"Still 23 With 25 Years of Experience: My Quiet Nervousness"

 I don’t think this feeling will ever leave me.

It’s been 25 years since I began my journey in dentistry, yet every time, when I hear the footsteps of a new patient approaching the room — I feel it. A flutter in the belly. A moment of unease. That silent question in my head: “What’s coming today?” Before the patient enters am looking at their medical records, scrolling through numerous documents just to try and find out some relief for myself to prepare for them and to make sure I have not missed anything about them including their personal information if they have visited me before.

It’s not a lack of confidence. It’s something more tender, more human.

It reminds me of the first time I entered the Oral Surgery department as a dental student. I remember standing over a patient, gloves tight, a syringe trembling in my grip. I had practiced local anesthesia on dummies so many times, but now... this was a living, breathing person.

And beside me stood Dr. Lakshmi Naik — my teacher. My classmates will instantly recall her. A strict lady, yet sweet in her own way — but only if you had studied well. She was a terror if you came unprepared. The kind of teacher who commanded respect by her very presence. That day, with her next to me, my palms were sweating, every muscle in my body was tense, my words caught in my throat, and somewhere inside, a silent prayer repeated itself.

My professors stood watching. My colleagues stood nearby. And my insides felt like a shaken snow globe. I can still remember the exact shade of silence in that moment — not empty, but full of anticipation, fear, and reverence.

Now, all these years later, no one’s watching. No professor waiting to grade me. No fellow students peeking from behind a curtain.

But that feeling — that butterfly — still visits me.

Only now, it’s not triggered by people watching me. It’s triggered by the trust that patients place in me. It’s the weight of knowing they expect me to help them, to heal them, to understand what even they might not fully know how to explain. It’s that same breathless moment before I begin — not because I’m afraid of failing, but because I respect what I’ve been entrusted with.

This feeling is not a flaw. It’s a gift.

It keeps me alert. It keeps me open. It keeps me from becoming mechanical or complacent.

I treat patients — not procedures. Subjects — not objects.

Every person who walks through my clinic carries their own history, emotions, personality, mindset. Their pain isn’t always where it hurts, and their anxiety isn’t always in what they say. That quiet nervousness I feel? It helps me pause. It helps me listen. It helps me meet them not just with instruments, but with empathy.

And it has taught me so much over the years.

It’s taught me not to judge — neither a case, nor a person. It’s taught me that what someone needs isn’t always visible on the X-ray or chart. It’s taught me that healing is more than skill — it’s presence, awareness, and sometimes, just sitting in silence with someone who’s scared.

I often joke: "I’m still 23, with 25 years of experience." Or like that old Bryan Adams song says, "18 till I die."

But behind the joke, there’s a truth.

As long as that flutter still visits me before I begin, I know I haven’t grown old in spirit. I haven’t stopped caring. I haven’t dulled to the mystery of this profession. And the day it stops… that will be the day I know I need to step back.


So if you’re reading this — whether you’re a student just stepping into the clinic, or a dentist, decades into your practice — I hope you still feel that flutter too.

It means you’re alive to the art. Alive to the person in front of you. And still beautifully, wonderfully human.

Dr. SSP.

A quite reflection

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