Reclaiming the Body in Dentistry: Healing Pain and Preventing Burnout

I used to think that pain was part of the job in dentistry.
An aching back, a dull throb in my left shoulder, and tingling in my hand by the end of each day were common. I took it as a sign that I was working hard — that I cared enough about my patients.

What I didn’t realize early in my career was how disconnected I had become from my own body. I stopped noticing. I kept pushing. I stopped listening and hoped it would just go away. But it didn’t. The pain continued, the stress built, and eventually, burnout hit hard.

Reclaiming my health in dentistry didn’t happen in one moment. It came from the realization that I couldn’t keep doing this work unless I started choosing my own well-being. It began with small choices, slow awareness, and a growing curiosity.

How Pain and Disconnection Crept In

It started with subtle signs — a tightness in my left shoulder at the end of the day and an ache in my hand after an SRP appointment. Like many of us, I assumed it was normal. At first, I thought I was alone in feeling this way. But soon I realized nearly everyone around me was quietly experiencing something. So, I accepted it as part of the job.

Over time, the aches and pains persisted. I began to dread going to work — not because of the patients or the office, but because of how I felt physically when I walked in, knowing it would only get worse by the end of the day. Eventually, I started connecting the dots: posture, alignment, ergonomics, and stress were all part of the picture.

The culture of dentistry, combined with my Boston-born, hardworking, do-it-yourself mentality, taught me to push through discomfort. I was raised to suck it up and keep going. So instead of slowing down and listening to my body, I considered cutting my hours or switching careers altogether. But as a 23-year-old hygienist with student debt and no backup plan, I felt stuck.

It became clear this was more than just physical discomfort. I had stopped listening to my body entirely. And when I began to lose the passion and joy I had for a profession I once loved, I knew something had to change.

The Turning Point

There was no dramatic collapse. Just a quiet moment in my operatory, finishing notes after a long day, when I realized I couldn’t keep going like this. My shoulder was losing mobility. My lower back was on fire.

That was the day I got curious. That’s when I walked into my first yoga class.

It was a hot yoga class — very different from what I now teach — but even after a few classes, I began to feel a shift. If this general class could help me feel even a little better, what else was out there? Was there something specific to support dental professionals like me?

That question became the seed of a much bigger journey. I couldn’t find any yoga training tailored to clinical pain or dentistry, so I started creating the path myself. I didn’t have all the answers, but I knew I had found my next chapter. Those first questions laid the first stone of a path that I’ve been walking ever since.

Reconnection: What Reclaiming My Body Looked Like

Healing didn’t come all at once. It happened slowly — like peeling back layers. It began with small, intentional changes, both within and outside the operatory.

As a left-handed hygienist, I’d been working for years in a room set up for right-handed clinicians. I had never complained. I didn’t want to be difficult, and I didn’t want to inconvenience my patients. Eventually, I began to make changes: a longer handpiece cord, adjustments to the patient chair, and rearranging the layout of my workspace. I started asking patients to move their heads instead of leaning and rounding my body to accommodate. These changes made a huge difference in how I felt at the end of the day.

I began taking short breaks to drink water or stretch between patients. I implemented quick chairside stretches to counteract the physical demands of my posture. I learned to balance the repetitive movements of clinical care with intentional micro-adjustments to prevent strain on my neck, shoulders, back, and hands.

Outside of work, I focused on the bigger picture. I had years of poor posture — exacerbated by a car accident when I was 16 — and I committed to improving my mobility and rebuilding strength, especially in my core and upper back. With time, my pain decreased and my post-work recovery improved. My energy and focus returned.

Yoga became my foundation. Through breathwork, meditation, and movement, I found tools to reduce stress and regulate my nervous system. I realized that my musculoskeletal pain and my stress were deeply intertwined. The more I learned to support my body, the quieter the pain became.

What began as survival became a healing journey — a way to reclaim my health, rediscover joy in dentistry, and reconnect with myself.

Creating a New Path Forward

Dentistry takes a toll on us — physically, mentally, and emotionally. And yet so few of us are ever taught how to care for our bodies in return. We treat our patients and instruments with more awareness than we treat our own posture, breath, or boundaries.

Some schools and educators prioritize ergonomics and wellness in clinical training, but the reality is that not every student — or every clinician — receives the same foundational education. For many of us, conversations about injury, burnout, or even basic self-care don’t happen until after we’re already in pain. And by then, the damage is often done.

Ergonomics and well-being are still treated like extras in the profession — optional, supplemental, not essential. Burnout is something we respond to, not something we work to prevent. However, the way we feel in our bodies directly impacts how we present ourselves in our work and our daily lives. To create a more sustainable path in dentistry, we must shift from a reactive mindset to a proactive one.

After years of chronic and acute pain — and nearly two decades in this field — I now know three things: Pain is not inevitable. Healing is possible. Thriving in dentistry is achievable. However, it requires something that’s often overlooked in clinical training: the willingness to care for ourselves the way we care for others.