces the feeling of it?

What gets refined.

And what quietly disappears.

🌱 Feeling flattened by performance?
If you've ever walked out of a room wondering where your voice went, this week's Soul Kit might help:
A Quiet Misalignment (free email subscription needed to unlock)
It’s not a strategy. Just a quiet space to reconnect with the parts of you that don’t fit neatly into metrics.