A Small Practice for When It Matters

What's on my mind?

I’ve been brushing my teeth differently for a few years.

Not because I’m optimizing dental health. Not because I found some secret dentist trick that changes your life.

Because I’m practicing something else.

It started after I read about the brain’s ability to adapt—to form new connections, to stay flexible, to learn. I wasn’t looking for one more thing to add to my day. I was looking for a way to build change into the life I already had.

So I tried brushing with my non-dominant hand.

If you’ve never tried it, it’s humbling. Your hand feels clumsy. Your brain feels confused. It takes longer than it should. And for a few days, it makes you wonder why you’d do something so inconvenient when you’re standing there half awake, staring at yourself in the mirror.

But it got easier.

That part mattered to me. Not because I care deeply about becoming an ambidextrous tooth brusher, but because it reminded me of something I don’t want to forget: we can learn new things. We can adapt. We can change.

So I kept going. And eventually I took it one step further.

Now I start on a different tooth every time I brush.

Again—this is not a recommendation. I’m not trying to start a movement. It just became my own little experiment.

Because when you start on a different tooth every time, you can’t go on autopilot.

You have to pay attention.

Your brain has to do a tiny bit of work. You have to stay present long enough to remember where you started, where you’ve been, and where you’re going next. It disrupts the well-worn groove. It forces a new path, even if the “new path” is something as unglamorous as enamel and fluoride.

On paper, it’s ridiculous.

In real life, it’s become a practice.

A practice of staying awake.
A practice of staying teachable.
A practice of staying changeable.

And I think that’s what I’ve been craving lately—evidence that I’m still capable of building new paths.

Not just in my morning routine, but in my life.

Because it’s easy to get stuck.

It’s easy to fall into the same patterns, the same reflexes, the same loops. To scroll the same apps. To react the same way. To take the same roads—literal and emotional—until they become ruts so deep you can’t imagine driving anywhere else.

My phone and every app on it want me to stare into a screen without regard for time, attention, or my own well-being. That’s not a conspiracy. It’s just the business model. The longer I stay, the more someone gets paid.

And I can feel what that kind of repetition does, not just to my attention span, but to my spirit. The slow hardening. The narrowing. The way life can quietly become predictable.

So I’ve been looking for small ways to push back.

Small ways to practice change before life forces it.

Small ways to remind myself: I’m not done learning.

There’s another layer to this too—one that’s less poetic and more personal.

I’m aware that I’m aging.

I don’t have a family history of Alzheimer’s or Parkinson’s, but I do live in the same modern environment as everyone else. Chemicals. Stress. Poor sleep. Convenience food. Endless stimulation. The things we casually accept because they’re normal.

I don’t live in a bubble, and I’m not trying to. But I do care about the quality of my life as I get older. Not just living longer—living better. Staying clear. Staying connected. Staying myself.

So yes, a part of me likes the idea that these tiny disruptions might help keep my brain more flexible, more alive, more capable of building new connections.

But if I’m honest, that’s not the main reason I’m thinking about this today.

The main reason is that I’ve been feeling something lately that I recognize… and that I’m trying to relate to differently than I used to.

Nervous energy.

The kind that shows up when things start to move.

The kind that whispers, What if this actually works?

Last week I found myself getting conscious and nervous about Iowa Worm Farm.

Spring sales haven’t fully kicked into high gear yet. I can feel the calm before the “storm”… except there’s no storm. And that’s my nervous button.

Because a part of me has always relied on the storm.

Not because I love stress, but because stress is familiar. It’s predictable in its own way. It gives me something to react to. It gives me a reason to be in motion.

When things are quiet, my mind starts filling in the gaps.

What if the storm never comes?
What if I’m building something no one actually wants?
What if I’m calling people and raising awareness and sharing this story… and it just doesn’t take?

And then—almost in the same breath—I feel the other fear.

The one that has followed me for most of my life.

What if it does take?

This is a weird thing to admit out loud, but it’s true: I’ve had thousands of ideas in my lifetime. And not all of them were good ideas… but some of them were.

I can see good ideas. I can feel when something has potential. I can even foreshadow what success might look like.

What I can’t always see is the uncertainty that comes with it.

The problems I don’t know are coming.
The responsibilities I can’t predict.
The way success changes your life in ways you didn’t plan for.

That lack of control has scared me from starting.

I’ve avoided ideas not because I thought they would fail, but because I worried they would succeed—and I wouldn’t know how to hold what came next.

That might sound backwards, but I know I’m not alone in it. Sometimes success is the scarier door because you can’t pretend you don’t want it.

And right now, with Iowa Worm Farm, I’m doing something new.

I’m calling people anyway.
I’m raising awareness anyway.
I’m stepping forward anyway.

Not because I feel perfectly ready. Not because I feel in control. But because I’m trying to prove to myself that I can.

I think that’s what I’m practicing when I start on a different tooth.

I’m practicing disruption in the smallest ways so I can do it when it matters.

I’m practicing being uncomfortable on purpose—without letting discomfort mean I’m in danger.

I’m practicing staying open.

I stood with my nephew recently.

He made a big move. A brave move. One that I didn’t have the guts to make at his age.

I tried to tell him how proud I was. I tried to tell him I thought what he did was incredibly courageous.

I’m not sure I said it in a way that landed.

But what I meant was this: taking a chance is brave. It takes guts to step into the unknown before you have guarantees. It takes guts to choose growth when it would be easier to stay where you are.

And watching him made something click in me.

I want that kind of bravery too.

Not the dramatic version—the social media highlight reel version.

The real version.

The version where you’re scared and you do it anyway.
The version where you don’t have the full map and you take the next step.
The version where you don’t pretend fear isn’t there—you just stop letting it drive.

Because here’s the thing I’ve been learning (and re-learning) in therapy for years:

I trained myself to believe that only pain produced good things.

Yes. You heard that.

Somewhere along the way, my nervous system learned: if it hurts, it must be working. If it’s hard, it must be right. If I’m uncomfortable, I’m safe—because discomfort is what I know.

So I spent years fighting myself. Pushing through. Staying in pain. Choosing the hard thing not because it was wise, but because it was familiar.

Breaking patterns became my identity.

And eventually I had to face the shadow side of that: sometimes my “growth” was just another form of self-punishment.

Sometimes my relentless discomfort was a way to prove I was worthy.

And sometimes—when things got calm, when things started to go well—my body and mind would pump the brakes.

Not because I was lazy. Not because I didn’t care. But because calm didn’t feel safe.

That’s a wild thing to discover about yourself.

And it’s also… freeing.

Because it means I don’t have to treat fear like an enemy.

I can treat it like information.

I can listen to it.
I can understand what it’s trying to protect.
I can give it the weight it deserves—without handing it the steering wheel.

I want to act from a place of love instead of fear.

Not love like a motivational poster. Love like a grounded choice.

Love as in: I care about my life, and my family, and what I’m building, enough to show up with an open heart.
Love as in: I’m willing to be wrong, willing to learn, willing to change.
Love as in: I can hold fear with compassion and still take the next right step.

So I’ll keep starting on a different tooth.

Not because I think it will save me from everything.
Not because I’m trying to control the future.
But because it reminds me, every morning, that I still can choose a new path.

Even a tiny one.

And maybe that’s the point.

Maybe the goal isn’t to eliminate fear.
Maybe the goal is to keep proving—gently, repeatedly—that fear doesn’t get to decide the shape of our lives.

What’s one small thing you could do differently—just to prove to yourself you still can?