Who the Heck Names a Grief Book after Dental Hygiene?

I did. And here's why.

A couple weeks ago, I shared a post called How Did I Get Here? I talked about how my book First, Brush Your Teeth—Grief and Hope in Real Time came to be. I ended with this question:

Where in the world did the title
First, Brush Your Teeth come from?

You can click on the question to read How Did I Get Here? Or, in case you’re approaching your quota of written word consumption for today, here is the nutshell version. I wrote every single day for an entire year after losing my son Chandler to traumatic brain injury on January 1, 2019. That collection of writings became a book.

My year of writing was sometimes cathartic, sometimes grueling, and always fueled by my love for Chandler and a desire to honor his own aspiration to become a writer. So when the time came to attach a title to my heart and soul poured out on paper, you’d think I’d come up with something deep. Something, let’s just dream big here, bordering on profound. Nope.

When faced with the challenge of naming my humble attempt at communicating what words can never fully capture, I asked myself, “How can I distill my first year living without Chandler into a singular title?”

It actually wasn’t hard to land on First, Brush Your Teeth.

Looking back at the hardest seasons of my life, some that I would deem (with no hint of melodrama) as devastating, I recognize a common thread. When everything felt like just way too much, when what lay ahead of me overwhelmed me to paralysis, I zoomed in on the path just in front of me and took the next small step.

Without intention or formality, I developed a philosophy for navigating hard seasons. When it feels like too much to ask your hurting, grieving, overwhelmed mind and heart and body to scale the mountain ahead, embrace the power of the next small step…

First, brush your teeth.

I’m not talking in metaphor here. I’m talking literally. Just get up and brush your freaking teeth. As I wrote in my book…

Anyone who has lost a loved one knows the first days and weeks are disorienting. I don’t want to get out of bed. And if I do get out of bed, what for? What’s next? I thought if I would just drag myself out of bed and brush my teeth, I might make it downstairs. And if I made it downstairs, I would maybe get a bite to eat. And if I ate something, I could possibly feel up to getting dressed. But first, just brush your teeth.

Maybe your first step is—comb your hair, make your bed, brew your coffee, or grab your journal. Maybe today your next small step is to sit down on your couch and simply feel all the feelings with a box of tissues in your lap.

What I’ve learned is that each sacred small step is a building block, laying a foundation of resilience. Do not underestimate the power of the next small step.

And that, my friends, is how every dentist’s admonition became the title for a book about losing Chandler.

Lest book shoppers in search of tooth care tips pick up my book only to be sorely disappointed at its contents, I added the subtitle — Grief and Hope in Real Time. I think that’s a fair tip-off.

What does Grief and Hope in Real Time even mean, you ask? I’ll unpack that next time.