The Space Between Stories

by Michael Nikolaou

We began June with noise.

Not just the external kind—the pagers, the messages, the renovation chaos—but the subtler hum: the sense that we must always be doing, proving, becoming. We talked about what it means to carry too much, to say no, to let go. We reflected on building lives of intention, and listened for what remains when the roles fall away.

And now, here we are. Four weeks later. A little quieter, I hope. A little more attuned to what truly matters.

I’ve been thinking lately about stairwells. Ours is still unfinished—the wood stripped but not stained, the edges chipped from years of use. Some days, it feels like a metaphor for everything I love: sacred, in progress, slightly messy. It’s the kind of place you pause without meaning to. Between floors, between thoughts. You rest your hand on the banister, feel the grain of the wood, and forget for a moment what you were rushing toward.

That’s what July will be. A stairwell month. A space between stories.

There’s something deeply human about the need to pause. Not as escape, but as restoration. And yet, in medicine and in much of life, rest is seen as a luxury—something earned only after exhaustion. But I’ve come to believe rest is not the reward. It’s the rhythm that allows everything else to matter.

So this July, we’re stepping back. No posts. No prompts. Just breath.

Jeremy and I will likely spend more time in the garden, arguing over basil placement. Titus will knock over at least one potted plant. My sisters will show up unannounced, with pastries and opinions. And I’ll write, probably. But not for publication. Just to remember what my own voice sounds like when it’s not performing.

We’ll return in August with a new book to explore together. I don’t want to give it away just yet, but I’ll say this—it will invite us to look at work, worth, and what it means to stay true when the ground beneath us shifts. You won’t need to read the book to follow along. As always, we’re responding more than reviewing. Letting the text meet our lives, not the other way around.

But before we move on, I want to linger here a moment longer. With gratitude.

Writing these reflections each week has reminded me how much we need spaces like this—spaces where truth doesn’t need polish, where presence matters more than performance. I’ve felt less alone in these pages. I hope you have too.

If there’s one thing I’ll carry from this month, it’s this:

Essentialism isn’t about becoming smaller. It’s about becoming clearer. It’s not austerity—it’s alignment. Not stripping life bare, but choosing what to hold with reverence.

And sometimes, what we hold is silence. A slow morning. An unfinished stairwell.

So wherever July finds you—on call or on a beach, in chaos or in quiet—I hope you’ll give yourself permission to rest. Not because you’ve earned it. But because you’re human.

And that, in all its tender complexity, is essential.

We’ll see you in August.

Until then, the light is still on. The coffee’s still brewing. The house is still becoming.

And so are we.