Braces. Again. At age 44. This is not what I thought I’d be doing with two children in middle school, counting down the months until they were ready for braces round two.

While I am happily past the super awkward exterior wrapping of my middle school self, I had to drag myself into the orthodontist’s office. My feet – so heavy with dread you would imagine my shoes were actually made from stone – struggled one dreadful step at a time into the office after putting this appointment off for the better part of the year.

I’m back in the orthodontist’s office thanks to teeth that decided to wiggle out of near-perfect alignment after three decades of standing side by side.

This is the office of my children’s orthodontist and while he has some adult patients, he caters to children. The office is a castle, literally designed to look like a castle with stone accent walls, domed archways, glass accent windows with diagonal crossing bars, lion’s head wall sconces crafted from cream-colored stone, black chandeliers dangling from the ceiling with lights that appear to be candle tapers. There is even a wall lined with knights in armor, each one standing proudly at attention, each sporting a slightly different helmet style.

The front waiting area has a case with an intricately built Lego city, complete with a scavenger hunt of items encompassing everything from Star Wars to Marvel to Lord of the Rings (this is my 12-year-old son’s favorite part of going to the orthodontist). To his delight, the orthodontist knows all about all these characters, their movies, and their stories, so they can mutually exchange their passion for these topics. But today, this is not just an easy quick check-in for my kids. Today, unfortunately, is all about me.

After walking back to where castle décor meets orthodontic exam chairs, I pause. The ortho tech, gazing out from under her short brown mop of hair, complete with bangs and glasses, asks “Are you excited?!”,  with hopeful eyes and a face full of braces.

My external reply is a brief “no”, but my internal reply is laden with expletives. How could any adult be excited about braces?

The orthodontist recommended 6 to 8 months of lingual braces. Brackets that will hide behind my lower teeth, are obvious only to me and are less expensive than some other more adult-friendly options.

I was prepared for this appointment – or so I thought. I brought my noise-canceling earbuds. I feel skilled at focusing on my breath when nerves kick in and I use breath cues every time I teach Les Mills Body Balance, a tai chi-yoga-Pilates fusion class. I’m also good at advocating for myself in healthcare situations. I explained to the braces-clad, exuberant tech, using the nicest and most honest words I could muster, the fact that I was not happy to be in this space and that I had a lot of negative memories from childhood dental and orthodontic work.

As I climbed onto the deep plum-colored exam chair, I was not prepared to travel back in time.

At that moment, I was not someone sitting with four decades of life experience in the orthodontist’s exam chair. I was, at best, my 8-year-old self, scared beyond belief, desperately wanting to be anywhere else on the planet but in the dentist’s office of my childhood, the office that immediately filled my thoughts as I sat down.

The 1986 dental office that I flashed back to was full of grays and blues reflected in the walls, exam chairs, and carpet. The waiting room was full of magazine headlines that seemed scary and alarming. My parents liked this dentist. I did not share their opinion.

Beyond the gloomy décor and the dread of the slatted wooden swinging door opening as my name was called, I despised everything about being there: the hard blue plastic-feeling exam upholstery; the smell of the Orajel-infused wooden cotton swab rubbing on my gums and dangling from my mouth; the terror that filled my entire being as the syringe entered my line of sight; the feeling of that cold metal syringe of Novocain against my lips and cheek. These memories still nauseate my adult self.

My memories still running the show, I can feel myself squirming, wanting out of the chair, out of the dental office, my whole body screaming at me to RUN. At some point in this memory, I remember a nice woman holding my hand, trying to help me be calm despite the fact that my body really wanted to be in full-on FLIGHT mode. Had my younger self known fight was an option, I may have found myself throwing limbs in every direction imaginable but that was not part of my awareness. Flight seemed like the only available consideration, though not an exercised option.

My mind snapped back to the present. I grabbed the momentarily forgotten earbuds and inserted them into my longing ears, trying to shut out the whine of the country music being piped through the office with something familiar and calming. My first pop music selection is an utter failure and I find myself still hating every moment of this installation, including the teeth-grinding process to ensure enough space as my teeth are forced back into alignment.

I turn on Insight Timer music and find my breath. They resumed working on my braces installation. I close my eyes and find myself time-traveling again back to the dentist’s office, but this time is different.

This time I watch the scene as if I’m watching a movie. This time I use my tools. I imagine I’m in the room alone. I imagine a zipper at the top of my younger self’s head, and I unzip her fears, allowing that version of her to fall away. I unzip another layer of fear and another. As each layer falls away, I feel courage grow inside of me. My younger self sits taller in the chair, more confidently, more calmly. I feel my nervous system relax, my shoulders slide away from my ears and my breathing slows. I send love to this version of myself, allowing these fears to dissipate, thanking the fears for trying to protect me and assuring them that I’m safe. I see myself sitting in the chair, no longer wanting to run, settling into the idea that this is just part of taking care of my teeth and myself. I open my eyes, back to the current day, mid-evil-styled castle office.

The appointment draws to a close and I’m able to thank both the tech and the orthodontist for their patience as I worked through my fears. Internally, I’m grateful for this experience of healing some parts of myself I didn’t realize were so raw and revisiting parts of myself that were long buried. Externally, I’m especially grateful I don’t have to return for a solid six weeks, hopeful that my time-traveling experiences with the 1986 dentist’s office are officially over.

My younger self and I walk out hand in hand, exhaling all the way.