I May Need Dentures and I’m Not Handling It Well
There are moments in life when your body hands you news that stops you cold, moments when the mirror becomes your enemy and the future feels like a thief stealing pieces of who you are. For me, that moment came in a dentist’s chair when I heard the words “significant bone loss” and watched my dentist’s face tell me what her careful professional language tried to soften. My gums are receding at an alarming rate. My teeth, while still good, may not have a home much longer. Dentures. The word hung in the air between us like a verdict I wasn’t ready to hear.
I grew up with a crooked front tooth and a fang that gave my smile character, if not symmetry. That broken tooth from a schoolyard bully, the one that was never fixed because dental care was a luxury my family couldn’t afford, became part of my identity. I learned to love my imperfect smile because it was mine, because it told the story of surviving childhood without the safety nets other kids had. But now, facing the possibility of losing not just my teeth but the face I’ve spent decades accepting, I find myself drowning in anxiety I don’t know how to navigate. My self-esteem, already fragile from years of learning to love a body that society says is wrong, is taking a beating I didn’t see coming.
This post isn’t about having answers or finding the silver lining or discovering some magical perspective that makes everything okay. This is about sitting in the hard stuff, about admitting that sometimes we’re not handling things well, and that maybe there’s power in that honesty. If you’ve ever faced a change to your body that felt like losing a part of yourself, if you’ve struggled with the intersection of health, identity, and self-worth, pull up a chair. We’re going to talk about the parts of wellness that don’t fit neatly into gratitude journals and morning rituals. We’re going to be real about what it feels like when your body becomes a source of grief.
The Crooked Smile I Learned to Love May Soon Disappear
For most of my adult life, my crooked front tooth and the adjacent fang have been my signature. When I smile in photos, there they are, telling anyone who looks closely that this is a face with a story, a smile that didn’t come from an orthodontist’s office but from years of making peace with circumstances beyond my control. I’ve spent decades learning to love this imperfect smile, learning to see character where others might see flaw, learning to meet my own eyes in the mirror without flinching. That acceptance didn’t come easily or quickly. It was hard-won, built on years of choosing self-love over self-criticism, choosing to embrace what I couldn’t change rather than spending my life wishing for something different.
Now, facing the possibility that this smile might disappear, not through choice but through biological inevitability, I’m discovering just how deeply my identity is tied to these crooked teeth. They’re not just teeth. They’re a physical manifestation of my resilience, my journey, my refusal to let childhood poverty and lack of access define my worth. They’re proof that I survived being bullied, that I learned to love myself despite growing up without the resources other kids had, that I built confidence on my own terms rather than society’s standards. The thought of losing them feels like losing a part of my history, like having pages torn out of my story before I’m done writing it.
What makes this especially painful is that I thought I’d done the work. I thought I’d made my peace with my body, with aging, with all the ways women are told our value diminishes over time. I thought I was solid in my self-acceptance, secure enough to weather whatever changes came my way. But this is teaching me that acceptance isn’t a destination you reach once and stay at forever. It’s a practice you have to keep choosing, keep recommitting to, even when your body throws you curveballs you never saw coming. And right now, I’m struggling to choose it. I’m struggling to imagine a version of myself without this crooked smile, struggling to believe I’ll ever feel as comfortable in any other face, struggling to trust that I can rebuild what feels like it’s crumbling beneath me.
The Weight of What I Didn’t Have Growing Up
My relationship with dental care has always been complicated, rooted in a childhood where health care of any kind was contingent on crisis. My father cycled through jobs the way seasons change, unpredictable and often harsh. My mother found her footing in real estate, which meant independence and hustle but also meant no employer-provided insurance, no safety net, no routine preventive care. The dentist wasn’t a place you visited twice a year for cleanings and checkups. The dentist was where you went when pain became unbearable, when your face swelled or a tooth screamed so loudly you couldn’t think past it.
I remember being in grade school, already self-conscious about the irregular dental visits that left me anxious about my teeth compared to other kids. Then came the day some bullies decided I was an easy target. The details are blurry now, softened by time and the brain’s mercy, but the result was crystal clear. They shoved me against a chain link fence hard enough to break my front tooth and shift it sideways. I remember the metallic taste of blood, the sharp edge where smooth enamel used to be, the way my tongue kept finding that broken place like picking at a scab. That tooth was never fixed. There was no money for cosmetic dental work, and since it wasn’t causing pain, it wasn’t a priority in a household where priorities were constantly being triaged.
As I grew, my teeth shifted the way teeth do, and that broken, crooked front tooth became a defining feature of my face. The adjacent tooth developed into what I came to call my fang, giving my smile an asymmetrical, imperfect quality that I eventually learned to embrace. It took years, but I made peace with my crooked smile. I told myself it gave me character, that it was part of my story, that perfection was overrated anyway. I built my self-image around accepting the face that circumstances had given me. I had no idea that decades later, the foundation beneath that acceptance would begin to crumble in ways I couldn’t control or prepare for.
When Your Body Decides to Betray You
They say that aging is a privilege denied to many, and I believe that with my whole heart. But knowing something intellectually doesn’t make the physical realities of aging any easier to swallow, especially when those realities compound with other health conditions you’re already managing. My body has been a complicated companion for years now. PCOS turned my hormone levels into a roller coaster I never bought a ticket for. Anemia made fatigue a constant baseline I had to work around. These conditions don’t exist in isolation. They talk to each other, affect each other, create cascading effects that reach into unexpected corners of your health.
Periodontal disease entered my life as another uninvited guest, another condition to manage, another reminder that the dental neglect of my childhood had long-term consequences. I did what I could. I improved my oral hygiene, went to cleanings when I could afford them, tried to be diligent. But PCOS affects your gums. Anemia affects your body’s ability to heal and maintain healthy tissue. And then perimenopause arrived like a wildfire, and suddenly my gums were receding at a pace that alarmed even my dentist, who had seen gradual decline but not this acceleration. The hormonal shifts of perimenopause were doing to my oral health what they were doing to everything else in my body, changing the rules, making previously stable things suddenly unstable.
My last dental appointment delivered the news I’d been dreading but half expecting. Bone loss. Significant gum recession. Teeth that are structurally sound but losing their foundation like houses built on eroding cliffs. The phrase “you may need to consider dentures” didn’t register at first. I heard the words, but they felt like they were about someone else, some future version of me I wasn’t ready to meet. But as I sat there, looking at the x-rays showing the bone that was supposed to be there but wasn’t, reality settled over me like a heavy blanket I couldn’t kick off. This wasn’t theoretical anymore. This wasn’t something I could manage my way out of with better habits and hope. My body, despite my best efforts, was making decisions I didn’t get a vote on.
The Anxiety That Keeps Me Up at Night
I wish I could tell you I’m handling this with grace, that I’ve found some zen acceptance of what’s coming, that my spiritual practice and intentional living have given me peace about this change. But I’d be lying, and I’ve committed to honesty on this blog even when it’s uncomfortable. The truth is, I’m not handling it well. The anxiety hits me at random times, a sudden tightness in my chest when I’m brushing my teeth, a wave of panic when I catch my reflection and wonder how much longer I’ll recognize the person looking back at me. I lie awake at night running through scenarios, imagining the process of losing my teeth, picturing myself with dentures, trying to reconcile that image with my sense of self and failing every time.
My self-esteem, which I’ve worked so hard to build and maintain in a world that constantly tells women our value decreases with age, is taking a beating. I thought I’d done the work. I thought I’d made peace with my body, with aging, with the inevitable changes that come with moving through life in a female body. But this feels different. This isn’t gray hair I can dye or wrinkles I can learn to love or weight changes I can accept. This is my face, my smile, my ability to eat and speak and laugh without self-consciousness. These are things I took for granted, things I didn’t realize I’d built my confidence around until they were threatened.
The mental health impact of this potential change is something I wasn’t prepared for, and I don’t think most people talk about it enough. We talk about dental health as if it’s purely physical, purely functional. We don’t talk about how your teeth are tied to your identity, how your smile is part of how you interface with the world, how the prospect of losing them can trigger grief that feels disproportionate until you really sit with it. I find myself mourning something I haven’t even lost yet, grieving a future that may or may not come to pass, and feeling guilty for that grief because there are worse things, because people survive much harder things, because I should be grateful for what I have. But grief doesn’t do math. Anxiety doesn’t care about perspective. And I’m learning, slowly and painfully, that I need to let myself feel these feelings without judgment, even when they’re messy and uncomfortable.
Where I Am Right Now in This Journey
I don’t have a neat resolution to offer you, no transformative moment where everything clicked into place and I found peace. I’m still in the thick of this, still processing, still figuring out what comes next. Some days are better than others. Some days I can look at this as just another challenge to navigate, another chapter in a life that’s been full of unexpected turns. Other days I’m right back in that spiral of anxiety and self-doubt, wondering how I’ll handle this if it comes to pass, whether I’ll be able to rebuild my self-esteem on the other side, whether I’ll ever feel comfortable in my own skin again.
What I am trying to do is be gentle with myself in ways I haven’t always been good at. I’m trying to remember that it’s okay to not be okay, that struggling with something doesn’t make me weak or ungrateful or dramatic. I’m trying to let go of the idea that I need to have this figured out right now, that there’s a right way to feel about this or a timeline I should be following toward acceptance. I’m trying to talk about it instead of hiding it, to reach out to friends instead of isolating, to remember that vulnerability isn’t weakness but actually the bravest thing I can offer myself and others.
I’m also trying to focus on what I can control while acknowledging the limits of that control. I can continue to take care of my oral health as best I can. I can work with my healthcare providers to manage the conditions affecting my gums. I can research options and gather information so if the time comes to make decisions, I’m as informed as possible. But I also have to accept that my body is going to do what it’s going to do, that sometimes our best efforts aren’t enough to change outcomes, and that I’ll need to find a way to live with that uncertainty. It’s not comfortable, and I’m not good at it yet, but I’m learning. I’m showing up for myself even when it’s hard, even when I don’t have answers, even when all I can do is take the next breath and the next step and trust that I’ll figure it out as I go.
Finding Meaning in the Messy Middle
There’s a temptation, especially in wellness spaces and magical lifestyle content, to package everything neatly, to find the lesson or the blessing or the growth opportunity in every challenge. I understand that impulse. We want meaning. We want to believe that our struggles serve a purpose, that they’re teaching us something valuable, that we’ll emerge on the other side better and wiser and more whole. And maybe that’s true. Maybe years from now I’ll look back on this time and see what it taught me, how it changed me, what gifts it held beneath the pain.
But right now, I’m giving myself permission to just be in this without forcing meaning onto it. Sometimes things are just hard. Sometimes our bodies fail us in ways that feel unfair and untimely. Sometimes we don’t get the growth moment or the silver lining, at least not in any timeframe that feels satisfying. And that’s okay. That’s part of the human experience too, the part that doesn’t make for inspiring social media posts but that’s real and valid and worthy of acknowledgment. I’m learning that there’s power in admitting when something sucks, when we’re struggling, when we don’t have our shit together. That honesty creates space for real connection, for other people to share their struggles, for all of us to feel less alone in the hard stuff.
What I am finding, in small moments, is that this experience is teaching me something about identity and attachment, about what happens when the things we’ve built our sense of self around are threatened. My crooked smile was mine. It was part of my story, part of how I learned to love myself despite growing up without resources, despite being bullied, despite all the ways the world tried to make me feel less than. The prospect of losing it feels like losing a piece of my history, my resilience, my hard-won self-acceptance. But maybe, just maybe, this is an opportunity to discover that I am not my teeth. My worth doesn’t live in my smile, crooked or straight or dentures or whatever comes next. My identity is bigger than any single physical feature, more resilient than I’m giving it credit for. I’m not there yet. I’m not ready to fully embrace that perspective. But I can see it on the horizon, a possibility I might grow into if I give myself the time and grace to get there.
What Comes Next for Me and My Smile
I don’t know what the future holds. My next dental appointment will give me more information, more data points to help me understand where things are heading and what my options might look like. I’m trying to approach that appointment with curiosity instead of dread, though I’m not always successful. I’m trying to remember that knowledge is power, that information allows me to make informed decisions, that facing this head-on is better than avoiding it out of fear. I’m also trying to remember that whatever happens, I’ll figure it out. I always have. Every challenge I’ve faced, every loss I’ve grieved, every change I’ve had to adapt to, I’ve survived. This won’t be different, even if it feels uniquely difficult right now.
I’m also exploring what support looks like, both practically and emotionally. I’m talking to friends & family who’ve been through similar experiences, reading stories from other people who’ve faced dentures or significant dental work, looking into support groups and resources that might help me navigate not just the physical process but the emotional and psychological impacts. I’m reminding myself that I don’t have to do this alone, that reaching out isn’t weakness but wisdom, that community and connection are essential parts of healing and adaptation. I’m even considering working with a therapist who specializes in body image and medical transitions, because I’m recognizing that this isn’t something I can just think my way through. I need support, and that’s okay.
And I’m trying, in my own imperfect way, to practice the kind of self-compassion I’d offer a friend going through this. I’m trying to talk to myself with kindness instead of criticism, to acknowledge my feelings without judging them, to give myself permission to struggle without making that struggle mean something about my strength or worth. Some days I’m better at this than others. Some days I slip back into old patterns of negative self-talk and catastrophizing. But I catch myself more quickly now, redirect my thoughts more gently, remember that healing isn’t linear and neither is learning to be kind to yourself. This is a practice, and like any practice, it takes time and repetition and patience with the inevitable stumbles along the way.
A Different Kind of Magic
I’ve always believed that magic lives in the everyday, in the small rituals and intentional choices that shape our lives and our experience of the world. I’ve written about finding enchantment in morning routines and seasonal celebrations, in connecting with nature and honoring our own rhythms. But there’s another kind of magic I’m discovering now, harder and less comfortable but equally transformative. It’s the magic of showing up for yourself when everything feels like it’s falling apart. It’s the magic of vulnerability, of admitting you’re struggling, of letting people see you in your messiest, most uncertain moments.
There’s magic in the community that forms when we’re brave enough to be honest about our struggles, when we stop performing wellness and start sharing the reality of trying to stay whole in a world that constantly challenges us. Since I started talking about this, tentatively at first and then with growing openness, I’ve had people reach out to share their own stories of dental anxiety, of body image struggles, of facing changes they didn’t choose and didn’t feel ready for. These connections, forged in shared vulnerability, feel more real and more meaningful than any perfectly curated content I’ve ever created. They remind me that my purpose isn’t to have everything figured out but to be honest about the figuring-out process, to create space where others can do the same.
And there’s magic, too, in resilience. Not the toxic positivity kind that insists everything happens for a reason and we should be grateful for our struggles. But the quiet, stubborn magic of continuing to get up each morning even when you’re scared, of brushing your teeth even when each stroke feels like a countdown, of choosing to believe that you’ll find a way through even when you can’t see the path yet. This is the magic I’m practicing now. It doesn’t look like I thought it would. It’s not beautiful or inspiring or particularly Instagram-worthy. But it’s real, and it’s mine, and it’s getting me through one day at a time. That’s enough for now. That has to be enough.
Thanks for sitting with me in this messy, uncomfortable space. If you’re facing your own dental anxiety or struggling with changes to your body and identity, please know you’re not alone. This stuff is hard, and it’s okay that it’s hard. Take a deep breath, be gentle with yourself, and remember that you don’t have to have it all figured out right now.
If this post resonated with you, I hope you’ll explore more of what Nevermore Lane has to offer. I write about the full spectrum of intentional living, from the magical to the mundane, from the joyful to the challenging. Check out more posts where we talk about real life, real struggles, and finding our way through with as much grace as we can muster.
And if you want to continue this conversation or just need someone who gets it, come join me for virtual coffee. Leave a comment, send me a message, or connect with me on social media. Sometimes the most healing thing we can do is remind each other we’re not alone in the hard stuff. I’m here, imperfect smile and all, ready to listen and share this journey with you.
Like what you read? Drop me a line – let’s chat over virtual coffee.
~ Chrystal
