The Secondhand Dream

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.

The research office carried the particular fatigue of after-hours academia: a faint tang of dry-erase ink, the ghost of reheated coffee, and the low-grade hum of an HVAC system that never quite matched the thermostat. Stacks of neglected journals slouched against one another like residents in a waiting room. Someone’s uneaten granola bar, still in its wrapper, had fossilized beside the sink.

One desk lamp buzzed with the stubborn insistence of an insect that refused to die, casting amber light over Max Stats’ keyboard and the unopened envelope beside it.

It was nearly midnight on a Wednesday. The wards were finally quiet. The day’s last note had been dictated, the last discharge reluctantly signed off. Max should have gone home, but instead he sat hunched, collarbone aching, protein bar wrapper crumpled beneath the monitor like evidence of another skipped dinner.

The envelope had his name in fading marker. Inside was a plaque. Fellowship of something. A decade-old nod of approval he’d once called his backup plan—and later, his dream job.

Dr. Max Stats, MD MSc PhD (still technically in progress), stared at it with an expression that hovered between detachment and mild curiosity. He didn’t remember who had mailed it here. His mother forwarding from an old address? A secretary clearing out a drawer? Didn’t matter. He hadn’t opened it then. He hadn’t opened it now.

The door creaked. Solan Call slipped in, jacket dangling from one hand, shoulders slumped in the other direction. His consult list was done, but his body hadn’t powered down yet. He clocked Max at the desk, sighed quietly, and lowered himself onto the carpet with the resignation of someone who’d already lost the argument with fatigue. A broken whiteboard marker kept his fingers busy.

Solan: “Fan mail?”
Max: “Old fellowship certificate. Or possibly anthrax.”

Solan raised an eyebrow.

Max: “I used to think this was the dream. Global health, academic gold star, innovation fellowship with a jet lag stipend. All things worth chasing—for someone. I got in. And then I panicked and deferred.”

Solan twirled the marker cap between his fingers, not rushing the silence.

Max: “I told everyone I deferred to finish my PhD. But really… I just didn’t want it anymore. And I couldn’t tell if that was fear, maturity—”
Solan (cutting in, quiet): “—or failure?”
Max: [short breath, half laugh] “Exactly.”
Solan: “What does it feel like now?”
Max: “Like reading a novel someone else highlighted. Brilliant, hard-earned work—just not mine.”

Down the hall, the department printer staged its nightly rebellion: whirring valiantly, coughing twice, then choking into a paper jam. Its muffled distress echoed through the vents, a strangely fitting soundtrack for a plaque no one had asked for.

Max leaned back, chair groaning under him.

Max: “I think I got really good at chasing the next thing. And now that I’ve caught most of them, I’m wondering whose race I was running.”
Solan: “Any theories?”
Max: “Maybe my dad’s. Maybe my undergrad mentor’s. Maybe the version of me that got straight A’s and thought discomfort was always the right ladder to climb.”

He unlocked his phone. Scrolled past his research log, his grocery list, and a stray poem he didn’t remember writing.

He opened a new note. Typed the title: What’s Actually Mine?

Paused. Deleted it. Opened a browser instead. Typed in the fellowship name.

The alumni list unfurled: photos of driven faces beside phrases like global changemaker and thought leader in health systems transformation. Max scanned them like a tourist squinting at local signage—useful, impressive, not home.

He looked back at Solan.

Max: “Do you ever feel like your resume is more committed to your life than you are?”
Solan: “It’s definitely better formatted.”

Max smiled, but the joke landed with a quiet edge.

Max: “I thought if I just achieved enough, the feeling would catch up. But now it’s like… the achievement arrived. The feeling didn’t.”
Solan: “Maybe the feeling was never where you were headed.”

Max let that sit. Then finally—quietly—he opened the envelope.

The plaque gleamed faintly in the amber light. He read the inscription. Then slid it back inside. Not carelessly. Not reverently. Just… neutrally.

He didn’t toss it. He didn’t hang it up.

Before leaving, he opened his desk drawer. Pulled out an old sticky note—faded yellow, barely clinging to its own glue. His handwriting: Be undeniable.

He stared at it for a long time.

Then crumpled it and tossed it into the recycling bin.

Not a rejection. Just a quiet revision.

They left together, the fluorescent hallway lights buzzing overhead like a cheap chorus line.

Empty pockets, quiet hallway. Enough for tonight.

Author’s Note: This story reflects Max’s personal experience of values drift. Many physicians find deep fulfillment in the MD MSc PhD path; the intent here is not to devalue those achievements, but to explore what it feels like when the dream no longer matches the dreamer.

🌱 Feeling echoes of someone else’s dream?
This week’s Soul Kit might help.

The Dream That Wasn’t Mine
Just a quiet space to ask what still matters—to you.

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