19 Reasons I Quit Dentistry

19 Reasons I Quit Dentistry

Hi, I’m Tiff, the ADHD Dentist. After 15 years in clinical dentistry, I walked away.

It wasn’t just the money or the pain in my back, neck, and jaw. It was the pain in my soul. It was being told I was hated before I even said hello. It was spending more time defending treatment plans than delivering care, hoping patients would see I was on their side. It was realizing that the joy of helping people had been buried under insurance battles, unrealistic expectations, and constant skepticism.

Perfection was expected. Forgiveness was optional. One mistake, and you became the villain. I feared lawsuits more than I feared failure. And worse, I no longer recognized the person in the mirror.

Boundaries? There weren’t any. “Can you squeeze me in real quick?” was code for canceling my lunch, my break, my time to breathe. Compliments came with complaints. “I love your work, but why isn’t it free?” I was apologizing for wait times, for biology, for the cost of care—things beyond my control. Calling in sick wasn’t rest; it was guilt, rescheduling chaos, and angry voicemails. I wasn’t on vacation. I was puking in the restroom.

Every night, I sat down and wanted to cry. Sometimes from exhaustion, but often from depression. Lights on. Mask on. Game face on. For someone who wears her heart on her sleeve, it became a performance I couldn’t maintain.

My compassion turned numb. And that terrified me more than burnout ever could.

I didn’t quit on my patients. I quit for myself. Because I needed to believe that was allowed. I was done with a system that celebrates burnout and shames you for breaking under its weight. I deserve to heal too, not just patch up everyone else.

Leaving didn’t mean I was weak. It meant I was finally strong enough to say, “This isn’t worth losing myself.” For years, I thought quitting meant failure, that I wasn’t tough, or grateful, or dedicated enough. But the truth is, I had to let go of the version of me that was surviving just to make space for the version that could live.

Burnout doesn’t always look like collapse. Sometimes it looks like high-functioning misery. Waking up with dread. Pretending you’re fine because everyone else seems to be. But what if they’re not fine either?

So I’ll say it first: this isn’t working. It’s okay to want more. It’s okay to rest. It’s okay to choose yourself, even if that means walking away from something that once defined you.

If you’re standing on the edge, questioning everything, I want you to know:
You’re not broken.
You’re waking up.
And this isn’t the end.
It’s the beginning.

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