Low Demand Blood Draws: A Guide for Sensitive Kids

We did it.

After two years of putting it off, and then nine months of tiny steps, careful planning, and a lot of listening, my daughter got a blood draw — without panic, without meltdown, and most importantly, with her full sense of agency intact.

This wasn’t magic. It wasn’t bravery. It was preparation. Nervous system preparation. Emotional preparation. Sensory preparation. Relational preparation.

And while every child is different, I want to share what worked for us — in case your child, like mine, needs something more thoughtful, more patient, and more connected than the typical “just be brave and get it over with” approach.

Start with Letting It Go

This is the promise I have made with my children: I will not force you. Either we do it together, or we don’t do it. So she knew I would not use my power over her; I wouldn’t trick her or lie to her; I wouldn’t pick her up and carry her there against her will; I wouldn’t put pressure on her or tell her it simply had to happen or tell her I was disappointed in her. I wouldn’t bribe her or punish her to gain her acquiescence. 

Without those tools, what is left? Either letting it go or pressing into genuine trust and collaboration.

For years, genuine collaboration wasn’t on the table. She wouldn’t or couldn’t talk to me about it. We didn’t have enough stability to jointly problem-solve. We had orders from our doctor to have the blood draw done at our local children’s hospital, but when I even voiced a curious question, I saw instant panic and shut down. Was the blood draw medically necessary for her treatment? Yes, it really was. We couldn’t truly figure out why she was having so many complex medical symptoms and behavioral challenges without the blood draw. Did letting this go mean facing years of unexplained struggle? Yes, it really did. 

But we were not stuck. We continued to pursue symptom relief with our psychiatrist and lifestyle improvements that were accessible to my daughter. We built trusting connection and brought in nourishing relationships with therapists who could meet her where she was. We were medically stuck, but we weren’t relationally stuck. We slowly made investments in our bond of trusting connection and trusted that one day, this would become accessible. And it took longer than I hoped, but it happened.

Then Understand What Scares Them

Eventually I found a functional medicine practice that opened possibilities for collaboration that I didn’t have at our local children’s hospital. I could advocate and prepare. I had conversation partners who were curious and ready to listen. I worked with a provider who was able to build trust with my daughter before insisting on a blood draw. We took small steps with the practice, and then one day, we brought up a blood draw in front of her – and she didn’t visibly flinch. No panic attack. Nervous system capacity had clearly expanded. I could see it before my eyes. 

In low demand land, we have two categories – “hard” (meaning: tricky but doable, with accommodations), and “too hard” (beyond the window of tolerance in panic-land). Blood draws had been obviously “too hard” for months, years. But I could see the capacity for it to move into “hard” opening up.

When something is “hard,” we know it is challenging but doable, under certain circumstances. So my role as the parent is to understand the worst parts of this for my kid, so I can either drop demands or increase accommodations until it fits within her window of tolerance. In other words, my role is to figure out how to make it doable.

SO: before we even talked about the concrete plans for the blood draw, I asked with gentle curiosity: What makes this feel so hard? What’s the worst part for you?

For my daughter, it wasn’t just fear of pain — it was fear of the unknown, of being rushed, of people talking too much, of fluorescent lights, of being out of control.

That gave us a roadmap. If fear was the barrier, then real safety had to be the bridge. I couldn’t just tell her she was safe. I needed to work with her until she felt that it was safe. 

So We Practiced

First, I went and had my blood drawn at this office, so I knew exactly what to expect. Having gone through it myself, I could walk through the steps in my mind and discuss them with my daughter, paying attention to her stress levels throughout. She didn’t need to verbalize when something was scary to her– I could see it in her body.

I brought home the little rubber tourniquet they used in the office (if your child hates this part, there are adaptive tourniquets as well that are softer on the skin! See: Tournikidz or Nylon Tourniquet). I put it on her arm. We used the tools (listed below) to see what she loved, and what helped. I poked her with a sharp pen to simulate the shot. We talked about distraction techniques and how the brain registers pain differently depending on how scared we are! We noticed how much a papercut and a stubbed toe hurt, but we don’t live in fear of those things happening. We talked about skinned knees and how they take days to heal. We compared to a pinch or a one-time poke, and how quickly the pain resolves.

After a few rounds of practicing, my daughter was bored and confident. “I got this. I am not scared. I want to do it right now,” she declared. It took 5 days to schedule the appointment, but the confidence and readiness was remarkable to witness. 

It took two years of relationship building between us, 9 months of prep with her medical team, and about 30 minutes of direct conversation. 

In the end, she told me that this practice was what helped the most. Her biggest fear was the unknown, and our practice showed her exactly what to expect.

And when she realized it wasn’t as bad as her brain had imagined — when she knew the script and had some control — her whole nervous system softened.

That’s when she said: “I’m ready.”

Tools We Brought

We didn’t show up empty-handed. Our bag was full of sensory supports and soothing tools. Here’s what we packed — not because you need all of these, but so you know what’s possible:

• Topical numbing cream
• Anti-anxiety medication (prescribed)
• Buzzy Bee (a vibrating cold pack that confuses the nerves)
• Shot Blocker (a little plastic device that dulls the poke)
• Pain Reliever (as needed)
• Weighted blanket & weighted stuffed animal
• Fidgets
• Headphones and a tablet
• A lollipop, gum, water, lemonade
• Eye masks (weighted and soft)
• Her favorite loveys

Each of these helped anchor her in her body. Helped her feel protected. Helped her choose how she wanted to show up. She hardly used any of them in the end, but we had them ready, and that gave both of us a sense of being confident and prepared.

The Environment Matters

We didn’t go to a busy lab or wait in a crowded room. We made a special appointment at our quiet functional medicine office with a tech I’d personally vetted. When I’d had my own blood drawn by him a month before, I confirmed he had the needed vibe: calm, kind, no ego.

He knew about my daughter ahead of time. He spoke gently, made jokes about her special interests, and kept his voice low. We talked about her special interests, and he told her funny stories. She chose where to sit. She chose where I sat. She asked questions, and he answered them without brushing her off.

There was no pressure. No rush. And no waiting.

What Made It Low Demand?

We didn’t push. We didn’t bribe. We didn’t force it before she was ready. And when she was ready, it wasn’t because we’d convinced her — it was because we’d supported her.

Low demand parenting isn’t about never doing hard things. It’s about making hard things doable — through trust, accommodations, and deep respect.

We protected the relationship.
We honored her pace.
We let her lead.

And in the end, she walked out proud. Not because she “complied.” But because she was seen, she was brave, she was capable, and she did it her way.