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.
Dr. Solan Call stood at the kitchen counter.
Same window. Same coffee mug.
Outside, a crow walked across the neighbor’s roof with the grim determination of someone who’d been in healthcare too long. Inside, the kettle hissed just before boiling.
He wasn’t waiting for anything in particular.
Just… standing.
This time, the silence didn’t feel like absence.
It felt like room.
He sipped his tea—switched from coffee, just to see if it made a difference. It didn’t. But the gesture counted.
On the fridge, a magnet held a list: things to get done, people to respond to, groceries to remember.
Below it, in smaller handwriting, something he’d added last week:
Joy is also a legitimate use of time.
It still felt slightly embarrassing. But he hadn’t erased it. Not even after Buzz heard him say it out loud and replied, “Okay, Socrates. You good?”
His phone lit up with a group chat: Nora had agreed to cover another weekend shift. Buzz replied with a GIF of someone high-fiving themselves. Max added an RCT justifying why short breaks reduce error rates. Ray had “loved” that one.
Solan smiled. He didn’t reply.
He’d learned that not responding immediately was not, in fact, a felony.
No one had revoked his badge. No patient had spontaneously combusted.
He’d gone back to work weeks ago. Same hospital. Same job. Same pager.
And yet.
Something in him had shifted—not dramatically, not in some LinkedIn-transformation-post kind of way. But gradually. Subtly. Like the way a tendon releases after years of clenching, and you realize you don’t have to move the old way anymore.
He still worked hard. Still got tired. Still forgot birthdays.
But he also left a few notes undone until morning.
Took real lunch breaks.
Started seeing the sky again on his walks to the parking lot.
He even said no once—to something that wasn’t technically mandatory but used to feel that way.
A few nights ago, a patient had asked if he believed people could really change.
He’d paused longer than usual.
Then said, “I think we can remember who we are. And practice staying that way.”
It wasn’t eloquent. But it felt true.
The patient had nodded. No follow-up questions. Just a long exhale—like someone settling back into themselves.
Solan looked around the kitchen.
Still dim in the morning.
Still smelled faintly of toast and existential fatigue.
Still a home.
He took another sip.
And this time, the silence felt full.
🌱 Something’s shifted in your work as a physician—but hard to name?
This week’s Soul Kit might help.
The Internal Day Pass
Just one small permission to return on your own terms.
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