The dentist; tears and triumph.

I have always been scared of the dentist. One of my core memories is at age 11 - my dad was driving me to the dentist and little Sydne was absolutely hysterical in the backseat. I was crying, yelling, snotting all over, begging him to please let them pull out all my teeth and put fake ones in so I’d never have to go to a dentist again. I have since learned that’s not a thing but do admit that it’s a creative solution.

This continued throughout high school, college, and adulthood. Of course, the reaction shifted over the years to more “age appropriate” ones (if you consider quietly but steadily crying in the waiting room and throughout the whole appointment in your 20’s as appropriate).

I was recommended to my current dentist from a weird long line of people; I believe it was through my dad’s old colleague’s friend’s daughter. The first time I met him was post covid, so I hadn’t seen a dentist in a few years. Nothing hurt or was uncomfortable and my teeth looked solid so I thought I was in the clear.

Nope - he took one look in my mouth and said “yup, you have four cavities we need to take care of in addition to a more intense cleaning this year”.

Cue the panic attack. If you’ve had a panic attack you know they’re not pretty - you feel like you’re dying, you’re sweating and cold at the same time, suddenly your lungs cannot get air, your heartbeat is irregular, your head is swimming, and sometimes my hands have the lovely symptom of locking up (carpopedal spasms). 

I was so used to doctors and professionals dismissing me saying “it’s not a big deal”, “this will be an easy fix”, and “you’re too old to have this reaction”, but this man was so kind. He stayed with me, waited until it subsided, and even gave me oxygen! He validated me and assured me that we’d get my mouth back in shape. I reluctantly made more appointments.

Those first few were rough - I lost sleep the weeks before, cried throughout the whole thing, and probably made it more difficult for him to do his work. But he continued to be kind and patient, so I continued to show up. Over the next few years I showed up every six months on the dot and would still get a cavity here and there because, lucky me, I just have cavity prone teeth. 

But I also got better at knowing what I needed - a slow start to the morning, no working on days I see him, sometimes anxiety medication, a nap afterwards, self care self care self care.

Let me make this very clear - I still hate going. I probably always will. But each time I go I create more and more evidence and proof to myself that I can do hard things to take care of myself.

I write this to emphasize a few points that can be applied to therapy and mental health.

Healing is relational - without a kind and understanding doctor who I felt safe with, this would not have been possible. 

Healing takes time and isn’t linear - this was years in the making and there were ups and downs the whole time. 

We can do hard things - forcing ourselves to show up and take care of ourselves can be really difficult AND we can train our nervous system / minds that discomfort does not equate to danger. 

This week I went to the dentist for a cleaning and to fill yet another cavity that was brewing.

While I was there I asked him to check a tooth because it was sensitive lately. He immediately responded “oh wow look at that, you’re right, your filling from your previous dentist has a crack that needs to be fixed” and then he sat back in his chair.

He looked at me and said “wow Sydne - you’re coming in here pointing things out to me now! You would’ve never done that when I first met you. We’ve come really far - I’m so proud of you”. 

So yes my dentist made me cry, but this time, it wasn't for the reasons you’d think.

Sydne / March 2026