Last week, I ran through a flash rainstorm from the subway stop to my dentist’s office. After wiping water from my cheeks, nose and forehead, I checked in at the front desk, and I waited. I was there to have the very first cavities of my life filled.

When the dentist had casually told me a few weeks earlier that I had cavities, I felt a lightning-quick spasm of terror through all my appendages. I naively asked, “So, what exactly does that mean? What is a cavity?” To myself, I wondered, “How can he be so calm and matter-of-fact about this? I’ve failed myself. My previously sparkling, pure mouth will now forever be tainted with the evidence of my failure as a human: cavities.”

I could easily have cried about this news, but I resisted, thankfully. I’m pretty sure my dentist picked up on how horrified I was, but at least he didn’t witness me falling apart about it.

I’d always heard that whether or not you get cavities is more of a matter of your personal brand of tooth enamel than of how you care for your teeth. And yet, still, I was proud to say that I’d never had one. It made me somehow closer to perfect. Even if it didn’t prove that I was doing things right, at least it didn’t prove I was doing things wrong.

But now I had cavities. And as if to prove that this was my fault, I hadn’t been to the dentist in seven years. There were a lot of circumstances that had conspired to make this so, some more within my control than others: lack of dental coverage, stress about medical bills, depression, fear of going to a dentist who would maim me, and other things, too. The reasons don’t matter. But my lack of dentist visits was, I knew, my fault, and the cavities were my punishment: permanent, irreversible evidence of my failure at managing the business of being alive.

Luckily, because I’m becoming slightly more aware of my internal processes, I had an inkling that this uber-negative thinking wasn’t necessarily true, even if it felt like it was. I mustered up as much self-compassion as I could, and I reminded myself:

I was doing the best I could.

All those years I didn’t go to the dentist, I was working hard to hold my life together, sometimes by a thread. I was doing what I thought I needed to in order to get through each day. I was trying to protect myself from medical costs I couldn’t (or didn’t think I could) afford. I was truly doing my best, even if my best meant that I didn’t care for my own health as I’d like to.

This is what I try to remind myself, when I begin to criticize myself or criticize other people: I’m doing the best I can. They’re doing the best they can. (Which is not to say I succeed in stopping my pattern of criticism. I still catch myself criticizing others. And myself. Often. Attempting this is more important to me than succeeding.)

When I feel forgotten by somebody, I remember that they’re juggling life, too. And doing the best they can at it.

When I hear couples speaking to one another in a tone that makes me cringe, I remember they’re doing what they can, with the tools they have, and their tools are different than mine.

When someone responds to me differently than I’d respond in the same situation, I remember that they’re working within the confines of their own life and the rules they’ve learned. They’re doing their best.

This doesn’t mean I don’t still grumble at people on the subway and sometimes nestle into my apartment and avoid people all day on a Saturday. Or that I don’t sigh with annoyance at myself. But the reminder that we’re all doing our best introduces at least a smidgen of tenderness for others and for myself. It melts the hardness of my heart at least a bit.

. . .

In the end, last week’s dentist visit was routine, even mundane. It took only about half an hour in total. The shot of novicane that numbed my gum hurt less than an acupuncture needle. And after nearly eight years of living in New York, I have a dentist who does good work and whom I trust. Plus, I’m walking around with the knowledge that I’m taking care of my dental health, and when I return to the dentist for a cleaning in six months, I’ll still feel like that.

As always, I’m doing the best I can. And right now, the best I can do includes a few fillings in my mouth.