As a Mom with OCD, I Worry About My Kids

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It’s well past 8 p.m., and my little guy should be tucked in for the night. Tonight is one of those rare occasions when his dad is home, and I should be relishing a bedtime free from the usual toddler antics, especially since his baby sister is already sound asleep. But, of course, things take a turn. For the last 40 minutes, my son has been throwing a fit, screaming and flailing, trying to avoid bedtime while his dad tries everything—begging, coaxing, redirecting, you name it. This routine is all too familiar.

Finally, the house falls silent, and I feel a wave of relief at my husband’s apparent victory. But then, from the top of the stairs, I hear the unmistakable sound of the baby gate swinging open followed by my son calling out, “Mommy?” My heart sinks. Any moment now, I expect to see my husband gently guiding our son back to bed. Instead, I hear it again, more urgently, “MOMMY?” So, I rush toward him.

There he is, standing at the top of the stairs, navigating down the first step, then the second, all alone. His little hand is gripping the wall for support, and he looks sweaty and shaky from all the fussing. My heart races—he never goes down the stairs without one of us in front of him. Panic sets in, I yell for my husband and plead with my son, “Sweetie, wait! Just hold on!”

In a flash, my husband swoops in and scoops him up. The bedroom door clicks shut. He’s safe. But in my mind, he isn’t. All night long, intrusive thoughts of my precious boy tumbling down the stairs and facing a terrible fate play on an endless loop. I shake my head to dispel the images, but they keep coming back, relentless. To cope, I find myself hitting my temple repeatedly—a ritual I’ve had since childhood whenever I’m overwhelmed by fear. It doesn’t help, but I do it anyway, hoping to reset my mind, only to be met with a wave of nausea as the images return.

Of course, this ritual ruins the peaceful night my husband envisioned. As we sit on the couch watching our favorite show, I’m in turmoil, cursing, feeling sick, and hitting my head. I can sense my husband stiffening beside me, unsure of how to comfort me. He’s lost.

I’ve dealt with obsessive-compulsive disorder for most of my life. Before becoming a mom, my obsessions revolved around my own mortality. But now, my love for my children has made my OCD even more intense. I can’t cook without worrying I might accidentally harm them, so I often avoid it altogether. Every day when my son leaves for daycare with his dad, I have to perform certain rituals—both silent and spoken—or I’m overwhelmed with the fear that something terrible might happen to them.

If I put down my daughter while she’s crying and she manages to calm herself, I feel compelled to wake her up since I’ve already started to mourn her. When I find a clogged duct while nursing and start to massage it out, I do so with such force, convinced it’s cancer, that I injure myself. Even after appointments with specialists, I find no comfort in knowing it’s benign. My nights are spent rubbing the area obsessively until it feels smooth again. Joy is often replaced by anxiety as I hear my inner voice taunting me: “You won’t be around much longer. Your kids will resent you.”

This has been my reality for years, and even on my better days, my OCD finds a way to creep back in. It’s a part of me that I despise. I fight it, I struggle, but I can’t escape it.

Before my children came into the world, I worried about the possibility of passing on this mental illness. Now that they’re here, my love for them is profound, yet the fear of them inheriting my OCD weighs heavily on my heart. How do I love my children while also grappling with this disorder? Does loving them mean accepting their mental illness, or can I continue to fight against it? If I can’t embrace this part of them, does that mean my love isn’t truly unconditional? If I resent their OCD, am I failing as a parent? How can I escape this burden if it takes root in my children, and how do I show them the right way to cope when I’m still searching for my own answers?

I don’t have all the answers. For now, I’m thankful my son didn’t fall down the stairs tonight, and I’ll leave it at that.

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Summary: A mother’s experience with OCD deeply affects her parenting as she grapples with fears for her children’s safety and struggles to manage her mental health while navigating love and concern for her kids.