Scared of the Doctor? Why Some Fears Take Time to Overcome

Some parenting challenges take time. A lot of time. And that’s okay. Helping kids navigate fear and anxiety is a journey, not a sprint. 

For the past four years, my daughter, Gwen, has struggled with intense fear and anxiety at the doctor’s office. I’m talking full-blown meltdowns—screaming, flailing, or completely shutting down. Try convincing a three-year-old to open her mouth when she really doesn’t want to! 

But now, at five years old, she walks into appointments with confidence. Not just because she developmentally grew out of it, but because we worked through it—slowly, intentionally, and with a whole lot of patience. If you’ve ever wondered why some challenges feel like they take forever to improve, or if you’re in the thick of one yourself, this story is for you.

The Backstory: Gwen's Doctor Visit Dread

Gwen has always been a sweet, easy, eager-to-please child. But from the tender age of one, doctor's appointments were her personal nightmare. The moment we stepped into the clinic, she'd either erupt into screams, tears, and flailing limbs or shut down completely, becoming as still as a statue. Try convincing a three-year-old to open her mouth for an exam when she's in full meltdown mode—it's like negotiating with a tiny, very stubborn diplomat.

Fast forward to today: Gwen is five, and we've been working on this for four years. The good news? She's now a pro at handling doctor and dentist visits. But, it certainly took time, and lots of baby steps. Here's how we got from point A to point B.

1. Staying Calm Amidst the Storm

In the heat of Gwen's meltdowns, I made it my mission to be the calm in her storm. I didn't apologize to the medical staff for her behavior—after all, she wasn't doing anything wrong. This was honestly hard because I was embarrassed! Her pediatrician is one of my biggest referrers to my private practice, and, a big supporter of Mind & Child. My picture is literally on a poster on the wall advertising my parenting expertise! All while my child is the one shrilling screaming. But, here’s the thing: Apologizing or making excuses “My boys never did this, it must be because she’s a Covid baby!") would only drain everyone's energy. Instead, I focused on staying calm, reassuring her she was safe, and handling the situation at hand.

2. Embracing the Power of Baby Steps

    

We tackled this challenge one tiny step at a time. First, it was standing on the scale by herself. Next, opening her mouth for the doctor. The last step was having a back-and-forth conversation about the doctor. Each visit had its own small goal, making the process less overwhelming for both of us.

3. Strategic Damage Control

I became a master strategist. If a throat swab was on the agenda, I requested it be done after the doctor had examined her throat. The logic? Ensuring that any potentially distressing procedures didn't sabotage our hard-earned progress.

When Gwen couldn't meet a goal, I didn’t make an excuse, but I reinforced my belief in her abilities: "I know you can open your mouth for the doctor. It's important so they can help you feel better. If you're not ready today, that's okay. We'll try again next time." This approach kept the pressure off and the encouragement on.

4. The Real Work Happens Between Visits

We didn't just wait for the next appointment to address her fears. Between and before visits, we prepared for doctors visits. We read "Bea Gets a Checkup" from Lovevery, watched the episodes of "Daniel Tiger" where he visits the doctor, and our toy doctor kit became a household staple.

Although this was important, I realized that there were other skills the Gwen needed to build up, in order to master her anxiety at the doctor’s office. Here are some other things we consistently worked on:

5. Building an Emotional Vocabulary

One of the biggest challenges for young kids—especially those struggling with fear or anxiety—is that they often don’t have the words to express what they’re feeling. Instead of saying, "I'm scared of the doctor because I don’t know what’s going to happen," they might scream, cry, or shut down completely. That was exactly what was happening with Gwen.

So, I became her emotional translator. When she seemed overwhelmed, I named her feelings for her: "You seem upset right now," or "I wonder if you're afraid you won’t like it if we remove the tag from your dress?" This helped in two ways: First, it showed her that I understood what she was going through, which made her feel safe. Second, it gave her the language to start recognizing and expressing those feelings herself.

At first, she didn’t repeat the words back to me. And that’s normal! Emotional vocabulary isn’t something kids pick up instantly—it’s something they absorb over time, like learning a new language. But the more I labeled emotions for her, the more I noticed subtle changes. She started pointing out emotions in books and shows: “That kid looks mad!” She began recognizing feelings in herself: “I feel scared I’m going to get poked by a cactus on that hike.” And eventually, she started communicating her emotions before they turned into full meltdowns.

This shift was a total game-changer. Instead of shutting down, Gwen learned to express what was wrong, which meant we could actually help her through it. When she told me, "I'm scared the doctor will hurt me," we could talk about it: "I get why you'd feel that way. Most of the time, doctors just check to make sure you’re healthy. But if they ever need to do something that might feel uncomfortable, they'll tell you first, and I’ll be right there with you."

Teaching kids to name their emotions isn’t just about avoiding meltdowns—it’s about empowering them to communicate, advocate for themselves, and feel understood. And once they feel understood, the fear loses some of its power.

6. Reinforcing Her Ability to Tackle Challenges

One of the most powerful things we can teach our kids is that they can do hard things. But here’s the tricky part: when a challenge pops up—whether it’s a fallen block tower, a tricky zipper, or a nerve-wracking doctor’s visit—it’s tempting to swoop in and fix it for them. I had to consciously remind myself that struggle isn’t a bad thing. In fact, it’s a necessary part of growth.

So, I started small. During playtime, when Gwen’s block tower toppled over, instead of rushing to rebuild it, I’d pause and say, "Oh man, that’s frustrating. Building can be tough, but you’ve done hard things before!" If she got stuck while putting on her shoes, I’d resist the urge to do it for her and instead say, “That shoe is tricky, huh? But you’ve figured out tricky things before. Try again—I’ll help if you need me.”

At first, she’d huff in frustration or look to me to fix it. But little by little, I saw something amazing happen. She started talking to herself the way I had been talking to her. When her tower fell, she’d take a deep breath and say, “That’s okay. I can do this.”

This self-talk became her inner cheerleader. And that inner voice—the one that says, “I can do hard things”—is exactly what kids need when they face bigger challenges. It’s what gives them the confidence to try new things, to keep going when something feels difficult, and eventually, to walk into a doctor’s office without shutting down.

I also made a point to notice and reinforce her perseverance in everyday moments:

"Wow, you kept trying even when that puzzle piece didn’t fit right away!"

"I saw you take a deep breath when you got frustrated. That was so smart!"

"You were feeling nervous, but you did it anyway—that’s real bravery!"

By consistently reminding Gwen that she could work through challenges, she started to believe it herself. And when it came time to face the biggest challenge—staying calm at the doctor—she had already built the confidence to say, “I can do this.”

7. Celebrating Bravery Amidst Fear

For a long time, Gwen saw fear as something that meant stop immediately, avoid, don’t do it. And that makes sense—fear is our brain’s way of keeping us safe. But some fears, like loud noises, unfamiliar situations, or doctor’s visits, weren’t actually dangerous. She needed to learn that bravery isn’t about not being scared—it’s about feeling scared and doing the hard thing anyway.

So, we started talking about bravery in everyday moments. If a loud plane flew overhead and startled her, instead of dismissing her fear ("Oh, it’s just a plane, don’t be scared!"), I acknowledged it: "That noise scared you a bit. Loud sounds can be surprising!" But I also reminded her of her bravery: "It’s okay to feel scared, and we can still be brave and keep playing outside because we’re safe."

I made a point to catch her being brave and name it for her:

When she walked past a barking dog without freezing: "That was brave! You were a little unsure, but you kept going."

When she agreed to climb higher on the playground than usual: "I saw you thinking about it, and even though you weren’t sure, you tried! That’s what brave looks like."

When she agreed to let the doctor listen to her heartbeat: "Wow, that was a little scary, and you still did it. That’s really brave!"

Over time, she started using the language herself. One day, we were watching a movie that had a brief, surprising part that scared her (If you’ve seen the Disney movie “Eight Below” you may have also been traumatized by a leopard seal…). She initially hid under a blanket. I told her it was fine to look away, but she said to herself, “No, I can do this. I’m brave,” put down the blanket, and kept watching the movie with us!

By consistently reinforcing that fear and bravery can exist together, Gwen learned that being scared doesn’t have to stop her from trying. And that is the skill that carried her through her toughest challenge—facing her fears at the doctor’s office.

8. Encouraging Open Communication

There was a time when Gwen got a cut at school and didn’t discuss it with her teachers. Instead, she kept it to herself all day. They could tell something was upsetting her, but, instead of talking to them about it, she insisted she only wanted to talk to me about it when she got home. When I picked her up, and her teachers told me that something had been bothering her all day, she showed me her cut foot, shrugged, and said, “I just wanted to tell you.”

This led to a heart-to-heart about why it’s important to communicate when something is wrong—not just with me, but with other trusted adults, too. We talked about how her teachers, just like me, are there to help her, and if she’s hurt or feeling unwell, they want to know so they can take care of her. From there, we made the connection to doctors—how they aren’t scary strangers, but part of that circle of trust.

I reassured her: “If something is wrong, I will always want to know. But if I’m not there, it’s just as important to tell another safe grown-up so they can help you right away.” We even practiced little scripts she could say to her teachers: “Excuse me, my foot is bleeding,” or “I need a Band-Aid.” Small steps, but huge in building her confidence to advocate for herself.

Over time, I noticed a shift. She started speaking up more—not just about injuries, but about worries, needs, and feelings. And when the time came to visit the doctor, she was able to talk about what was bothering her, rather than shutting down. That skill—communicating with others when something isn’t right—is one she’ll carry with her far beyond childhood.

Progress Takes Time

Reflecting on our journey, I realize that four years ago, the idea of a tear-free doctor's visit felt impossible. Back then, Gwen’s fear was so overwhelming that even stepping on the scale or opening her mouth felt like insurmountable challenges. And now? She walks into appointments with confidence. Not because she suddenly grew out of her fear, but because we worked through it—slowly, intentionally, and with so much patience.

But here’s the thing: this wasn’t just about the doctor’s office. Her struggles with medical visits were tangled up with other developmental pieces that needed time to fall into place. She needed to build an emotional vocabulary so she could express what was wrong. She needed to strengthen her self-talk so she could reassure herself when things felt hard. She needed to learn that fear and bravery can exist together, that she can ask other safe adults for help, and that she’s capable of facing challenges—even when they feel scary.

All of those skills take time. And that’s okay.

As parents, it’s easy to feel like we need to fix everything right away. If our child is struggling, we want solutions. Now. But some challenges—especially those tied to development—aren’t things we can rush. It’s not about forcing them to “just do it,” but about giving them the tools, support, and confidence to eventually get there in their own time.

So if you're in the thick of it—if your child is terrified of haircuts, refuses to speak to new people, or struggles with transitions—know this: Progress isn’t linear. Some skills take longer to develop, and that doesn’t mean you’re doing anything wrong. The key is to meet your child where they are, focus on small wins, and trust that with time, they will get there.

And when they do—when you suddenly realize they just did the thing that once felt impossible—it will be so, so worth it.

Hang in there, parents. Progress takes time, but you're on the right path.

Dr. Erin