Phagophobia: How I Deal With The Fear Of Swallowing

When I look back, I realize my relationship with food was always a little strange. As a kid, I struggled to swallow certain things—sweet corn, popcorn—but I brushed it off. It wasn’t until a school biology lesson that everything changed.

We were learning about the esophagus, and the teacher casually mentioned that food could "go the wrong way." That idea, combined with a diagram showing food traveling down the throat, stuck with me. I couldn’t stop imagining it—food lodged, blocking air, choking me. At first, nothing seemed to change. But over time, I became hyperaware of swallowing, and eating started to feel like a high-stakes task.

I didn’t realize it then, but this was the beginning of phagophobia—a fear that would go on to shape so much of my life.

Phagophobia is an extreme, irrational, overwhelming and persistent fear of swallowing.

In the years that followed, swallowing felt more and more uncomfortable and ‘controlled’. I’d tense up with every bite, over-chewing my food and chasing every single bite down with water so that it went down easier. Foods that required effort—like steak or anything dry—became impossible. Meanwhile, I leaned heavily on "safe" foods: risotto, curry, and soup. Meals were no longer enjoyable; they were a performance of rituals designed to avoid a choking disaster that never came. It felt like, for some reason, swallowing was no longer an automatic process, and that felt dangerous.

I also refused to eat alone. The thought of choking without someone nearby to help terrified me. Even at restaurants or with friends, I’d twitch or tense up during meals, and people would ask if I was okay. The fear was isolating.

But things got worse—much worse—when my anxiety reached its peak.

Just before the pandemic, my world closed in. Severe anxiety left me agoraphobic, and my ability to eat nearly disappeared. Solid foods became a distant memory. I could only manage soup, and even then, only if my dad was nearby. My weight plummeted, which made me feel weaker and more anxious—a vicious cycle.

Even drinking water became terrifying. I vividly remember taking a sip and suddenly feeling like I was drowning. I panicked and spat the water everywhere, humiliated. These moments left me feeling broken, like I’d lost control of something as basic as eating.

Phagophobia, by then, wasn’t just an inconvenience—it was dictating my life.

When I finally started therapy, I focused a lot on my eating struggles. My therapist had me face my fears directly: eating a burger at McDonald’s without sauce or a drink, chugging water until I felt that dreaded "wrong way" sensation, even eating foods I’d completely avoided, like nuts. These exercises were brutal—my worst fears realized in a controlled environment. But they also showed me something important: I could survive.

That didn’t mean the journey was over. At home, I often fell back into old habits. Safety behaviors—drinking with every bite, chewing endlessly, avoiding certain foods—felt impossible to give up. I thought, "Maybe this is just something I’ll have to live with forever."

But deep down, I wasn’t ready to give up.

Moving out of my family home was a turning point. Suddenly, I had to face my fears more often. If my housemates weren’t around, I’d go hours without eating, waiting for someone to come home. But I knew I couldn’t keep living like that.

I started small. Snacking alone on the couch while watching TV helped distract me. I worked on breaking my "rules" around eating—where, how, and with whom. The first time I ate an actual meal alone, I was terrified, but the pride I felt afterward was overwhelming.

Each tiny step was a victory, and they started to add up.

One surprising help came in the form of sparkling water. I’ve always loved it, but I noticed it was easier to drink than still water. Curious, I looked it up and found that it’s actually true—sparkling water can help people with swallowing difficulties. Knowing this didn’t scare me; it fascinated me.

For a while, I relied on sparkling water, but I didn’t want to depend on another ‘crutch’ and so I knew to gradually reintroduce still water, and found that I could drink it comfortably too. It was a small win, but it reminded me how much progress I’d made.

Another key factor was exercise. Moving my body helped reduce stress and increased my hunger, which made eating feel more automatic and less intimidating. The less I thought about it, the easier it became.

Today, I deal with phagophobia much less often. At my most anxious moments, the symptoms still sometimes creep back in—I tense up, hyperfocus on swallowing, or feel tempted to fall back into old safety behaviors. But the difference now is that I don’t let it stop me. I push through, keep eating, and let the symptoms pass. Each time I do, it gets easier, and over time, I’ve noticed those moments becoming fewer and farther between.

I’m eating bigger meals, drinking water without fear, and enjoying food more than I have in years. While phagophobia still lingers during high-anxiety times, it no longer controls me. I’ve come so far, and I’m confident that with time, I’ll continue to improve.

Phagophobia is a quiet, lonely struggle that so many people face but few talk about. I’ve seen it in the responses to my videos and posts—people saying, "I thought I was the only one." If that’s you, I want you to know you’re not alone. This fear, as overwhelming as it feels, can be managed. It takes time, persistence, and patience, but it can get better.

Recently, I recorded an almost hour-long video of myself sitting and eating lunch—unedited. It was an exposure therapy exercise to continue challenging my fears, but I also wanted to show what this condition can look like. For anyone watching, I hope it serves as a source of validation and encouragement. You’re not alone in this, and you’re not broken. It’s possible to get through it, to heal, and to find freedom.

Warning, this video is literally 46 minutes of me eating, chewing noises, awkward silences and all.

If you’re dealing with phagophobia, I hope my story and video give you a little hope. The journey isn’t easy, but every small step forward is worth it. You’re stronger than you think.