The hygienist said "open wide" and I suddenly forgot how to breathe through my nose. I counted the ceiling tiles while she scraped and probed, and when she finally said "all good," I almost kissed her gloved hand in gratitude.
The waiting room smells like hand sanitizer and anxiety. I watched the numbers on the wall, called out one by one, and when my name finally came, I took a deep breath and walked in, remembering that most of what we worry about never actually happens.
Rain tapping against the window always makes me feel safe and slow. I wrap myself in a blanket, pick up that book I’ve been meaning to read, and let the gray sky give me permission to do absolutely nothing productive.