Finding My Voice, Finding My Silence

I haven't properly smiled for a long time.

Well, that's not quite true. I smile. I laugh. I probably laugh too loudly sometimes. But I don't do that full-on, teeth-out grin.

Because of my wonky front tooth.

I've become very good at smiling without showing it. The closed-mouth smile. The slight turn of the head when someone takes a photograph. All those little things you learn to do when there's a part of yourself you don't particularly want anyone looking at.

Vanity?

Maybe.

Then I got headbutted by my granddaughter.

Accidentally, I should add.

And she got me right in the mouth.

Right on that bloody wonky tooth.

Now the tooth I spent years wishing wasn't wonky has decided it might not want to be there at all.

And suddenly I desperately want to keep it.

Funny that.

Last week I should have gone to the dentist. I knew I should. The tooth was moving, things weren't right and common sense told me that avoiding it wasn't going to magically make it better.

But fear isn't particularly interested in common sense.

So I avoided the dentist.

And now I'm in agony.

The tooth is unstable.

Like myself.

It's moving, it's hurting and it's affecting the teeth around it. Every little knock reminds me it's there. Eating reminds me. Talking reminds me. My tongue won't leave the bloody thing alone, as though checking it every thirty seconds might somehow make it more secure.

And now vanity has been replaced by pain.

Or has it?

Because amongst all this pain, I'm still thinking:

What am I going to look like without a front tooth?

And I feel almost embarrassed admitting that.

There are people dealing with far worse things than a missing tooth. I know that. It's a tooth. Nobody has died. Life will continue.

But it's also my face.

My smile.

My mouth.

My voice.

And perhaps vanity isn't always as shallow as we make it sound.

For years I didn't like that tooth because it wasn't straight enough. I let one wonky tooth dictate how much of my smile I allowed people to see.

Now I'm facing losing it and I'd quite happily take the wonkiness back.

There's probably a lesson in there somewhere.

Something about appreciating what we've got before it disappears.

Something about all the bits of ourselves we've spent years criticising.

Something about fear and avoidance and how putting something off doesn't necessarily make it go away.

Sometimes it just makes it hurt more.

But there's something else this bloody tooth has made me think about too.

My voice.

I spent years finding it.

I built things around it. I stood behind microphones with it. I encouraged other people to find theirs.

Finding my voice became part of who I am.

And now, because opening my mouth bloody hurts, I've discovered something I wasn't looking for.

Silence.

Not the silence that comes from being afraid to speak.

Not being silenced.

Not having nothing to say.

Chosen silence.

And I'm starting to realise there is a difference.

Maybe finding your voice isn't about using it all the time. Maybe it's knowing that it's there when you need it.

Maybe speaking isn't always necessary.

Maybe silence is okay.

I've even found myself thinking I could do a silent retreat.

Me.

A silent retreat.

There's a sentence I never expected to write.

Maybe there was a time when silence would have felt like losing something. Now it feels different. I know my voice is there. I've fought hard enough to find it.

I don't need to prove I have one by constantly using it.

Perhaps that's what this wonky, wobbly, incredibly painful tooth has given me before it finally leaves: the knowledge that I don't have to fill every space with words.

And I'd love to end this with some great revelation about accepting myself exactly as I am. That beauty comes from within and I'll confidently grin at the world, tooth or no tooth.

But I'm not there yet.

Right now, I'm in pain.

I'm frightened of the dentist.

I'm frightened of losing my front tooth.

And yes, I'm worried about what I'll look like.

Maybe that's vanity.

Or maybe it's just being human.

But silence?

I'm not quite so frightened of that anymore.

Silence doesn't mean I've lost my voice.

Maybe it means I've finally become comfortable enough to let it rest.