From the Soul on Call series
Note: These reflections are fictional and intended for educational and reflective purposes only. They are not medical advice, are not based on any specific individual, and do not represent the views of any employer or institution.
Dr. Solan Call hadn’t meant to skip the meeting.
It just… sort of happened.
He’d been finishing a late lunch when he saw it on his calendar: Departmental Synergy Committee — a phrase that, in OMH dialect, meant an hour of fluorescent dialogue about clinician engagement metrics, delivered in the tone of a sedated TED Talk.
He stared at the invite.
And something inside him—small, persistent—whispered:
You could just not go.
He blinked. Hesitated. Then, with the quiet defiance of a man jaywalking across an empty street, he closed his laptop.
No message. No excuse. Just absence.
He walked without intention.
Out of the hospital.
Down a side street.
Past the sandwich place with the questionable food safety grade.
Toward the part of town where no one wore badges, clogs, or that oxygen-starved expression reserved for long EMR sessions.
The breeze touched the back of his neck.
He noticed it.
Which was strange—he rarely noticed weather unless it was a hazard.
He wandered into a bookstore he hadn’t entered in years.
The kind with real floors, handwritten staff picks, and a cat that looked vaguely feral but emotionally supportive.
It smelled like paper, dust, and something else he couldn’t name.
Possibly: unmonetized time.
He drifted between aisles. Touched spines. Read a few opening lines. Bought a used copy of something he’d once loved in residency but hadn’t thought of in over a decade.
The cashier handed him the book like it was a secret.
Coffee came next. Not for stamina. Not as armor before clinic.
Just because he wanted warmth in his hands and nothing on his to-do list.
He sat by a window.
Watched strangers walk by.
Let his mind idle.
His phone buzzed: Meeting in progress.
He didn’t flinch. Just turned it face-down.
Somewhere between sips, a memory surfaced.
Anatomy lab, first year of med school.
He and a classmate had cut to catch a matinee—some laughably bad action movie with improbable explosions and popcorn that tasted like salt and freedom.
They’d walked out into the sunlight feeling like they’d gotten away with something sacred.
He hadn’t remembered that in years.
By the time he reached the park, the light had gone syrupy and gold.
The kind of light that turns ordinary benches into stills from a film.
He sat.
Didn’t think.
Didn’t scroll.
Didn’t strategize how to write about this later.
He just… sat.
He didn’t feel transformed.
But he felt here.
Which, lately, was rare enough to notice.
That evening, he still charted.
Still replied to a few emails.
Still laid out his clothes for rounds.
But something in him had loosened.
Just a bit.
As if he’d been handed a permission slip.
Not from his supervisor.
Not from wellness policy.
From himself.
🌱 Stirring something soft in you?
This week’s Soul Kit might help.
The Permission Slip
Just a quiet nudge to ask: What would it mean to feel like yours again?
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