I didn’t stop writing.
I stepped away from the page because life moved faster than language for a while.
The past months were full. Not busy in the performative sense, but full in the way operating rooms are full—crowded with decisions, consequences, and people carrying more than they can name. Breaking Point was launched into the world. Other manuscripts reached their own points of readiness. Work continued. Formation continued.
What stalled was not the work, but the pause needed to understand what the work had become.
Writing, for me, has never been a habit of productivity. It has always been a way of making sense after the fact. I return to the page only when something has settled enough to be held honestly—when the emotional sediment has sunk, and what remains is not urgency, but clarity.
In that time away, roles multiplied. Clinician. Teacher. Administrator. Writer. Witness. Each demanded a different language. Some required silence. Some required restraint. Some required decisions without the luxury of reflection. The page had to wait—not because it was unimportant, but because it deserved accuracy.
Several books now stand where none did before. They were not planned as a series. They emerged because different questions refused to stay contained. What happens when the doctor becomes the patient. What training leaves unsaid. How leadership reshapes identity. What we carry when systems reach their limits. How care is practiced when resources are thin and certainty thinner.
This website exists to hold those questions—not to resolve them, not to sell them, but to keep them visible.
I’m coming back to the page slowly. Not to announce. Not to catch up. But to continue the work of naming what clinical life does to us, and what remains when titles fall quiet.
If you’ve been here before, welcome back.
If you’re new, take your time.
Some things are best read without urgency.
— Dr. Joey Arago
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