I hate going to the dentist. And I don't mean that in the casual, eye-roll, "ugh, who does?" kind of way. I mean I genuinely dread it — the kind of dread that starts a week before the appointment and builds steadily until I'm sitting in that chair, white-knuckling the armrests while a stranger scrapes around in my mouth with what sounds like a tiny jackhammer. My whole body tenses up the moment I walk through the door.

For years, I handled it the way I handle a lot of things: I just pushed through.

The funny thing is, if one of my kids had been nervous about dental work, I wouldn't have hesitated for a second. Nitrous? Absolutely. Whatever would make the experience more manageable. I would have advocated for them without a second thought. It just never occurred to me that I could — or should — do the same for myself. I knew nitrous existed. I knew it was an option. I'd simply filed it under "things other people need" and moved on.

That's the story I'd been telling myself for years: I could handle it.

Recently, I had to have some fairly extensive dental work done, and as the appointment got closer, I found myself thinking about it more than I cared to admit. For the first time, I decided I was actually going to ask for the nitrous. Progress, right? Except that even after making that decision, I sat in the chair and almost talked myself out of it. It felt vaguely embarrassing, like I was asking for special treatment or admitting I couldn't manage something that everyone else handles just fine.

But I said it. "I'd like the nitrous, please."

The answer was no — but not for the reason I feared. It wasn't that my request was unreasonable or dramatic. It was purely logistical: the one certified person in the office wasn't there that day. If I'd mentioned it when I scheduled the appointment, they would have planned for it. Simple as that. And then they offered me a perfectly reasonable solution: we could reschedule.

You would think that's the part of the story where I say, "Great! Let's find another day." That is not what happened.

I looked around, thought about the time I'd already taken out of my day, and heard myself say, "That's okay. I'll just push through."

I've replayed that moment more times than I'd like to admit. Because the truth is, I didn't want to push through. I wanted the nitrous. I wanted the easier option. I wanted to be comfortable. I just didn't want to inconvenience anyone.

The appointment was awful. Even with Novocaine, sharp pain broke through unexpectedly at several points, the instruments seemed louder than ever, and I spent the entire hour gripping the armrests and mentally counting ceiling tiles. By the time it was over, every muscle in my body felt like it had been clenched for the last sixty minutes — because it had.

I made it to my car, closed the door, and burst into tears.

At first I figured I was just releasing the tension of a rough hour. But sitting there, I realized something else was happening. I wasn't just upset about the appointment. I was disappointed in myself. Because I hadn't advocated for myself when I'd had the chance. The office had offered me exactly what I needed: a different appointment, a better experience, a completely reasonable accommodation. I was the one who turned it down.

That's the part of this story that has stayed with me.

Not the dental work, or the tears. The fact that pushing through felt more natural than asking for what I needed.

I've thought about how many women do this every single day. We put off doctor's appointments because everyone else's schedules come first. We tell ourselves we don't need the help, take the less comfortable chair, eat the cold dinner, stay late, volunteer for one more thing, and drive across town because it's just easier than asking someone else to. None of these moments feel like a big deal on their own. They're small, practical, reasonable. But over time, they reveal something about how we move through the world.

Somewhere along the way, a lot of us learned that our own comfort is negotiable. We don't think of it that way, of course. We tell ourselves we're being flexible, easygoing, low-maintenance, responsible… all the virtuous-sounding words that make self-abandonment look like a personality trait. And meanwhile, we're often the first people to encourage someone else to ask for what they need. If a friend had told me she was anxious about dental work, I would have told her to ask for the nitrous without blinking. If they couldn't accommodate her that day, I would have absolutely told her to reschedule. No second thoughts. So why is it so hard to extend that same kindness to ourselves?

Here's where the story gets better, though.

I went back the following week for the second part of the procedure. This time, I had scheduled the nitrous. And honestly? The appointment was fine. I got through it without clenching every muscle in my body or counting down the minutes. I drove home and went about the rest of my day. No tears, no drama, just... relief.

The accommodation I needed had been available all along. I just had to ask for it… and then actually accept it.

That second appointment has made me wonder where else in my life I might still be saying "I'll just push through" when what I actually mean is "I don't want to be a bother." Maybe you have a place like that too. Maybe it has nothing to do with the dentist. Maybe it's asking for help, or taking a real break, or setting a boundary, or finally admitting out loud that something isn't working for you anymore.

Whatever it is, I hope you'll sit with something I've been reminding myself of lately: needing something doesn't make you high maintenance. Wanting a little comfort doesn't make you a burden. And asking for what you need isn't a sign that you can't handle life.

Sometimes it's the clearest sign that you've finally stopped believing you have to handle everything the hard way.