The Fragile Throne
Why Dental Care Feels Stuck in the Stone Age
There is a cruel irony in being a “Goddess” while feeling like your mouth is made of fine, cracked porcelain. We spend so much time worshipping our skin, our muscles, and our minds, but the teeth? They are the silent, brittle sentinels of our health—and frankly, they’re failing many of us.
If you’ve ever felt like your smile was one crunchy granola bar away from a catastrophe, you aren’t alone. My teeth aren’t just “sensitive”; they are ridiculously fragile. It feels less like I have enamel and more like I’m sporting a set of sugar cubes.
The Genetic Hand We’re Dealt
We like to think of health as a choice, but sometimes it’s a legacy. My mother had full dentures by her 20s. Think about that: a young woman in the prime of her life, stripped of her natural teeth because the biology simply wasn’t there to support them.
As we age, the situation only gets more precarious. Teeth get compromised; they thin, they yellow, and they chip. It’s a reminder that while our spirits are eternal, our dentin is most definitely not.
The Humiliation of the Periodontist
This week, I saw a periodontist, which I’ve discovered is a whole new level of humbling and condemnation. I was met with an “explanation” of a treatment plan that felt less like medical advice and more like a sentence of forced compliance.
“We are going to do THIS every three months and THAT every six months... until you die.”
Whatever happened to, “This is what I would suggest moving forward”? Instead, the focus seems to be on getting me back into that chair as many times as possible per year. There is an extreme arrogance in that room, especially when you bring up the reality of the trauma tax. I get that I am not paying for their care but subsidizing their malpractice insurance costs but come on.
I told them: my shitty dental insurance has a $1,500 cap. I am fundamentally unwilling to chuck a few thousand more out-of-pocket dollars at you to be tortured, only for you to tell me you need to see me every six weeks to “check my progress.” I said it nicer, but you get the drift.
The Evaporation of Autonomy
It took me two full days to land back in my body enough to remember that I am the one in charge. My feelings of body autonomy shouldn’t evaporate the moment I walk through those sterile doors, but they do.
I had to remind myself that I can say, “No, that isn’t happening,” and “We can do this, but not this.” We are the ones paying for the service; why are we the ones being treated like unruly children?
The Judgment and the Ativan
For those of us with deep-seated childhood dental trauma, showing up at all is a Herculean feat. There is nothing quite like the condescending tone of a dental professional tsk-tsking your gums while you’re pinned under a bib. I want to scream:
“Hey, I’m here NOW, right? Do you know what it took to get me in this chair? I am hopped up on enough Ativan to floor a horse just to keep from sprinting out the door.”
The “Alligator Bird” and the Tech Paradox
In nature, the Egyptian Plover hops into a crocodile’s mouth to pick out food scraps. The bird gets a meal; the crocodile gets a cleaning. No copays, no drilling, no judgment. Where is my alligator bird and why is my closest facsimile trying to guilt me into poverty?
Instead, I’m met with gouged prices, especially if you try to take care of your mental health with “Sleep Dentistry.” Sleep dentistry is a literal godsend for trauma survivors—you drift off and wake up with the work done—but it costs a fortune. Why aren’t we further advanced? We can 3D-print organs and send rovers to Mars, yet the dental “solution” is still:
Drill a hole.
Stuff it with goop.
Charge a mortgage payment.
Repeat
We have the technology to change the world, but we’re still using tools that wouldn’t look out of place in a Victorian museum. Believe me, for even a cleaning, I am sucking down an entire tank of nitrous and telling them to turn it all the way up to eleven.
Reclaiming the Crown
When the adrenaline finally fades and the Ativan wears off, I’m left with the realization that my mouth is not a construction site—it’s a part of my body. It is a part of my self.
We live in a world that treats dental health like a luxury subscription service rather than a basic human right. But until the technology catches up to our needs, and until the prices match our reality, the most powerful tool we have isn’t a drill—it’s the word “No.”
It’s okay to take a breath. It’s okay to demand a different pace. It’s okay to remember that you are the Goddess, and the person in the white coat is just a consultant you’ve hired. You own the chair, even when it feels like the chair owns you.
A Note to My Fellow Goddesses: If you’re struggling with dental anxiety or the shame of “bad teeth,” give yourself some grace. You are navigating an arrogant system and a biology that is temperamental. Your worth isn’t measured by your enamel, and you have every right to say “no” to a plan that doesn’t honor your wallet or your peace of mind.