The House with a Locked Door: A Parent’s First Glimpse into OCD

You don’t notice it at first.

Maybe it’s the way they check the window twice before bed. Or the way they go quiet when someone uses the word “contamination” like it’s just a word. Or how they smile after asking, again, if you’re sure they didn’t hurt someone by accident when they were five.

You think: a phase, a quirk, a sensitivity.

Until one day, you see it—the look in their eyes not of rebellion, not even of sadness, but of being held hostage by something you cannot see.

And you realise: they’re not asking for reassurance.

They’re pleading for release.

You try logic. You say:

“Of course nothing bad will happen.”

“It’s just a thought.”

“You’re safe.”

But the words fall through the floor,

as though the room is not the room you thought it was.

Your child is there—but behind a door you cannot open.

This is how it begins for many parents.

Not with a label.

But with a sense of distance inside closeness.

Of watching your child play the same game—over and over—not because they enjoy it, but because something in them will not let them stop.

You wonder if you’ve done something wrong.

You wonder if it will pass.

You wonder, finally: Is this OCD?

And that is when the real work begins.

As a clinician, I’ve seen how OCD tricks a child into believing they are dangerous, or broken, or not good enough.

I’ve seen how it turns love into a battleground between reassurance and fear.

And I’ve learned that the rituals—the behaviours—are not the enemy.

They are how the child survives the fear of falling apart.

OCD is not who your child is.

It is the language of a mind trying to make itself safe.

And if you’re here—reading this—it means you’ve seen the signs.

You’ve looked into your child’s eyes and noticed the door.

You may not know what’s behind it yet.

But you’re ready to knock gently.