So our journey begins

I don’t remember the colour of the walls in that dental surgery. I don’t remember the name of the dentist, or what procedure I was there for, or even how old I was — four, maybe five. But I remember the smell. That sharp antiseptic scent that clings to the back of your throat and tells your nervous system, something is about to happen.

My earliest dental memory isn’t of a drill or a needle. It’s of two strong fingers forcing my mouth open and a wave of helplessness that hit me before anything even hurt. Two strong fingers forcing my mouth open, holding me still in a way that made my whole body tense. Before anything hurt, before any instrument touched a tooth, the fear arrived — sudden, overwhelming, absolute. It wasn’t the pain that frightened me. It was the loss of control. The sense that I had no say in what happened next.

Somewhere above me, a voice told me to “the faster you cooperate the faster you get out”, as if my fear was an inconvenience. As if my smallness was the problem. As if the whole thing was my fault.

That’s the part that stayed.

After every appointment, I listened to the dentist tell my mum that I “wasn’t good in the chair” and that I “needed to brush better". I didn't mean to be a nuisance or to cause trouble. But somehow, I felt that I did. I absorbed those words like they were truths about who I was. Shame settled in quietly, the way it often does — not with a dramatic moment, but with a slow accumulation of messages that make you believe you’re the problem.

For years, I was ashamed of my teeth. Ashamed of my smile. Ashamed of needing help. The smell of antiseptic alone could make my stomach twist. I dreaded appointments long before they appeared on the calendar. Fear became a familiar companion, showing up early, long before any pain ever did.

So yes — I’ve been there.

And strangely, that’s exactly why I became a dentist.

People assume dentists choose this profession because they’ve always been comfortable in the chair. My story is the opposite. I didn’t choose dentistry because I loved going to the dentist. I chose it because I knew what it felt like to be the child who didn’t feel safe. I chose it because I wanted to understand fear instead of dismissing it. I chose it because I wanted to create the kind of environment I never had — one where patients feel seen, respected, and never shamed for their teeth or their reactions.

Now, as a dentist, I see echoes of my younger self every day.

The patient who apologises before they even sit down.

The one who braces as soon as the chair reclines.

The one who laughs nervously and says, “I know my teeth are awful.”

The one who hasn’t been in years and expects judgment instead of care.

I recognise them instantly. Not because I’m a clinician, but because I’ve been them.

Fear in dentistry rarely begins with pain. It begins with anticipation, vulnerability, memory, and the stories we tell ourselves about what our teeth say about us. Shame plays a quiet but powerful role — shaping behaviour, avoidance, and self-worth in ways we don’t talk about enough.

That’s why I’m writing this series.

I don't just want to share my personal story, but the stories of the ones who chose to trust me and my hands when they feel vulnerable. I want to help bridge the emotional world of dental fear with the practical world of dental care. I want to explore the questions patients rarely ask out loud but carry with them:

- Why do we apologise for our teeth?

- How does shame shape our experience in the chair?

- Why does fear start before pain?

- What can dentists do to break the cycle?

- And how can patients reclaim a sense of control?

This isn’t just about dentistry. It’s about understanding ourselves — our fears, our histories, our bodies, our boundaries. It’s about rewriting the narrative so that dental care becomes something collaborative, not something endured.

If you’ve ever felt afraid, ashamed, or judged in a dental chair, I want you to know this: you’re not alone. I’ve been there. And there’s a way forward that doesn’t begin with blame. I hear you. I see you. Your fear makes sense. It has roots. It has reasons. And it can be understood, softened, and transformed.

This is a space where fear, shame, and dentistry meet honesty. A place to understand why our stories shape our smiles — and how we can rewrite them together.

Your smile is more than teeth. It’s your story — and it deserves to be understood and kept safe.

Until the next one :)