It's Like Pulling Teeth
Apr 18, 2025
I had a molar pulled this week. Way in the back. And honestly? I wasn’t prepared for how much it would bring up—pain, yes, but mostly shame. It’s wild how long I avoided dealing with it. Ignored it. Minimized it. Maybe I was in my head too much. Maybe I just needed a distraction. I kept thinking if I didn’t acknowledge it, maybe it would go away.
It reminded me a lot of how I used to deal with my drinking.
I pretended it wasn’t happening.
With alcohol, I waited decades.
With the tooth, just days.
Still, the avoidance felt eerily familiar.
What struck me most was how the (seemingly 12-year-old) dentist and the (on brand arrogant) surgeon tried so hard to save the tooth. Even though it was cracked. I’d had a root canal a year ago, then a crown. (On the tooth—not my head, to be clear.)
That tooth had caused so much pain. I basically wanted it gone. But when it finally came out—I cried. I knew it was the final answer, and still, the grief came.
It reminded me of something else—friendship.
You hang on as long as you can. You try to save it, even when you know it’s been cracked at the root. Even when deep down, you already know it’s time to let go. But still, you try everything else first.
And when the tooth was gone? I felt like toothless trailer trash. It punched right into my sense of worthiness. Or unworthiness. My dad lived in a trailer. I never lived with him. You could say I had daddy issues, but I’d say he had daughter issues. I’ve long forgiven him for that.
He had teeth problems too. Probably from his Mountain Dew and Marlboro Red solutions. I forgive him for that too. Could I offer that same grace to myself?
Here’s what’s true: I don’t have daughter issues. I have the opposite. A beautiful, healthy, loving relationship with both my mother and my daughters. I’m obsessed with fresh breath, a chronic tooth brusher. I carry toothpaste in my purse. I’ve had 1.5 cavities in my life. I floss! I get my teeth cleaned on time, every time. I am an Enneagram 3, can you tell?
And yet, here I was. Toothless. Shameful. WTF.
During the final scan, I had to place my chin on this little plastic shelf, bite down on a plastic-covered stick, and lock my head in what felt like a can opener. And stare—right into a mirror. Face-to-face with my asymmetrical face and the droop on the right side, I never notice unless forced. I saw myself—my child self.
I’ve ground my teeth to self-soothe for as long as I can remember. Always to one side. I’ve worn my bite lopsided. It’s been my pacifier. My comfort pose. I love the sideways smile in my favorite Christmas photo at age three. And I saw it again this week, at age 49, in that dental contraption, with nowhere else to look but the mirror.
And I couldn’t be mad at her—at me.
If you came from where I came from, if you survived what I survived, and if the damage is just one lost tooth and a history of gray-area drinking that I’ve already overcome, then honestly? I think I’m doing pretty damn well.
So what if my dad lived in a trailer? Good for him—he loved his neighbors and didn’t live beyond his means. So what if my dental genes aren’t the best? They’re not the worst either. My grandma—his mom—just passed away at 101.7 with her real teeth. Let’s celebrate that.
And so what if I’m not perfect?
What does it say about me? No one would even have to know about this took except my dentist, my surgeon, and me.
But I’m saying it anyway. Shouting it, actually:
I lost a tooth. I’m okay. I’m lovable. I’m worthy. I’m a classy gal. I’m a survivor. I'm a lover. A healer. A community builder. Losing a tooth doesn't take that away from me. It doesn't have to mean anything it doesn't mean.
And soon? I’ll have a brand-new implant. But in the meantime, I’ll wear my invisible crown where it belongs.
I want to recover out loud—from all of it. Enough with the secrecy. The shame. The perfection. We all have our things. And still, we are lovable. Warts, wounds, and Enneagram 1-9.
I saw a quote on Instagram by Leah @thesoftword:
“What a fragile, tender gift it is to be invited into another’s wounds.”
My clients share that gift with me every day. And today? I’m sharing mine with you.
