The Wisdom of the Wisdom Teeth

Sometimes it takes pain, fragility, and stillness to remember what truly nourishes us.

It’s a strange thing, isn’t it, how the body knows exactly how to bring us to our knees. One moment, we are busy, grinding, striving, moving through life with our routines and ambitions. And then, almost out of nowhere, the body bends, the body breaks. A tooth pulled, an illness caught, a muscle strained, and suddenly, we are reminded of our fragility.

It’s in these moments of weakness that life whispers its louder truths. Pain makes us stop. Swelling makes us notice. And the ache makes us ask: What really nourishes me? What truly feeds me? What allows me to grow?

If you are anything like me, these moments of surrender sharpen the senses. The ears prick up, the hairs stand tall, the breath slows, and the body, despite its wounds, becomes a teacher. Wisdom often doesn’t arrive when we are strong and invincible, but when we are cracked open and tender.

And perhaps this is the hidden lesson of self-care. We think of self-care as something we sprinkle on top of life: a bath, a face mask, a candle lit at the end of a long week. However, when the body is aching, self-care is no longer optional; it becomes a matter of survival. It’s the broth simmering on the stove when solid food is too much. It’s the hand on your own heart when you feel raw and small. It’s the humility of asking for help, letting someone else carry a bag, cook a meal, hold space.

We all long for a life that feels alive, fun, adventurous, creative, full of colour and texture. But when self-care is missing, when our nervous system is overstimulated and our bodies are running on fumes, the newness we crave can’t find its way in. Overwhelm builds up like a wall. Buried emotion sits heavy like stones. We forget how beautiful life is because we’re simply trying to survive it.

I write from a place of lived experience when self-care wasn’t even in my vocabulary. It wasn’t that I didn’t want to care for myself; it was that I didn’t know how. What appeared to be control from the outside was, in reality, a slow dissociation. I drifted further from my body and, with it, further from the world. Food became numbers. Movement became punishment. Beauty became a standard I could never live up to. Life dulled into grayscale.

The moment we wake up to this disconnection is often quiet. Sometimes it’s after an operation, a sickness, a heartbreak, or a tooth pulled that forces us to stop. Sometimes it’s just a flicker of a sunrise, a piece of music, a friend’s laughter that pierces through the fog. That’s the moment the body begins to whisper: Come back. There is still life here.

And from that whisper, the return begins. The slow re-learning of care. The first small acts of gentleness. The first meals were eaten for nourishment rather than control. The first breaths taken with curiosity instead of dread. The nervous system, once constantly on edge, starts to relax. The world, once muted, begins to bloom again.

Self-care, I’ve learned, is not about denying ourselves adventure or creativity; it’s the soil that allows them to grow. When we are nourished, rested, and grounded, newness can find us. We can take risks, try things, meet people, love deeply, travel widely, not to escape, but to expand.

Perhaps this is the wisdom of wisdom teeth: that pain is an invitation to soften, to listen, and to nourish. To let the body remind us of what truly matters. To surrender not in defeat, but in reverence for the fragility that makes us tender, and for the healing that grows from that tenderness.

Because when we tend to ourselves, when we listen and care, life doesn’t just return: it bursts back open in colour, texture, adventure, creativity, joy. And we remember, once again, how beautiful it is to be alive.

When has your body asked you to stop, to soften, or to listen more closely? Share your story in the comments — I’d love to hear.

With reverence

Willow