The Time Capsule: My Gap-Toothed Smile

When I revisit old writing, it’s like unearthing a time capsule.

It has been a while since I last reflected on my gap-toothed smile and the little girl who thought she needed to fix it. My front gap was once large enough to fit a nickel and a dime pressed together. I know this because a childhood friend handed me a nickel to see if it would fit. When it slid in easily, she scoured her pockets, found a dime, and handed that over too. They fit, though, so snugly that when I removed my fingers, the coins stayed suspended between my teeth. After a brief spike of panic, they fell to the ground, but the memory stuck.

People noticed my gap and teased me endlessly. The name-calling reached a point where I learned to hide my face, cupping a hand over my mouth or laughing behind closed lips. As soon as I was old enough to get braces, I did.

I became the proud owner of a gapless smile.

Years later, I saw a model in a magazine boldly displaying a gap-toothed smile that looked an awful lot like the one I used to have, and I felt a sharp tinge of sadness. I had let outside voices tell me that a core part of me was broken. I wished I had believed the one teacher who had told me my smile was beautiful, because it was.

There are parts of that little girl that still exist inside me… the ones that, on hard days, still wonder if something needs repair. But as an adult, I can finally recognize that those insecurities were never truly mine. They were rooted in media images, societal trends, and the cruel commentary of people picking on things a child had no power to change.

I can’t go back and give that little girl my present-day courage, nor can I undo the braces that straightened what was never truly broken. But I can change how I treat the rest of my “imperfections.”

Owning your beauty isn’t about having a flawless smile or a sculpted body. It’s about refusing to let the world decide what belongs on your face… or anywhere else, for that matter.

We look around and see a moving target of unrealistic standards. One minute it’s pin-straight hair, airbrushed skin, and a thigh gap. The next, it’s a big-haired muscle mommy. Today, it’s Ozempic thinness, invisible pores, and effortless, “no-makeup” perfection. Because these ideals are constantly shifting, chasing them is an exhausting, impossible game.

My smile looks different today, but the warmth behind it is finally the same.