The Silent Struggle: A Dentist's Early Battle with Burnout

The Unexpected Enemy

Burnout. It's a word we often associate with battle-worn veterans of our profession—those who've spent decades managing complex cases, juggling heavy patient loads, and weathering the storms of lawsuits and board complaints. It's supposed to be a mid-career crisis, striking when you're balancing family, work, and everything in between.

But burnout doesn't play by those rules. It doesn't care about your age, your experience, or where you are in your career.

I learned this the hard way, just three years into my journey as an associate dentist in 2020.

The Cracks Begin to Show

It started subtly, almost imperceptibly. A patient would wince slightly during an injection, and my heart would sink. Logically, I knew that even with perfect technique, some discomfort was normal. But in that moment, it felt like a personal failure.

A patient would mention sensitivity after a filling, and instead of reassuring them as I once did, I'd spiral into self-doubt. Did I use the wrong material? Should I have adjusted the bite more? What if I missed something crucial?

These small, everyday occurrences began to pile up. The perfectionist in me—the one who had always pushed for top grades and extracurricular achievements—went into overdrive. I began obsessively second-guessing every clinical decision, constantly worried that I was missing something during even the most routine procedures.

That anxiety followed me like a shadow, touching every aspect of my life.

When Everything Feels Like Failure

Soon, the dread set in. I'd sit in my car before work, scrolling mindlessly on my phone, desperately trying to delay the inevitable. My lunch breaks became retreats to that same car—a metal cocoon shielding me from the pressures waiting inside the office.

Every new patient consult felt like an obstacle, not an opportunity to help someone. I was terrified of making mistakes, of letting people down. Seeing returning patients was even worse—what if they had complaints about my previous work?

The physical symptoms came next: constant headaches, muscle tension, oversleeping yet feeling perpetually exhausted. I'd get home from work and lose hours scrolling on my phone, trying to numb myself from the day's stress.

I didn't realize it then, but I was checking off a textbook list of burnout symptoms: energy depletion, mental distance, cynicism, and a complete lack of professional efficacy.

The Breaking Point

Then came the moment I couldn't ignore. As I prepared for a routine crown—a procedure I'd performed hundreds of times—my hands began to shake. It wasn't just nerves or anxiety; it was my body screaming what my mind had been whispering for months.

In that moment, everything I'd learned about mind-body connections in my psych courses came flooding back. This was textbook somatization—psychological stress manifesting as physical symptoms. It was surreal to diagnose myself, but that didn't make it any less terrifying.

I spoke to my supervisor, took the rest of the week off, and finally reached out for help.

The Identity Crisis

As I sat in the therapist's office, reading through the burnout symptoms she'd handed me, a part of me felt relieved to have a name for what I was experiencing. But another part felt devastated. I'd read that burnout could take years to heal from. And I couldn't just stop doing dentistry—I had $400,000 in student loans, bills to pay, and no backup plan.

But the real crisis went deeper than that. It was about my very identity.

Growing up gay, I'd always felt the need to prove my worth through achievements. It's something psychologists call the "Best Little Boy in the World Syndrome"—striving for perfection in everything else so no one focuses on the part of you that feels "different" or unaccepted.

Throughout my life, that meant chasing good grades, taking on every extracurricular activity, and always pushing to be the best. It was how I controlled how people saw me—smart, talented, successful—so they wouldn't have time to think about my sexuality.

And now, faced with time off and forced introspection, I had to confront an uncomfortable truth: after dedicating my entire life to dentistry, I wasn't even sure if I liked it anymore. I'd spent so much time proving that I could do it, I never stopped to think about whether I wanted to do it.

The Path to Recovery

Recovery didn't come easy. At first, reducing my schedule from six days to four felt like admitting defeat. But it was exactly what I needed.

For the first time, I had space to breathe, to think, to explore who I was outside of dentistry. I started biking, picked up photography, got into baking sourdough bread. These weren't earth-shattering activities, but they gave me a sense of joy and identity I hadn't felt in years.

I realized I wasn't just a dentist—I was a multidimensional person with passions and interests beyond the clinic. And that realization was transformative. Suddenly, if a patient got upset or I made a mistake, it didn't mean I was a failure as a person. It just meant that one aspect of my multidimensional self didn't go perfectly that day.

Other changes followed. I sought professional support, seeing a therapist who specialized in workplace stress. Under medical guidance, I used medication like propranolol and Xanax for severe anxiety situations. I learned to set boundaries, saying no to procedures I didn't enjoy, refusing to take on extra days, and standing firm in my diagnoses and treatment plans. I also began to take my physical health more seriously by working out regularly, slowly improving my diet and meditating.

A Message to My Colleagues

If you're reading this and seeing a bit of yourself in my story, please don't wait until you're at your breaking point like I did. Reach out for help. Talk to someone who understands. Take the time to reconnect with what brought you into this profession in the first place.

Remember, burnout isn't a sign that you're weak—it's a sign that something needs to change. And making that change doesn't mean you're giving up or that you've failed. It means you're taking control of your life and your career.

We entered this profession to help people, to make a difference. But we can't do that if we're running on empty. Taking care of yourself isn't selfish—it's necessary. It's what allows us to be the best versions of ourselves, both in and out of the operatory.

Your worth isn't measured by your production numbers, your patient load, or how many hours you work. It's measured by the lives you touch, the smiles you create, and yes, the life you build for yourself outside of dentistry.

So take a step back. Breathe. And remember—you're not alone in this struggle. We're in this together, and together, we can build a healthier, more sustainable future for our profession.

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Disclaimer: This article is based on personal experience and is for informational purposes only. It is not intended as a substitute for professional medical advice, diagnosis, or treatment. Always seek the advice of your physician, mental health professional, or other qualified health provider with any questions you may have regarding a medical condition. The author and publisher expressly disclaim responsibility for any adverse effects arising from the use or application of the information contained herein.