What It’s Really Like to Be a Mom with Emetophobia

Carrie Fick
Apr 10
3 min read

🤢 Trigger Warning for Fellow Emetophobes: This post contains references to vomiting (no graphic descriptions, I promise), parenthood, anxiety, and the general chaos of stomach-related trauma. Read with care, skip if you need. You’re still a rockstar. 💛

The fear is real, the wipes are stocked, and no, I will not be attending your kid’s birthday party.

Let’s just start here: if you’re a mom with emetophobia, you are not alone. I know we feel alone—mainly because we’ve canceled every event that involves other humans or potential germs. But we’re out here. Quietly scanning our kids’ faces for signs of gastrointestinal betrayal. Sniffing the air like bloodhounds when someone coughs. Googling “is burping a symptom of norovirus?” at 1 a.m. with one eye open.

Emetophobia, in case you’re new here, is the intense fear of vomiting. Yours, someone else’s, your kid’s, your dog’s—it doesn’t matter. It’s not about being grossed out. It’s a full-on panic response. Fight, flight, freeze—and in our case, Clorox wipe.

Motherhood + Emetophobia = A Spicy Little Cocktail of Terror

Listen, parenting is hard enough when you're just regular anxious. But parenting when you're terrified of puke? That's a whole different level. It’s basically extreme sport parenting.

Your toddler says, “My tummy feels weird,” and suddenly you’re mentally canceling the entire week. You start sweating. Your throat closes up. You consider burning the couch just to be safe.

And don’t even get me started on school season. I call it “The Purge.” Someone in the class gets sick and boom—you’re spiraling, bleach-wiping every surface, and wondering if you should start homeschooling from inside a hazmat bubble.

The Emotional Load No One Sees

The thing about emetophobia is it’s invisible. To others, it looks like you’re being uptight or overly dramatic. Like you’re “just overprotective.” But behind that hand sanitizer is a heart racing at 120 bpm and a brain already imagining 17 different puke scenarios in vivid, 4K detail.

You feel guilty. You want to be the mom who can hold your kid’s hair back and whisper, “It’s okay, I’ve got you.” But when the moment hits, you freeze. Or run. Or mentally shut down. And then the shame rolls in. Because you do love your kid fiercely. You’re just terrified.

What Helps (and What Definitely Doesn’t)

Let me save you some time:

Unhelpful things people say:

“It’s just part of being a parent.”
“You’ll get used to it.”
“Exposure therapy! Just face it!”
“Everyone throws up sometimes, it’s no big deal.”

Please stop. I love you, but no.

What actually helps:

Naming the fear. Saying “I have emetophobia” out loud can feel scary, but it’s powerful.
Therapy that’s gentle and trauma-informed. (Looking at you, BWRT, and other magical methods that don’t involve buckets.)
Finding your people. Other emetophobe moms who get it. Who know the difference between “nauseous” and “nauseated.” Who don’t judge you for dodging family dinners in flu season.
Having a plan. Emergency buckets, comfort kits, aromatherapy, grounding techniques—tools make a difference.

The Good News? Healing is Possible.

I know it doesn’t feel like it, especially when you’re three hours into a Google rabbit hole about rotavirus and your kid just sneezed twice in a row. But I swear to you—it can get better.

I used to live in a constant state of dread. I avoided everything. But healing doesn’t mean never feeling fear again—it means the fear doesn’t run the show anymore. It means you get to have a life. Laugh at the chaos. Cuddle your sick kid without falling apart. (Okay, maybe still with gloves, but hey—progress.)

Final Thought: You’re Not Broken. You’re Just a Mom With a Very Specific Alarm System.

And that alarm system? It was built to protect you. It’s just a little extra. You’re still a good mom. A fierce, loving, wildly capable mom. You just happen to hate puke with every cell in your body. That’s valid.

You’re not failing. You’re fighting a battle most people don’t even know exists. And you’re doing it with grace, grit, and probably a fanny pack full of peppermint oil, dramamine, hand sanitizer, and Lysol.

We’re in this together, mama. Keep breathing. Keep laughing when you can. And when in doubt—Purell that sh*t.