It was Never just about teeth

“That was a memorable day to me, for it made great changes in me. … Imagine one selected day struck out of it, and think how different its course would have been.”

By C Dickens in Great Expectations

I have often returned to this line when reflecting on my own path into dentistry. Because, like that sentiment suggests, my life too seems to hinge on a handful of days—quiet, ordinary moments that, without warning, changed everything.

One of those days began in a place I had always feared.

Going to the dentist, throughout my childhood, was never routine. It was something that lived in my body long before the appointment itself arrived. Days before, I would feel it building—an unshakable nausea, restless nights, a quiet sense of dread that followed me everywhere. I couldn’t focus at school. I didn’t want to leave the house. It felt as though something terrible was approaching, and I was powerless to stop it.

On the day itself, the feeling would peak. My heart would sink into my chest. My hands would turn clammy. My body would tremble. And my mind would fill with every possible thing that could go wrong.

That was my earliest understanding of what it meant to be a dental patient.

That was my normal.

What I didn’t know then, is that my body wasn’t overreacting — it was protecting me. My brain had learned that the dental chair wasn’t safe.

One day, during what should have been a routine check-up, something unexpected happened.

I was 16, in the middle of exam season, and completely unsure about what I wanted to do with my future. My dentist looked at me and said, quite simply:

“You should go into dentistry. Use your fear to fuel your passion for helping people.”

I remember almost dismissing the idea instantly.

Did she really expect me to spend my life in that room? Listening to that drill? Surrounded by everything I had spent years dreading? It felt absurd. Impossible, even.

But at home, the idea landed very differently.

Of course, when they heard her words, my parents were thrilled. To them, this was direction, stability, a future they could believe in. My own ideas—travelling, exploring, figuring things out slowly—felt, in comparison, uncertain and impractical. It became clear that this was the path being laid in front of me.

As it seemed I didn't have much of a choice, I followed it.

Not with passion. Not with certainty. But with a quiet determination to prove something—perhaps even to myself.

I went to dental school convinced of one thing:

I was not meant to be a dentist.

And yet, I found myself surrounded by people who had dreamed of this for years.

People who wanted to be there.

That confused me more than anything. Why would anyone choose this? Why would anyone willingly step into a role I had spent my life fearing?

That question stayed with me—not just through dental school, but into my early years of practice.

Because when I finally entered the profession, I didn’t find clarity. I found conflict.

I worked in environments where the pace was relentless—30, sometimes 40 patients a day. Appointments were short. Expectations were high. There was little room for pause, for connection, for understanding.

And I kept coming back to the same thought:

How can I help someone, if I barely know them, and they barely know me?

The gap between what I felt dentistry could be, and what I was experiencing, felt too wide to bridge.

For a long time, I wondered if I had been right all along.

Maybe I wasn’t meant to be a dentist.

And then, another day.

Another conversation.

A patient came in—what should have been a routine examination turned into something else entirely. He was a business school professor, and our appointment drifted into a long, unexpected conversation that quietly replaced my lunch break.

He spoke about purpose. About how each person carries something unique—something that, when recognised and nurtured, begins to shape their path.

There was no instruction. No pressure. Just a simple idea:

That it was okay to be human.

And more than that—that being human might be the very thing that makes the work meaningful.

That conversation changed something in me.

In a way not so different from the one I had at 16.

Because slowly, I began to understand something I hadn’t been able to see before.

Dentistry is not just about teeth.

It is about felt safety.

When I think back to the child I was—the fear, the helplessness, the sense of being overwhelmed—I realise now that what I needed was not just treatment.

I needed to feel safe.

To feel seen.

To feel that my fear was not something to be dismissed, but something to be understood.

And so, without consciously deciding it at first, that became the way I began to practise.

This is what I needed back then — so this is what I try to offer now.

There is no single way to sit in a dental chair.

Some patients want the experience to be as quick and contained as possible. Others need time—space to settle, to ask questions, to feel their way through it.

Both are valid.

Both are respected.

Sometimes, we don’t start with teeth at all.

We start with breathing.

Not as a technique, not as something to “fix” the fear—but as a way of saying: you’re safe enough to pause.

Because people don’t relax when they are told to.

They relax when they feel understood.

When their fear is not minimised, rushed, or brushed aside—but met with empathy, with patience, with presence.

They want to know that they won’t be judged.

That they can trust.

And that the person sitting beside them will hold that trust with care.

It’s not uncommon for patients to say, half-jokingly, that it felt more like a therapy session than a dental appointment.

And perhaps, in some ways, that’s not far from the truth.

Fear in the dental chair is not weakness.

It is memory.

It is protection.

And it deserves to be met, not dismissed.

Looking back now, I can see that those two days— both the conversation at 16, and the one years later, in a surgery room—quietly shaped everything that followed.

They didn’t change my path instantly.

But they changed how I understood it.

And perhaps more importantly, they changed how I show up within it.

Because in learning how to sit with my patients’ fear, I have had to learn how to sit with my own.

And somewhere along the way, the question shifted.

From:

Am I meant to be a dentist?

To:

How can I make this a place where people feel safe?

If one day can change the course of a life, then perhaps it can also change the experience of something as simple—and as significant—as a visit to the dentist.

And perhaps, for someone sitting in that chair, feeling exactly as I once did…

That day could be today.