New steps, real stories.

They say the worst part is the waiting—but honestly, the aftermath had its own drama. I was awake the whole time, just floating in a fog of anesthesia-induced numbness while the dentist tugged and pulled like they were trying to uproot a stubborn tree. Eventually, it was over. No applause, no confetti—just gauze and instructions. If you haven’t read the part one, read it here

Day One: The Silent Chew I couldn’t chew. Not even a little. For the first 24 hours, my mouth was on lockdown. No solid food, no sneaky snacks. Just liquids and soft whispers of hunger.

Soft Life, Literally as for the next two days were a soft-food-only zone. Think mashed potatoes, yoghurt, and anything that didn’t require jaw gymnastics. I became a connoisseur of mush. Salt Water Symphony Then came the rinse routine. Warm salt water—eight times a day. One when I woke up, before and after every meal, and one before bed. It felt like a ritual, like I was baptising my mouth repeatedly in hopes of redemption.

The Chew Comeback: after two weeks, I finally got the green light to chew on the extraction side. It felt like reclaiming territory. A small victory, but a sweet one.

Through the swelling, the rinsing, and the soft-food saga, I kept brushing—morning and night. That habit stuck, and honestly, it’s one of the few things that made me feel normal again.

Recovery wasn’t glamorous. It was salt water, soft food, and silent victories. But somewhere between the rinses and the routines, I found a deeper kind of beauty—the kind that comes from showing up for yourself, even when it hurts. My smile may have been stitched back together, but the strength behind it? That’s all mine.