Covert Narcissism and Self-Blame: Why You Always Feel Like You’re the Problem

A Familiar, Confusing Moment

Nothing is wrong. You’re standing in the kitchen, drying a mug you just cleaned. The coffee maker hums softly. The house feels ordinary. Quiet. It’s just a normal day.

Your spouse walks in and drops their keys on the counter—not hard, but not gently either.

You glance up and ask, casually, “Do you want to come with me later when I run to the store?”

It’s a neutral question. An everyday invitation. You don’t mean anything by it—you’d just enjoy their company.

They don’t answer right away. You notice their shoulders stiffen. Their eyes stay glued to their phone.

“I already told you I’m busy today,” they say flatly.

You turn toward them, confused. “Oh, okay. I didn’t realize that included the store. I was just asking.”

They exhale sharply. “Why do you always make everything complicated?”

Your chest tightens. You place the mug down carefully. “I wasn’t trying to,” you say. “I honestly didn’t think it was a big deal.”

They shake their head. “You always do this. You ask things in a way that puts pressure on me.”

You soften your tone even more. “I didn’t mean it that way. I wasn’t upset. I was just checking.”

They close the fridge harder than necessary. “See? Now you’re defending yourself like I accused you of something.”

Your stomach drops. “I’m not defending myself,” you say quietly. “I’m just explaining.”

They sigh loudly. “I can’t even answer a simple question without it turning into a whole thing.”

You collapse inward. “You’re right,” you say. “I shouldn’t have said anything.”

“Exactly,” they reply, already walking away.

The room feels colder now. You stand there replaying the moment, wondering where you went wrong.

And the voice inside you whispers: Why do I always make things worse? What’s wrong with me?

The Truth Beneath the Confusion

Here’s the truth: you didn’t create tension by speaking. The tension was already there—inside them. It was just waiting for somewhere to land.

Nothing about that interaction was a conflict until it was turned into one.

And here’s the part that often goes unnoticed: when you collapse inward and take the blame, they walk away relieved. In their mind, the tension is resolved—not because anything was repaired, but because responsibility landed exactly where they wanted it to: on you.

You became the pressure release valve.

They get relief without reflection. Calm without accountability. Validation without change.

For them, this is a great deal.

For you, it’s a devastating one.

You walk away smaller, confused, and ashamed—replaying the interaction, rehearsing how you’ll do better next time. Your nervous system stays activated long after the moment is over, while theirs settles into ease.

Over time, this teaches a dangerous lesson: peace comes from self-erasure. Harmony requires self-doubt. Being “good” means absorbing blame.

That may work for them—but it costs you your sense of self.

When Normal Questions Become “Problems”

Let’s pause and get real.

How is it a problem to ask your partner if they want to go to the store?

Not a complaint. Not criticism. Just a neutral question between two adults sharing a life.

Yet you walk away convinced you did something wrong.

And it doesn’t stop there.

How is it a problem to ask:

• if there’s enough gas in the car?

• what time they’ll be home?

• if they can pick up the kids?

• what they’d like to drink?

These are normal, everyday coordination questions. But in these dynamics, even neutrality is treated like an attack—and somehow, you end up blaming yourself.

This isn’t you being difficult. This is what humans do to share life.

It Happens at Work, Too

This dynamic doesn’t only show up in romantic relationships.

You ask a coworker, “Hey, are you planning to be on the client call this afternoon?”

A reasonable, informational question.

They snap back. “That was already addressed.”

You clarify gently. “Oh, I must’ve missed it. I just wanted to confirm.”

They respond sarcastically. “Why do you keep double-checking things? You’re not in charge here.”

Your body reacts before your mind can catch up.

Suddenly you’re apologizing. Explaining. Shrinking.

And later, alone at your desk, the same thought appears: Why did I even ask? I always make things harder.

Over time, you lose your sense of normal. You stop asking, Was that reasonable? and start asking, What’s wrong with me?

The Question That Changes Everything

Here’s a grounding question to start asking yourself:

Would this be a problem in a healthy environment?

Would that question cause tension elsewhere? Would it upset you if someone asked it?

If the answer is no, then the issue wasn’t you.

Instead of asking, How should I have said it differently? try asking, Was their response reasonable?

If it wasn’t, that matters.

Why Self-Reflective People Blame Themselves

If you blame yourself quickly, it’s not because you’re weak.

It’s because you’re self-reflective.

Self-reflective people ask:

• What was my part?

• Could I have handled that better?

• Did I miss something?

That’s emotional intelligence.

But in unsafe or manipulative environments, that strength gets exploited.

While you reflect, they deflect.

While you take responsibility, they offload it.

And because you’re the only one willing to look inward, you end up carrying blame that was never yours.

Over time, self-reflection turns into self-abandonment.

Quiet, Internal Boundaries

This is where boundaries come in—not loud ultimatums, but quiet internal ones.

Boundaries like:

• I will not automatically assume fault.

• I will not internalize someone else’s tension.

• I will pause before making myself the problem.

These aren’t walls. They’re filters.

They allow you to notice discomfort without absorbing it.

You still reflect. You still care. You just stop doing it at your own expense.

Why This Dynamic Chose You

There’s one more truth many survivors are never told.

Your self-reflection didn’t just keep you stuck—it also made you appealing to someone with covert narcissistic traits.

Not because there’s anything wrong with you.

But because self-reflective people are thoughtful, emotionally available, and willing to repair.

In healthy relationships, those qualities are gold.

In covertly narcissistic dynamics, they’re exploited.

While you try harder, they stay the same.

While you carry the emotional labor, they avoid accountability.

And eventually, you burn out.

A Different Question to Ask This Week

This week, when the thought “I am the problem” shows up, pause.

Ask:

Who was I talking to?

Not what did I do wrong? but who consistently makes me feel this way?

Patterns matter.

If you feel capable and grounded everywhere else—but confused and ashamed around one specific person—that contrast is meaningful.

People don’t become “too much” in isolation.

They become too much in environments that can’t tolerate normal human presence.

Before you decide you’re difficult, dramatic, or the problem, ask that different question.

You may have simply been trying to be yourself in a place that couldn’t hold you.

And recognizing that—it might not be you—can be the beginning of finding your internal compass again.

Take this boundary with you:

I will not internalize someone else’s tension.

I wish you so much peace on your healing journey.

Covert Narcissism and Over-Explaining: Why Pausing Brings Relief

Over-explaining is one of the quiet survival strategies many people develop in relationships marked by covert narcissism. It doesn’t usually start as insecurity. It starts as protection.

If you’ve ever found yourself explaining why you were quiet, why you didn’t respond immediately, why you changed your mind, why you’re tired, why you need rest, or why something small mattered to you—this pattern may feel painfully familiar. Often, the explaining begins before anyone even asks. Not because you owe an explanation, but because your nervous system is trying to prevent a reaction.

Why Over-Explaining Becomes Automatic

In covert narcissistic dynamics, reactions are often unpredictable. A neutral moment can quickly turn into accusation, defensiveness, or emotional withdrawal. Over time, your system learns that explaining early, thoroughly, and carefully might reduce conflict—or at least soften the blow.

Explaining your tone. Your intention. Your timing. Your needs.

What looks like over-communication from the outside is often emotional vigilance on the inside. It’s your body staying alert, scanning for danger, rehearsing responses, and preparing for pushback. Explaining becomes emotional insurance.

The Exhaustion Beneath the Explaining

The exhausting part isn’t the words—it’s the constant activation underneath them.

When you’re explaining, your nervous system stays on high alert. It doesn’t get to rest. It’s tracking facial expressions, tone shifts, and subtle cues. It’s anticipating what might come next. Over time, this teaches the body that safety requires constant effort.

Spontaneity disappears. Calm feels risky. Silence feels dangerous.

What Happens When You Stop Explaining

Many survivors describe a surprising moment when they stop reacting—not dramatically, not defiantly, but quietly. Something small goes wrong. A familiar tone appears. An accusation starts to form.

And instead of rushing in to clarify or defend, they pause.

That pause can feel strange at first. Quiet, but not the kind of quiet that comes from bracing for impact. A steadier quiet. One where you’re present, observing, and no longer taking responsibility for managing the moment.

In those moments, something important shifts. You begin to see the pattern instead of being trapped inside it. You notice how the reaction isn’t actually connected to what just happened. You recognize how often you used to jump in—not because you were weak, but because you were trying to survive.

This is sometimes described as a “popcorn moment”—standing back internally and watching the scene unfold, like observing a familiar movie rather than starring in it.

Calm Is Not Created by Explaining Better

Here’s the truth many people discover: calm does not arrive because you explained yourself more clearly.

Calm arrives when you stop performing for someone else’s emotional chaos.

When you pause, your nervous system receives new information. It learns that this moment—even if uncomfortable—is not necessarily a threat to your safety. As that signal lands, the body begins to stand down from fight-or-flight.

This isn’t avoidance. Avoidance feels tight, frantic, or frozen. Relief feels spacious. Relief slows things down.

The Nervous System Science Behind the Pause

When the brain perceives danger, it shifts into survival mode. Resources move away from the parts of the brain responsible for reasoning, regulation, and perspective, and toward systems designed to protect you quickly.

But when you stay calm and observational—even briefly—you send a different message: I am safe enough to stay present.

That message allows the prefrontal cortex to remain engaged. This is where clarity, choice, and grounded responses live. It’s why pausing can suddenly bring insight, steadiness, and emotional distance from the chaos.

Nothing mystical is happening. Your body is simply no longer being hijacked by old fear responses.

Pausing Does Not Require Decisions

One of the hardest parts of pausing is trusting it.

Many survivors fear that if they stop processing, planning, or analyzing, everything will fall apart. That momentum is fragile. That rest will cost them clarity or safety.

But pausing doesn’t mean minimizing reality. It doesn’t mean denial. It doesn’t mean inaction.

Pausing means your nervous system is asking for safety before strategy.

Decisions made in a heightened state often bring urgency, self-doubt, and second-guessing. When your body calms, your values and judgment have space to return.

A Gentle Practice

For the next week, try something simple.

Notice the next moment you feel the urge to manage someone else’s emotions—by explaining, defending, or over-reassuring. When you feel that urge, pause for three seconds. Drop your shoulders. Take one slow breath. Say nothing.

Afterward, check in with your body. Not your thoughts—your body. Notice what shows up: tension, relief, anxiety, space.

There’s no right answer. You’re not fixing anything. You’re observing.

You can also practice this internally. When you catch yourself explaining why you stayed, why you left, why you reacted, or why you haven’t decided yet, gently interrupt the explanation. Remind yourself: I don’t need to solve this right now.

You Are Not Falling Behind by Pausing

Rest is not regression. Slowing down is not losing clarity.

If all you do right now is stop explaining—to yourself or to anyone else—that is significant. Your nervous system is recalibrating. Your internal compass is realigning.

Nothing is being taken from you by pausing.

You are not avoiding your life.

You are finally giving your body permission to catch up.

Covert Narcissistic Dynamics: Is This Normal Marriage Struggle or Something More?

When “Maybe This Is Just Marriage” Keeps You Stuck

Many people quietly ask themselves this question: Is what I’m experiencing just normal marriage difficulty, or is something deeper going on?
That question alone can keep you stuck for years.

Because “marriage is hard” is true.
But it is not meant to explain away ongoing harm.

This post explores the difference between normal marital struggles and covert narcissistic dynamics, not through labels or diagnoses, but through how interactions feel in your body, how conflict moves or freezes, and whether grace is mutual or one-sided.

An Ordinary Moment That Tells the Truth

Imagine this familiar scenario.

Your partner comes home late from work. You had dinner plans. They fell through. Nothing dramatic has happened, but your body already feels tense. That familiar tightening settles into your shoulders before you’ve consciously named it.

You say carefully, in the softened way you’ve learned:

“I think I remember you saying you’d be home by six… but I could be remembering it wrong. Maybe I misunderstood.”

You leave room for error, not because you’re unsure, but because you want a safe conversation.

In a Healthy Dynamic

Your partner responds with something like:

“Yeah, I might have said that. I knew I had a late meeting. I think I meant to tell you.”

No one wins. No one loses.
The room softens.
Your shoulders drop.
There is space to exhale.

You are not arguing about reality. You are collaborating around it.
You leave the conversation still intact as yourself.

Quietly, your body registers: this is what healthy sounds like.

When That Same Space Is Used Against You

Now imagine the same moment playing out differently.

You offer uncertainty, softness, grace:

“Maybe I’m remembering it wrong.”

Instead of meeting you there, the other person collapses the space:

“No. That’s not what I said. You always twist things. You never listen. I know exactly what I said.”

The room tightens.
Your shoulders clench.
The air feels heavy.

There is no shared reality here. Only theirs.

Your willingness to consider their perspective becomes evidence that you are unreliable. Your humility is used against you. Their certainty becomes absolute.

Eventually, you stop offering space, not because you are rigid or unkind, but because it is never safe.

That contrast is everything.

Why “Marriage Is Hard” Can Keep You Trapped

The phrase “this is just marriage” carries weight, especially for people who value loyalty, growth, commitment, and family.

And yes, marriage does involve miscommunication, defensiveness, and repair.

The problem arises when that phrase is used not to normalize temporary difficulty, but to dismiss persistent imbalance.

In healthy relationships:

• Grace flows both ways

• Defensiveness has an endpoint

• Repair eventually happens

• Conflict builds trust over time

In unhealthy dynamics:

• One person always softens

• One person always doubts themselves

• One person always makes space

• The other never does

That is not normal marital strain.
That is something else.

Normal Marriage Struggles: Fallibility Is Allowed

In healthy marriages, two people can remember the same moment differently without it becoming a power struggle.

Someone can say:

“That’s not how I meant it, but I can see how it landed that way.”

Memory is understood as human, not weaponized.

When defensiveness shows up, someone circles back. Repair happens. The relationship becomes clearer, not more confusing.

Covert Narcissistic Dynamics: Certainty as Control

In covert narcissistic dynamics, memory is not collaborative. It is authoritative.

Statements like:

• “That never happened.”

• “I know exactly what I said.”

• “You’re remembering it wrong.”

These are not bids for understanding.
They are declarations of dominance.

There is no curiosity about your experience, no acknowledgment of impact, and no shared growth. The goal is control over the narrative.

This dynamic often resembles the classic Charlie Brown and Lucy scene.

Charlie Brown just wants to kick the football. Lucy implies cooperation. This time will be different. And every time, she pulls it away.

The pain isn’t hope.
It’s the absence of give.

Your marriage may look calm from the outside. But inside, you are constantly bracing, editing yourself, rehearsing words, and managing emotional temperature.

They see peace.
You live inside constraint.

The Absence of Give

Healthy relationships bend in both directions.

In covert narcissistic dynamics:

• You give empathy

• You give benefit of the doubt

• You give emotional labor

And nothing comes back.

You are exhausted not because marriage is hard, but because you are carrying it alone.

When one person is always certain and the other is always doubting, that is not balance.
That is hierarchy.
And hierarchy inside intimacy destroys connection.

A Grounding Reframe

Here is something important to hold onto:

Healthy relationships allow mutual fallibility.

Both people get to be wrong.
Both people get to soften.
Both people get to repair.

When only one person is allowed that humanity, something is off.

This Week’s Gentle Assignment: Notice the Flow of Grace

Rather than focusing on arguments, notice what happens when you offer grace.

When you say:

• “I could be remembering this wrong.”

• “Maybe that’s just how I heard it.”

• “I’m not totally sure, but this is how it felt.”

What happens next?

Does the room soften or tighten?
Do you feel safer or smaller?
Does grace come back — or collapse?

This is not a test. It’s observation.

Your nervous system already knows the answer, even if your mind has learned to override it.

Closing

If this post gave you language you’ve struggled to find, I’m really glad you’re here.

You are not overreacting for wanting shared reality.
You are not broken for needing reciprocity.

Clarity does not require urgency.
Orientation comes first.

If you’d like support as you continue sorting through this, you can learn more about my resources and coaching at covertnarcissism.com.
And if this resonated, consider subscribing so you don’t miss future conversations like this one.

You don’t need to explain yourself better to deserve safety.

Covert Narcissistic Abuse: Why Nothing Changes No Matter How Hard You Try

Most people don’t arrive here because they gave up too easily on a relationship.
They arrive here because they tried—over and over again.

They reflected on their communication.
They softened their tone.
They chose better timing.
They worked on themselves.

And still, it felt like hitting a wall.

If that sounds familiar, there is a reason for it. And it isn’t because you didn’t try hard enough.

Today we’re talking about why covert narcissistic dynamics don’t respond to effort the way healthy relationships do—and why that realization can feel both devastating and clarifying at the same time.

Why This Feels So Unfixable (Even Though You’re Still Trying)

If you haven’t listened to last Sunday’s episode—Navigating the Confusion of Covert Narcissism: What Is Actually Wrong in My Marriage?—I encourage you to start there when you’re ready. That episode focused on naming the confusion itself: the mixed signals, the chronic unease, the sense that something is off even when nothing obviously looks “wrong.”

This post is the natural next question that follows once that confusion has a name:

Why does this feel so unfixable?

You’re Using Healthy Relationship Tools in an Unhealthy Dynamic

Most people reading this are not avoidant, unreflective, or unwilling to grow. In fact, you’ve done exactly what relationship experts recommend.

You’ve practiced clear communication—using “I” statements and carefully choosing your words.
You’ve worked on emotional regulation, pausing and responding instead of reacting.
You’ve softened your tone to avoid escalation.
You’ve waited for better timing.
You’ve engaged in deep self-reflection, questioning your own behavior, triggers, and blind spots.

You’ve done a lot of work on you.

And in a healthy relationship, those tools matter. They build safety. They create trust. They lead to repair. Effort goes somewhere.

But here’s the part no one prepares you for:

Healthy relationship tools only work when both people are oriented toward repair and growth.

In a covert narcissistic dynamic, those tools don’t build connection. They drain the person using them.

This is one of the reasons traditional marriage counseling often fails in these relationships. The same tools you’ve already been using—communication, empathy, accountability—are applied again, even though the system itself isn’t operating in good faith.

If one person is working toward understanding and the other is working toward deflection, self-protection, or preserving control, effort becomes one-sided.

I hear this story repeatedly:

“I read the books. I went to therapy. I tried saying things differently. I tried being more understanding. I tried not reacting. I tried not being ‘too much.’ And nothing changed.”

That doesn’t mean you failed.
It means you were trying to fix something that wasn’t designed to be reciprocal.

No amount of personal growth can compensate for a system where accountability only moves in one direction.

The Goalposts Keep Moving

One of the most destabilizing aspects of covert narcissistic dynamics is that the rules never stay the same.

You’re told you’re too emotional—so you calm yourself down.
Then you’re told you’re cold and distant.

You’re told your timing is bad—so you wait.
Then you’re told you waited too long.

You’re told your delivery is the problem—so you soften it.
Then you’re told the issue isn’t how you said it, but that you’re “always negative.”

Nothing ever truly improves, because improvement isn’t allowed.

I think of a woman who described rehearsing conversations in her car before walking into the house—not to start an argument, but to avoid one. She wanted to get it right this time.

And still, the conversation unraveled within minutes.

When the standards constantly change, you don’t learn how to succeed—you learn how to doubt yourself.

The exhaustion you feel isn’t because you’re doing it wrong.
It’s because you’re chasing a constantly moving target.

When Repair Is Met With Deflection, Not Accountability

In healthy conflict, repair looks like listening, validation, curiosity, ownership, and follow-through.

In covert narcissistic dynamics, repair attempts often lead to something very different.

They lead to defensiveness, blame, deflection, and self-protection.
Your attempt to repair becomes a lesson in what not to bring up, how not to say it, and how much of yourself you need to shrink to avoid fallout.

Conversations go in circles.
The original issue is never addressed.
Your pain becomes a debate.
Your memory is questioned.
Your tone becomes the focus.

You walk away more confused than when you started—wondering how a simple bid for understanding somehow ended with you apologizing.

One listener described offering an apology for her part in a disagreement, hoping it would open the door to mutual reflection. Instead, her apology became proof that everything was her fault. The original issue was never discussed again.

Over time, this leads to silence—not the calming kind, but the punitive kind. Emotional withdrawal framed as “needing space,” yet experienced as abandonment.

Eventually, you stop bringing things up.
You minimize what hurts.
Not because the pain is gone—but because every attempt at repair costs you more than it gives back.

That deep pain doesn’t mean you’re too sensitive.
It means your bids for repair are being met in a system that cannot—or will not—hold them.

You Were Conditioned to Believe Trying Harder Was the Answer

Many survivors didn’t stumble into this dynamic by accident. Many were trained for it.

You learned that love meant patience and forgiveness.
That commitment meant endurance.
That being a “good” partner meant flexibility, loyalty, and self-sacrifice.

Those qualities are beautiful—when they are reciprocated.

But in this environment, trying harder quietly turns into self-abandonment. And because you’re praised for being the calm one, the reasonable one, the one who holds everything together, you don’t realize how much of yourself you’ve sacrificed just to survive.

Why Awareness Doesn’t Instantly Fix It

Many people expect that once they recognize covert narcissistic patterns, things will suddenly improve.

Instead, they often feel worse.

You see the patterns clearly—and once you see them, you can’t unsee them.
You stop minimizing your pain.
You realize how long you’ve been carrying this alone.
Your nervous system wakes up.

That awakening can feel like grief, anger, confusion, or panic. You’re no longer dissociating from the truth—and that takes time to integrate.

Understanding Brings Relief—Not Forcing Change

Relief doesn’t come from finding the perfect words or strategy. It comes from understanding why nothing you tried worked—and releasing the belief that it’s because you weren’t enough.

This isn’t about deciding what to do next.
It’s about stopping the question, “What’s wrong with me?”

Your imperfections are not the problem.
The environment is.

In a healthy system, imperfections are met with repair and growth. In an unhealthy one, they become evidence against you.

Closing Thoughts

If you’re quietly wondering whether you’re losing your mind, hear this clearly:

You are not crazy.

You are responding normally to a deeply confusing dynamic.

The fact that this feels unfixable—even though you are still trying—is not a failure. It’s awareness. Your nervous system is no longer willing to carry confusion as the cost of connection.

This week, simply notice where you’re still trying to fix what has never met you halfway. Not with judgment—but with curiosity.

You don’t need to change anything yet.
You don’t need to decide anything yet.

Just begin to notice the difference between effort that builds connection and effort that drains you.

That awareness alone is not nothing.
It’s the beginning of returning to yourself.

What Is Actually Wrong in My Marriage?

If you are quietly asking yourself, What is actually wrong in my marriage?—this episode, and now this blog, is for you.

This is an incredibly difficult question when covert narcissism is part of the dynamic—especially when you can’t point to one clear incident. Especially when nothing sounds dramatic enough when you try to explain it. Especially when you feel confused, unsettled, and unsure why ordinary moments seem to carry so much emotional weight.

This journey is not about diagnosing your partner. It’s about building language—language that gives you words for what you are experiencing. And it’s not even really about the term covert narcissism. It’s about the confusion. The lack of emotional safety. The inability to work through issues. The self-doubt that quietly grows over time.

This is about confusion—the kind that builds when normal interactions don’t behave normally.

When Small Moments Leave You Disoriented

Here’s what that confusion can look like.

You notice the trash hasn’t been taken out. You mention it calmly.

“This trash can is getting full.”

Not angrily. Not accusingly. Not even with the expectation that anything has to be done—just a passing comment. Yet within minutes, the conversation has shifted.

Suddenly, you’re no longer talking about trash. You’re clarifying your tone. Explaining that you weren’t criticizing. Reassuring them you’re not trying to start a fight.

Later, you replay the exchange, wondering how a practical household task turned into emotional fallout.

Nothing “big” happened. There was no yelling. No obvious cruelty. But you walk away feeling off. Tight. Disoriented. Like you stepped on a silent landmine and have no idea how.

That’s the confusion we’re talking about here.

This journey isn’t about judging these moments or labeling them—it’s about slowing them down and understanding why they leave you questioning yourself.

Whether you’ve read all the books and listened to all the podcasts, or you’re just beginning to sense that something hasn’t been adding up, this space is for you.

Understanding Isn’t Linear

If you’re further along in this journey, you already know something important: understanding doesn’t arrive in a straight line.

Even with insight, you can still be hit with waves of emotion—emotional flashbacks, rumination, regret, guilt, or a sudden heaviness that seems to come out of nowhere. Knowing more doesn’t automatically quiet your nervous system, and it doesn’t mean you’re doing anything wrong when those waves show up.

That’s why this journey isn’t about collecting more information. It’s about organizing what you already know into something steady and usable. Something that supports your nervous system—not just your intellect.

And if you’re just getting started, know this: you are not behind.

You don’t need to understand all the terminology. You don’t need clarity yet. And you don’t need to know where this is going. Many people begin this journey with nothing more than a quiet sense that something hasn’t been right—and a deep exhaustion from trying to fix or explain it.

This is a place to begin untangling that confusion gently, at a pace your nervous system can tolerate.

The Confusion That Builds Quietly

Before continuing, I want to share that I have two brand-new coaching groups beginning mid-January 2026:

• One focused on divorcing a covert narcissist

• One focused on parenting with a covert narcissist

If either applies to you, visit covertnarcissism.com for details.

Now, if you’ve been listening to my podcast for a while, think back to before you had language for covert narcissism.

Before the patterns made sense. Before things had a name.

You may have called it communication problems. Stress. A rough season. Or even your own anxiety—because without a framework, confusion often turns inward.

When I look back over twenty-one years of marriage, I don’t replay one big moment. I replay hundreds of small ones. Moments that seemed harmless in isolation. Moments that didn’t sound alarming if I tried to explain them. Moments that felt like normal marriage friction—until they piled up and something inside me could never quite settle again.

Everyday Moments That Never Stay Simple

I remember asking what he wanted for dinner.

That was it. That was the question.

Within minutes, I was explaining myself. Clarifying my tone. Backtracking. Trying to understand what I had said wrong. We weren’t talking about food anymore—we were talking about me. About how I ask questions. About how I make things difficult. About how he “can’t ever do anything right.”

I would walk away thinking, How did we get here from chicken or pasta?

I remember simple drives to the store. No conflict when we got in the car—but by the time we arrived, he was angry at traffic, drivers, lights, the world. And somehow, I was absorbing it. My body was tight. My shoulders were raised. I stayed quiet, trying not to make things worse, knowing that either speaking or staying silent could backfire.

I remember family game nights. Monopoly on the table. Laughter at the start. And then—slowly, subtly—the shift. He took over. Enforced rules harshly. Mocked mistakes. Needed to dominate. By the end, no one was having fun. A child felt embarrassed. Another went quiet. And later, when I tried to name it, I was told I was the one ruining family time.

Each moment on its own seemed small. Together, they formed a pattern that never fully resolved.

When Repair Never Repairs

At first, none of this felt like a deal-breaker. Every marriage has ups and downs. People get stressed. Relationships take work.

But here’s where the confusion deepens.

Even gentle attempts at repair never stayed focused on the issue. When I tried to talk about how something landed on the kids, the focus shifted to my tone. My sensitivity. My intentions. I found myself defending why I brought it up rather than addressing what actually happened.

That’s when confusion really takes hold.

Because when even careful, well-intended conversations leave you feeling blamed or shut down, you stop trusting your perception. You start wondering whether it’s worth bringing things up at all.

That’s not how repair is supposed to feel.

Healthy conflict has a beginning, a middle, and an end. The issue stays the issue. There is relief afterward.

What creates confusion isn’t conflict—it’s conflict that never resolves. Conversations that never stay where they start. Interactions that leave you more unsettled than before.

What just happened? becomes a constant internal refrain.

When Confusion Moves Into the Body

Over time, that confusion doesn’t just live in your thoughts—it moves into your body.

For me, it showed up as a constant burning sensation in my chest. Not dramatic. Just ever-present. My body learned to brace in advance.

Family outings. Movie nights. Holidays. Hotel stays.

Before anything even happened, my chest was tight. My jaw clenched. My breathing shallow. I wasn’t reacting to what was happening—I was reacting to what might happen.

Nothing had to go wrong for my body to feel this way. Memory and pattern had already taught my nervous system that ordinary moments were unstable.

So I stayed alert. Careful. Always ready.

And when you live like that long enough, you stop asking what’s happening around you—and start assuming the problem must be inside you.

How Confusion Turns Into Self-Doubt

This is where confusion quietly turns inward.

You start believing you’re overreacting. Too sensitive. Too anxious. Too guarded. You replay conversations not to understand the dynamic—but to audit yourself.

Self-doubt becomes a false explanation. Because blaming yourself feels more controllable than admitting you’re living inside something unpredictable.

If it’s you, you can fix it.

So you try harder. Say less. Say more. Need less. Adjust more.

But the confusion doesn’t stop—because it was never coming from a lack of effort on your part.

When You Can’t Name What’s Wrong

Eventually, you try to name what’s wrong—and this is where many people get stuck.

You go to Google. And then you just stare at the search bar.

How do you even Google this?

Because on the surface, it looks like trash. Dishes. Tone. Timing. Monopoly.

And talking to someone about it feels impossible—because what you’re living inside doesn’t have one clear incident or name. Just a long trail of moments that don’t resolve.

That’s why the question What is actually wrong in my marriage? is so hard to answer.

Not because nothing is wrong—but because what’s wrong shows up as confusion.

And when something can’t be named, it can’t be addressed. It can only be endured.

A Starting Point

There is an overwhelming amount of information about narcissism—some helpful, some contradictory, some flooding.

This journey is about slowing it down. Organizing it. Making it digestible. Grounding it in lived experience—not theory alone.

This episode—and this blog—is the starting point.

Confusion is usually just the beginning.

In the next stage, many people try even harder. Communicate better. Be more patient. And when nothing improves—or things feel worse—exhaustion and fear set in.

In the next episode, we’ll talk about why this can feel so unfixable even when you’re doing everything you can—and why that matters.

You are not failing because this feels unfixable. And you are not weak for being tired.

Until next time, I wish you so much peace on your journey of healing.

Holidays With a Covert Narcissist: When Survival Replaces Celebration

When the Holidays Stop Feeling Safe

The holidays with a covert narcissist are hard to describe unless you’ve lived them. This season is supposed to feel warm, grounding, and safe—a time for connection, rest, and maybe even joy. Yes, there may still be disagreements or moments of stress, but overall there’s usually a sense of togetherness.

When you live with a covert narcissist, however, the holidays don’t feel like this at all. They feel like survival. Like a performance. Like a high-stakes emotional balancing act where the rules keep changing and the consequences are quietly severe.

From the outside, most people never see it. They see the decorated house, the cooked meal, the wrapped gifts, and the smiling photos. What they don’t see is the emotional cost being paid behind closed doors. In homes like this, the holidays don’t revolve around shared joy—they revolve around them.

Before the Holiday: Living on Emotional Alert

Long before the holiday arrives—whether it’s a birthday, anniversary, vacation, or even a weekend—your nervous system is already on alert. You’re not just preparing food or buying gifts; you’re preparing for impact.

You track moods. You notice tone shifts. You sense irritability without a clear cause. That familiar tightness in your chest shows up before anything has even gone wrong.

You may not consciously think, I need to make sure they have a good time—or maybe you do. Many survivors eventually realize that this has become their assignment.

Over time, you learn something crucial: when they don’t enjoy the holiday, you pay for it. Everyone pays for it. Not always loudly or obviously, but consistently.

The cost might come as sulking that lingers for days. Silence that feels punishing. Emotional withdrawal that makes the house feel cold. Subtle digs disguised as humor. Tension that settles into your body and doesn’t leave.

So you over-function. You smooth things out. You plan carefully. You anticipate reactions. You manage other people. You lower your expectations while raising your effort.

You call it being thoughtful. Responsible. A good partner.

But it’s actually survival.

Carrying the Emotional Load to Keep the Peace

I remember preparing for family Christmas gatherings without fully realizing how much of myself I was pouring into making everything right.

The menu had to be planned perfectly. The house needed to feel calm and warm. The schedule had to flow smoothly. I thought through all the possible ways things could go wrong, trying to prevent problems before they happened.

My kids couldn’t sleep in too late. Breakfast couldn’t be delayed. Certain topics had to be avoided entirely. I mentally mapped out who would sit where and which conversations might create tension.

I watched how long we could enjoy a gift before moving on, anticipating impatience, scanning for subtle signs, keeping things moving before there was an issue.

At the time, I didn’t experience this as anxiety. I called it responsibility. I told myself this was just what families do. That it was smart and helpful.

But the truth is, I was managing emotional landmines long before anyone stepped on them.

By the time Christmas Day arrived, I was already exhausted—not just from the busyness of the season, but from weeks of hypervigilance. I had been regulating someone else’s emotional world so everyone else could relax.

I told myself it was worth it for the kids. And at the time, it probably was. The price of things going badly felt far too high.

Why You Overfunction — and Why It Makes Sense

People often ask survivors why they don’t just stop trying so hard. The answer is simple and painful: the cost of not trying feels unbearable.

If you don’t manage the environment, the emotional fallout spreads. The kids get lectured. The air gets heavy. The joy drains instantly. The whole household feels it.

So you take on the invisible job of emotional containment—not because you want a perfect holiday, but because you want a tolerable one.

This isn’t weakness.

It’s adaptation.

The Holiday Itself: When Tension Lingers Beneath the Surface

From the outside, the holiday may look fine. But inside the home, you stay braced.

You watch for the sigh that lasts too long. The sideways comment. The disappointment that appears without explanation.

They might say, “It’s fine,” while their body language says otherwise. Or, “I didn’t expect much anyway.” Nothing is openly wrong, yet nothing feels right.

Your body knows it. Tight shoulders. Shallow breathing. A constant low-level tension that never quite turns off.

When Survival Looks Like a “Successful” Holiday

Sometimes, somehow, you manage to pull off an okay holiday. No explosion. No obvious sabotage. Others may even say, “That seemed nice.”

But survivors know the truth: keeping things okay often requires doing everything their way, monitoring everything, and clearing the emotional path ahead of them.

Afterward, there’s no joy—just relief. You feel drained, empty, and grateful that it’s over.

That’s when something clicks.

Holidays aren’t supposed to feel like emotional marathons where the finish line is collapse.

Why Relief Replaces Joy

Even when things go “well,” your nervous system never fully relaxes. You know the tension will return.

The gaslighting. The blame-shifting. The guilt. The unreasonable expectations.

That’s why holidays don’t feel restorative—they feel depleting.

A New Invitation: Choosing Yourself

As a new year begins, I want to offer an invitation—not a resolution, and not pressure to heal faster.

An invitation to begin choosing self-care, even if it feels unfamiliar or uncomfortable.

Many survivors have been taught that caring for themselves is selfish. It isn’t.

Self-Care vs. Selfishness

Selfishness says: Only my needs matter.

Self-care says: My needs matter too.

Self-care allows you to show up as a healthier version of yourself—for your children, your relationships, and your life.

When you’ve lived with a covert narcissist, any attention to yourself may feel dangerous. It isn’t.

It’s necessary.

What Self-Care Really Looks Like in Survival Mode

Self-care doesn’t have to be dramatic. Sometimes it looks like:

• Saying no without explaining

• Resting without earning it

• Leaving a room when your body says it’s too much

• Letting disappointment exist without fixing it

• Choosing peace over performance

Guilt may arise. That doesn’t mean you’re doing something wrong. Often, it isn’t guilt at all—it’s blame that was placed on you.

Moving Beyond Survival

If you’ve lived in survival mode for years, letting go of that system can feel destabilizing. But survival got you here—and now it’s time for something more.

You don’t have to fix everything this year. Just begin asking a gentler question:

What would it look like to take care of myself—even a little?

That’s not selfish.

That’s healing.

Closing

You deserve more than surviving the holidays.

You deserve peace that doesn’t have to be earned.

Covert Narcissism Recovery: How You Know Healing Is Happening

People often ask me, “How do I know when I’m healed?” And that’s a great question. What I love about it is how it shifts the focus away from the covert narcissist and back to yourself. You don’t need them to acknowledge it, change, or give you closure to heal. Most of the time, closure with a covert narcissistic person is like chasing the end of a rainbow—you will never catch it. Healing is about you.

Healing doesn’t arrive as a clear milestone. There’s no moment where everything suddenly feels resolved, where your past no longer touches you, or where triggers disappear entirely. Healing isn’t the absence of emotion or struggle. The answer lies in something quieter: your internal sense of safety. Not safety from the world, not because others behave well—but safety within yourself.

Internal Safety and Early Signs of Healing
For many survivors of covert narcissistic abuse, this internal safety was never allowed to fully form. You learned early that being relaxed wasn’t safe, that letting your guard down had consequences, and that staying alert and prepared was protection. Your body adapted—you became vigilant, careful, skilled at reading the room and anticipating shifts. That wasn’t weakness. That was intelligence. That was survival. But healing begins when your system starts to realize that constant vigilance is no longer required. One of the earliest signs of healing is that your body softens in small, ordinary moments. Your shoulders aren’t always tense. Your jaw isn’t clenched all day. You can sit still without feeling restless. Stress may still show up, but it moves through you instead of living inside you.

Another sign of healing is how you speak to yourself. When something goes wrong, you don’t attack yourself. You don’t spiral into “What’s wrong with me?” or “I should have known better.” Instead, there’s curiosity rather than criticism, compassion rather than condemnation. The self-judgment starts to recede. Internal safety begins to take root.

Healing as a Safe Place for Yourself
Healing is about becoming a safe place for yourself. It’s about letting go of perfection—not because the world says you’re okay, but because you say you’re okay. Allowing yourself to make mistakes, to say something imperfectly, to not have all the answers—these moments feel dangerous at first, but they are freedom in practice. Safety within means allowing yourself to be human. It means letting feelings exist without immediately fixing, justifying, or minimizing them. Sadness, anger, or confusion can exist without needing a solution right now. When you allow emotions to move through you without fear, you teach your nervous system that feelings aren’t dangerous.

Honoring Your Limits
Internal safety also comes from honoring your limits. Saying no without over-explaining. Resting without earning it. Taking a break without justifying it. These are acts of protection, not selfishness. When you repeatedly override your own limits, even you aren’t safe with yourself. But when you listen—to fatigue, tension, shutdown—you teach your system it can be protected from the inside.

Managing Your Inner Voice
You may also need to work on your thoughts. The inner voice of doubt, harshness, and impossibility may not have originated in you, but it can reside there. Internal safety requires noticing that voice, interrupting it, and replacing it with steadier, kinder responses. Not forced positivity, just fairness. Safety also means trusting your instincts again—the tightening in your chest, the exhaustion, the quiet sense that something is off. When you dismiss these signals, you recreate the environment that wounded you. When you listen, you begin to heal.

Relaxation and Nervous System Regulation
As you practice safety, your nervous system begins to relax. You stop living in constant self-surveillance, stop needing to justify feelings, stop replaying interactions endlessly. You become safer for others too because when you are safe with yourself, you don’t need to control conversations, defend your worth, or brace for impact. Your calm becomes something others feel, especially your children.

Healing becomes visible not because life is perfect, but because there’s more steadiness. Less emotional whiplash. Less chaos. Less urgency. Calm isn’t emptiness—it’s safety. And it’s different from numbness, which disconnects you from yourself. Safety reconnects you. When you’re numb, you feel flat; when safe, you feel present even when things are hard.

Checkpoints for Healing
If you’re wondering, “Am I healed yet?” try asking instead: Do I feel safer inside myself than I used to? Do I trust my inner world more than I once did? Am I kinder to myself in moments of struggle? Can I rest without fear? Even a small “yes” means healing is happening. Not loudly, not dramatically, but deeply. That kind of healing lasts.

To stay focused on your path of healing, I offer three checkpoints. First, check in with your body. When something feels off, pause and ask, “What is my body doing?” Are shoulders tight, jaw clenched, chest heavy, energy depleted? Ask what would help your body feel safer—rest, movement, slowing your breath. Second, check in with your thoughts. Notice if your inner voice is harsh, doubting, or interrogating. Shift from punishment to curiosity. Instead of “What did I do wrong?” ask, “What can I learn here?” Finally, check in with your feelings. Identify what is present—sadness, anger, confusion, fear—and let it exist without needing to immediately fix it. Tell yourself, “This feeling can be here, and I am still okay.”

Safety as the Foundation of Recovery
Healing is not measured by the absence of struggle, but by how you treat yourself during it. You don’t need to rush, prove anything, or finish. If you feel even a little safer inside yourself than you once did, you are on the path—and that path is yours. Internal safety is the foundation of recovery. When it exists, your nervous system softens, thoughts slow, emotions become information rather than emergencies. Without safety, therapy can feel frustrating, growth can feel stalled, and life can feel like survival.

Safety allows conversation, connection, and reconciliation to flourish. Safety doesn’t erase the past, but it changes the future. It allows moments of proof that your efforts matter, that connection is possible, and that trust can grow even after years of damage. For parents, survivors, or anyone recovering from covert narcissistic abuse, safety is not a bonus—it’s essential. It takes time, consistency, and a willingness to listen without punishing honesty. You don’t need to be perfect to create it. You just need to show up and choose connection over control. When safety arrives—whether with yourself, your children, or others—it may be quiet, but it is profound.

Healing is about trust, presence, and protection. It’s about softening, listening, and allowing your body, mind, and heart to rest. It’s about reclaiming your life from constant vigilance and learning that safety can exist. The journey is gradual, gentle, and deeply rewarding, and it is possible for anyone willing to allow themselves to feel safe again.

Covert Narcissism and Trauma: Why You and Your Kids Stop Talking

Becoming Careful With Words

Have you ever noticed how cautious you’ve become with your words? Not silent exactly—but careful. You think things through before you speak. You test the waters. You decide what’s worth saying and what’s better left alone. And somewhere along the way, staying quiet began to feel safer than being honest.

Maybe you see this in your kids too. They give shorter answers. They retreat to their rooms. They say “it’s fine” and “never mind” more than they used to. And you’re left wondering what changed. Was it something you did? Something you didn’t do? Or something they learned—quietly—about what happens when you speak up?

If you’ve lived with covert narcissism or chronic emotional invalidation, this didn’t happen by accident. You didn’t stop talking because you stopped caring. Your nervous system learned that honesty came with consequences. Conversations felt risky. Silence began to feel safer.

When Silence Is a Survival Skill

In emotionally unsafe environments, people don’t stop feeling—they stop expressing. Over time, the nervous system learns that sharing your inner world may lead to defensiveness, blame, withdrawal, or emotional punishment. Self‑silencing becomes automatic, not because there’s nothing to say, but because saying it costs too much. This is true for adults, and it is especially true for children.

Children adapt quickly. When they learn that speaking up leads to dismissal or consequences, they don’t stop having feelings. They learn to keep those feelings inside. From the outside it may look like withdrawal, defiance, or indifference. On the inside, it is protection.

Understanding Safety

This is why safety matters so deeply, and why it helps to understand what safety actually means.

Physical Safety

Physical safety isn’t just the absence of hitting. It includes freedom from intimidation, unpredictable rage, slammed doors, thrown objects, blocked exits, or looming body language that makes the body freeze. Even if nothing “technically” happens, your nervous system knows when it isn’t safe—and it responds accordingly.

Emotional Safety

Emotional safety means your feelings are allowed to exist without being mocked, minimized, corrected, or turned into a problem. It means you can say, “That hurt,” without being told you’re too sensitive or dramatic. In a safe relationship, saying “I’ve been feeling really lonely lately” might be met with curiosity and care. In an unsafe one, that same sentence can be met with defensiveness, shifting the focus away from your feelings and onto managing someone else’s reactions. Over time, you learn that expressing emotions creates more work, not connection.

Psychological Safety

Psychological safety is especially important in covert narcissistic dynamics. It means reality stays stable. What was said yesterday isn’t denied today. Your memory isn’t constantly questioned. You aren’t left wondering whether you imagined something that felt very real. A flat denial fractures trust in your own mind. A response that acknowledges impact, even without perfect recall, preserves safety. When psychological safety is missing, the brain works overtime trying to find solid ground. That exhaustion isn’t weakness—it’s survival.

Conversational Safety

Safety also shows up in conversation. Conversational safety means you can bring up something difficult without fear of punishment, either immediately or later. In unsafe environments, honesty is treated like an attack. Defensiveness replaces curiosity. Accountability disappears. The nervous system takes note. The next time something hurts, you stay quiet—not because you don’t care, but because you already know the cost.

This is especially true for children and teens. A teen who says, “I don’t like it when you joke about my grades,” is taking a risk. When that risk is met with dismissal or defensiveness, they learn to stop bringing things up. When it’s met with accountability and care, they learn that honesty leads to repair, not punishment. That difference shapes whether kids stay connected or go quiet.

The Importance of Repair

No parent responds perfectly every time. Safety isn’t about perfection—it’s about repair. Repair means coming back later and saying, “I’ve been thinking about what you shared. I got defensive instead of listening. I’m sorry. I want you to feel safe talking to me.” There’s no justification or minimizing, just accountability. Repair teaches the nervous system that silence doesn’t have to be permanent and that relationships can survive honesty.

Relational Safety

Relational safety is the belief that the relationship itself won’t be threatened by truth. In unsafe dynamics, love feels conditional and disagreement feels dangerous, so people choose peace over truth even when it costs them pieces of themselves. In safe relationships, rupture doesn’t mean abandonment. Conflict doesn’t end connection. Honesty doesn’t require perfection.

One parent recently shared that their child said, “You showed me the difference safety makes. And now I want to provide that safety to others.” That is what healing looks like. When someone finally experiences safety, their nervous system no longer has to brace, and something remarkable happens—they want to offer that safety to others.

Final Thoughts

If you or your children have gone quiet, it doesn’t mean something is wrong with you. It means your nervous system adapted. Healing begins when it becomes safe to speak again—slowly, imperfectly, and without fear of punishment. Children don’t heal because we say the perfect things. They heal because someone made it safe for them to be real. And sometimes, showing them the difference is everything.

Wishing you peace on your healing journey.

The Physical Signs You Didn’t Know Were Trauma Responses

“If your body has been acting like it’s in a horror movie even though your life looks normal to the world around you — this post is for you.”

Many survivors of covert narcissistic abuse experience physical symptoms that seem random or mysterious — jaw tension, chest tightness, digestive issues, sleep problems, eye twitches, and even buzzing in the ears. What most people don’t realize is that these symptoms aren’t random at all. They’re your body’s way of communicating: a map of what you have survived.

Even if your mind hasn’t fully recognized the abuse, your body certainly has. And while doctors may run tests and say, “Everything looks fine,” your symptoms are telling a different story — one of survival and adaptation.

How Trauma Lives in the Body

Think of your body like a messenger. Just as hunger tells you when it’s time to eat, your physical sensations are messages that something in your environment is unsafe or stressful.

Trauma triggers signals like:

• Danger

• Overwhelm

• Emotional suffocation

• Hypervigilance

• Unmet needs

• Unsafe environments

When ignored or misunderstood, these messages can feel like problems — chest tightness feels like a heart problem, jaw tension like a dental issue, ear ringing like hearing damage. But in reality, your body is trying to keep you safe.

Tinnitus: The Sound of Hypervigilance

Buzzing or ringing in the ears often spikes during stress. This is trauma-related tinnitus — a sign your nervous system is on high alert. Factors include:

• Increased auditory sensitivity

• Tight shoulders and jaw tension

• Adrenaline affecting inner-ear function

What helps:

• Slow breathing and grounding

• Jaw and neck relaxation

• Weighted objects or pressure to signal safety

• Noticing spikes as cues rather than defects

Jaw Clenching: The Silent Armor

Almost every survivor I’ve worked with experiences jaw tension. The jaw becomes a gatekeeper, holding in thoughts and emotions that feel unsafe to express. This protective mechanism develops from:

• Unspoken thoughts

• Swallowed emotions

• Fear of conflict

• Needing to stay quiet to stay safe

Tips for relief:

• Progressive jaw release exercises

• Dropping the tongue from the roof of the mouth

• Slow, intentional exhalation

• Gentle massage around the temples and jaw

• Awareness of anticipatory clenching

Eye Twitches: Tiny Muscles Carrying a Huge Load

Eye twitches are another common but misunderstood trauma response. They arise from:

• Constant scanning for threat

• Muscle fatigue from micro-bracing

• Suppressed emotion

• Sleep deprivation

Tips for relief:

• Close your eyes briefly to reset muscles

• Warm compresses over eyes

• Softening the brow intentionally

• Reducing screen time before bed

• Magnesium support

• Grounding to downshift the nervous system

Chest Tightness & “Heart Armor”

Chest tightness is often misunderstood as anxiety. For trauma survivors, it’s a protective shield over vulnerability. It develops when you:

• Avoid emotional expression

• Learn your feelings aren’t safe

• Regulate someone else’s emotions

• Shrink your presence

Ways to soften chest armor:

• Lie with a rolled towel under the spine

• Open-armed stretches

• “Heart breathing” visualization

• Gentle chest tapping to activate the vagus nerve

Digestive Distress: When Safety Shuts Down the Gut

When the nervous system is in fight-or-flight, digestion shuts down. This can cause:

• Bloating

• Nausea

• IBS

• Loss of appetite or overeating

Tips to support your gut:

• Eat slowly and mindfully

• Warm meals to relax stomach muscles

• Belly breathing to massage digestive organs

• Ground your feet while eating

Sleep Disturbances: The Body That Refuses to Power Down

Survivors often struggle to sleep, even when exhausted. Nighttime triggers include:

• Anticipation of conflict

• Past unpredictability

• Hypervigilance learned over years

Sleep-supporting strategies:

• Predictable bedtime routines

• Weighted blankets

• 4-8 breathing patterns

• Journaling unfinished thoughts before bed

• Reducing stimulation and creating symbolic safety

What All These Symptoms Have in Common

Every symptom — jaw tension, chest tightness, digestive issues, tinnitus, eye twitching, or sleep disturbances — stems from one truth: your body adapted to an unsafe environment. These are not signs of weakness. They are evidence of your resilience, your survival, and your strength.

Ways to support your body as it heals:

1. Notice the pattern: When do symptoms spike?

2. Regulate before you investigate: Slow your breath, feel your presence.

3. Reduce internal pressure: Identify what you’re anticipating.

4. Release tension gently: Jaw release, shoulder rolls, grounding.

5. Build safety rituals: Warm showers, music, dim lights, predictable rhythms.

Your body has been speaking for a long time. It is time to start listening.

If you’re experiencing these physical symptoms, know this: you are not failing. You are not imagining it. Your body is communicating its survival story — and with awareness, grounding, and consistent care, healing is possible.

Fawning Is Not Codependency: Understanding the Difference After Living With a Covert Narcissist

Many survivors of covert narcissistic abuse are told—by therapists, friends, books, or even themselves—that they’re codependent. But what they were actually doing… was fawning.

Fawning is a trauma response—a survival mechanism your nervous system uses in unsafe or unpredictable environments. Confusing fawning with codependency keeps many survivors stuck in shame and self-blame. Today, we’ll break down the difference and explain why it matters for your healing.

Why We Confuse Fawning With Codependency

At first glance, fawning and codependency can look similar:

• Both involve people-pleasing.

• Both appear compliant from the outside.

• Both prioritize another person over yourself.

• Both can make you lose your sense of self.

But the why behind these behaviors is completely different.

What Fawning Really Is

Fawning is a trauma response, like fight, flight, or freeze—but socially focused. Its message is:

“If I can calm you down, I stay safe.”

It’s involuntary, automatic, and activated by emotional danger, such as:

• Silent treatment

• Passive-aggressive behavior

• Sudden mood drops

• Explosive anger

• Cold withdrawal

• Unpredictable criticism

• Guilt trips

Fawning often appears in relationships where leaving feels impossible—emotionally, financially, socially, spiritually, or physically.

Example: The Silent Dinner Table
You sit down to dinner. The air is tense. He sighs loudly. Your stomach drops. Without thinking, you fawn: asking cheerful questions, offering drinks, apologizing unnecessarily. Not because you wanted his approval, but because your body believed: If I soothe him, I might survive the night.

What Codependency Really Is

Codependency is a learned pattern, not a survival response. It often develops from childhood experiences, beliefs about self-worth, and habits of caretaking. Its message is:

“If I can fix you, maybe you’ll love me.”

Codependency appears in safe, non-threatening situations, like helping a friend through repeated crises—not out of fear, but out of a desire to feel needed or valued.

Example: The Friend Who Can’t Get It Together
Your friend calls overwhelmed. You cancel your plans to help her finish a project, not because you’re afraid of punishment, but because you feel responsible for her happiness. This is codependency.

Side-by-Side Examples

1. Saying “It’s Okay”

• Fawning: You minimize your hurt in response to a partner’s anger to avoid emotional punishment.

• Codependency: You minimize your hurt to avoid conflict or awkwardness with someone who isn’t threatening.

2. Prioritizing Someone Else’s Needs

• Fawning: You take out the trash at 10 p.m., exhausted, because your partner’s sigh signals potential danger.

• Codependency: You stay late helping a co-worker because you feel responsible for her success and fear disappointing her.

3. Walking on Eggshells

• Fawning: You tiptoe around a partner’s moods because one wrong word could trigger emotional punishment.

• Codependency: You hold back your opinions or desires to maintain connection with someone safe but important to you.

The Nervous System Test

When adjusting your behavior for someone, ask yourself:

• Am I doing this because I’m afraid of what will happen if I don’t? → That’s fawning.

• Am I doing this because I think I need to be this way to be loved or accepted? → That’s codependency.

Your body already knows the difference—this test simply helps your awareness catch up.

Why This Distinction Matters

Many survivors blame themselves for behaviors that were never voluntary:

• “I should’ve had better boundaries.”

• “Why did I let him treat me that way?”

• “I’m the type who just loses themselves in relationships.”

Here’s the truth: You didn’t lose yourself. You protected yourself.

Fawning is not a personality flaw—it’s a survival response. Recognizing this distinction removes shame and opens the door to healing.

Final Thoughts — You’re Not Broken

If you take one thing away, let it be this:

Fawning is not a personality trait. It is not a flaw. It is your nervous system trying to save you.

You deserve to heal without the weight of undeserved self-blame. Your story matters. Your responses made sense. You are not weak—you were surviving.

Now, in safety, you get to learn a new way to live… where survival is no longer the goal. Freedom is.

How Unsafe People Erase Your Reality — And Safe People Restore It

Have you ever experienced something intense or frightening and wanted to share it… only to have the person in front of you dismiss it? This is one of the most subtle and confusing ways relationships shape our reality — and how some people can either restore your trust in yourself or make you doubt your own experiences.

This story isn’t just about a scary moment I had on the water — it’s about what happens after danger, and why the people around us matter so much.

Paddling Through Fight-or-Flight

It all started with a mama alligator while I was kayaking. My brain told me, “Nope, just skin, nothing to worry about,” but my body was in full survival mode. My arms were shaking, my breath short, my heart pounding.

After escaping the immediate danger, my nervous system was still on high alert. I was confused, trying to make sense of the adrenaline surging through me. Questions flooded my mind:

• Did that really happen?

• Was I imagining it?

• Maybe it wasn’t that big of a deal?

If you’ve ever lived with someone who constantly dismissed your feelings, minimized your experiences, or made you feel “too sensitive,” this moment will feel painfully familiar. That mental fog, that uncertainty — it’s exactly how emotional abuse can condition you to doubt yourself.

The Power of Safe People

When I reached my friend after the incident, she didn’t laugh. She didn’t dismiss me. She didn’t correct me or tell me I was being dramatic. Instead, she asked:

• “What did it look like?”

• “How big was it?”

• “Are you okay?”

• “Tell me what happened.”

Her curiosity, calmness, and genuine concern allowed me to feel safe. My nervous system slowly settled. My adrenaline subsided. For the first time in a while, I could trust my own experience.

This is what psychologists call co-regulation: when someone safe helps your nervous system return to balance. Their steadiness reminds your body and brain that it’s okay to feel, to process, and to trust yourself again.

The Danger of Unsafe People

Now imagine if I had reached my ex-husband instead. His response might have been:

• “That wasn’t an alligator.”

• “You’re overreacting.”

• “It was just a log.”

• “You always make things bigger than they are.”

This is what emotional abuse looks like in practice. Slowly, it erodes your perception of reality. You start to doubt your instincts, your memory, your very sense of what’s true. Over time, you can become dependent on their version of events — losing sight of your own reality entirely.

Why This Matters

When your nervous system is flooded with fear or adrenaline, your rational brain is offline. You’re vulnerable. You’re trying to process trauma — big or small — and your mind searches for safety.

• Safe people help you land back in your body and reclaim your reality.

• Unsafe people make you doubt yourself, creating dependency and confusion.

This is how covert narcissistic abuse subtly steals your sense of truth — not through outright force, but through constant dismissal and correction.

Healing Through Validation

A few days after the kayaking incident, my friend validated my story again. She remembered the exact details — the color, the snout, the way the alligator looked.

She didn’t just validate the story. She validated me: my ability to notice, interpret, and remember. That validation reminded me that my perceptions mattered and that I could trust my own eyes again.

For survivors of covert narcissistic abuse, this is a crucial reminder: healing begins when someone else believes you. It grows when you are safe. And it deepens when you are supported instead of silenced.

When Reality Has Been Stolen

For many people, emotional abuse isn’t just about big dramatic events — it’s the slow, constant erasure of reality:

• Your feelings dismissed

• Your needs minimized

• Your instincts overridden

• Your stories corrected

Over time, you shrink, edit, and doubt yourself — doing to yourself what others have been doing all along. It’s exhausting, disorienting, and isolating.

The Path to Healing

Recovery begins the moment you are believed. It strengthens with safe connections. Your nervous system needs:

• People who help you process instead of suppress

• People who help you feel instead of shut down

• People who help you return to yourself instead of disconnect

You deserve to trust yourself. You deserve to reclaim your reality. And it’s never too late to start.

Takeaway

Sometimes, the real danger isn’t the threat itself — it’s coming home and telling the wrong person about it. Safe people restore your reality. Unsafe people take it away.

Piece by piece, moment by moment, safe connection by safe connection, you can get your reality back. And in that process, you can finally learn to trust yourself again.

Pull Back Your Supply: Seeing the Genuine Nature of Your Relationship

Have you ever wondered what would happen if you stopped pouring all your energy into that special someone?
What if you shifted even a small portion of that energy into yourself—your well-being, your hobbies, your friendships, your peace?

Here’s the thing: in a healthy relationship, that shift would be welcomed, even celebrated.
But in a relationship with a covert narcissist, it exposes the truth like nothing else.

Pulling back your supply isn’t about being mean. It’s about watching, listening, and learning what’s really underneath.

Because sometimes, self-care is more than bubble baths and candles. Sometimes, it’s the ultimate test of whether your partner can survive without your constant attention.

What Is “Supply”?

Let’s start with this: supply is your attention. Your emotional labor. Your caretaking.

It’s every time you smile to keep the peace.
Every time you anticipate their needs before they even say them.
Every time you carry the weight of their moods, disappointments, and messes.

Covert narcissists don’t thrive on their own—they survive by siphoning your energy.
And many of us don’t even realize how much we’re giving away until we’re empty.

One woman told me,

“I didn’t notice it at first. It started small—running errands, fixing his plate, answering his texts right away. But years later, I realized I couldn’t remember the last decision I made that was just for me.”

That’s supply. And you’ve been feeding it.

The Test of Pulling Back

So what happens when you stop?

What happens when you take one small step back—not in cruelty, but in self-care?

Maybe you go for a walk after dinner instead of watching TV together.
Maybe you say, “I think I’ll spend Saturday painting,” instead of bending over backward for their plans.
Maybe you go to bed early with a book instead of waiting up for them.

This is not punishment. It’s a shift—a reclaiming of your life.
And it’s one of the most powerful ways to see the genuine nature of your relationship.

What Healthy Love Looks Like

If you’ve never been in a healthy relationship, you might not know what one looks like.

In a healthy relationship, pouring energy into yourself isn’t a crisis. It isn’t betrayal. It’s balance.

Your healthy partner enjoys space to pour into themselves too. They understand that your self-care is part of the rhythm of life.

They know that a healthier you means a healthier relationship.

A healthy partner says things like:

“You should go for your run—I’ll get dinner started.”

“Take that class—you’ve wanted to for ages.”

“I’ll miss you, but I want you to go on that trip with your friends.”

One listener told me about the first time she took a yoga retreat for the weekend. She was terrified to tell her husband—she expected criticism or guilt.

Instead, he packed her a snack bag and said,

“I’m so proud of you for doing this for yourself.”

She cried. She said, “It was the first time I had ever been encouraged like that.”

That’s the bar. That’s what love should look like.

In healthy love, your self-care is not a threat—it’s part of the relationship.

What Happens with a Covert Narcissist

Now let’s look at the other side.

In a relationship with a covert narcissist, that same shift—the one that’s celebrated in a healthy partnership—becomes a threat.

The moment your attention shifts, they panic.

They don’t have a solid sense of self. They survive by attaching to you and draining your energy. When your energy turns inward, it exposes their emptiness.

Instead of celebrating your self-care, they resent it.
Instead of saying, “I’m glad you’re taking care of yourself,” they send messages, either loudly or silently:

“How dare you take your eyes off me?”

It comes out in two main ways:

Explosions – Anger, accusations, emotional outbursts.
Implosions – Sulking, withdrawing, the cold silence that fills the room like fog.

Explosions: The Tantrums of Control

Explosions can look like:

• Yelling or dramatic fights

• Guilt trips: “You never loved me anyway.”

• Threats of abandonment: “Why don’t you just leave if you don’t want to spend time with me?”

It’s like living with a toddler who missed a nap. The tantrums erupt because you stopped clapping for their performance.

Implosions: The Quiet Punishment

Implosions are quieter but just as damaging. They withdraw. They turn their back to you in bed. They give you the silent treatment.

One woman told me,

“The silence was worse than yelling. At least with yelling, I knew where I stood. But with silence, I felt like I was drowning in a void.”

That’s the covert part of covert narcissism—it’s not always loud. Sometimes it’s the absence of connection that hurts the most.

The Childlike Core

When you stop feeding a covert narcissist, you get to see what’s underneath.

Pulling back your supply forces the truth into the light.

One survivor told me,

“The day I skipped folding his laundry and went for a run instead, he lost his mind. Over laundry. That’s when I saw it—he didn’t love me. He loved what I did for him.”

That’s not partnership. It’s a childlike desperation for attention.

Picture a toddler in the grocery store who isn’t allowed to have a candy bar.
There’s crying, stomping, dramatic collapsing on the floor.

The only difference with a covert narcissist is that they’re taller and pay taxes.

Healthy adults can self-soothe.
They can be alone.
They can celebrate your independence.

A covert narcissist cannot. Their survival depends on you never looking away.

Practical Ways to Pull Back Your Supply

Here are small ways to start reclaiming yourself:

• Reclaim small choices. Order the food you want. Watch the movie you prefer.

• Take up space. Sit with your book instead of engaging in their drama.

• Say no. Decline a request that drains you.

• Invest in yourself. Join a class. Take a walk. Explore something new.

Each small act of independence heals you—and reveals them.

What to Expect

When you pull back your supply, expect backlash. Expect guilt trips. Expect tantrums or silence.

But also expect clarity.

Because if your relationship cannot survive you taking care of yourself, it’s not a partnership. It’s a contract where you keep giving, and they keep taking.

Reflection Exercise

Try this:

1. Choose one small act of self-care this week.

2. Notice their reaction—without explaining or defending.

3. Journal what you observed. Ask yourself:

   • Did I feel supported or punished?

   • Did their response leave me lighter or heavier?

That reflection may reveal more than words ever could.

The Takeaway

Pulling back your supply is not about cruelty—it’s about honesty.

Because love celebrates your independence. Control punishes it.

If your partner supports your self-care, there’s health.
If they punish it, there’s your truth.

Your worth isn’t found in endlessly giving yourself away.
Your worth is already inside of you.

It’s time to reclaim it.

Leaving a Covert Narcissist: The 3 Stages of Physical, Emotional, and Mental Freedom

People often ask, “Why don’t you just leave?”
But if you’ve ever been in a relationship with a covert narcissist, you know — it’s not that simple.
Leaving isn’t just about walking out the door. It’s about leaving in stages: physically, emotionally, and mentally.

If the relationship is physically abusive, your body usually leaves first. Your survival instincts take over.
But when it’s emotionally abusive, it’s your heart that leaves first — long before your body can pack a bag.
And then there’s the mental leaving — the hardest and slowest part. Even years later, you might still find them living rent-free in your head, criticizing your choices and haunting your thoughts.

Leaving a covert narcissist isn’t a one-time event. It’s a process — one that unfolds layer by layer, one step at a time.

Stage 1: Leaving Physically

In physically abusive relationships, the danger is visible. Your body becomes the target, and your nervous system knows it’s not safe.
Many survivors describe it like this: “I grabbed my kids, I grabbed a bag, and I ran out the door in the middle of the night.” There’s often no time to plan. Just instinct. Just survival.

But here’s what outsiders often don’t understand — you can leave physically, and still feel tied emotionally and mentally.
Your body might be safe, but your soul is still tangled in the what-ifs, the apologies, the good memories. You may even feel guilty for leaving.

Think of it like slamming the door on a burning house — you’re safe from the flames, but the smoke still lingers in your lungs.

Stage 2: Leaving Emotionally

Emotional abuse works differently. There are no visible bruises, but the damage runs deep — the slow erosion of your self-worth, the endless gaslighting, the feeling that you’re never enough.

In these relationships, you leave emotionally long before you leave physically.
You stop feeling love. You stop feeling safe. You stop feeling you.

One client once told me, “I was gone two years before I ever moved out. My heart had checked out, but my body was still in the house.”

You start pulling away quietly. You stop sharing your inner world because it’s never safe. You stop hoping for change because you’ve learned it never comes.
And little by little, you begin whispering to yourself: This is abuse. This is not love. This is not okay.

Eventually, that emotional distance becomes the foundation for physical freedom.

Stage 3: Leaving Mentally — The Final Step

This is the hardest one — because leaving mentally means reclaiming your own mind.
You might have left physically and emotionally, but their voice still echoes in your head. You second-guess yourself, wondering how they’d react. You replay old arguments in your mind, still trying to defend yourself to someone who’s no longer even there.

That’s what it means to not yet be free — when their voice still has power, even in their absence.

Leaving mentally means rewriting your inner dialogue. It means catching that familiar voice that says, “You’ll never get anything right,” and replacing it with your own.
It means journaling, therapy, coaching — doing whatever helps you rebuild the voice that’s truly yours.

One woman once told me, “I’d been divorced for three years, but he still lived rent-free in my head. Every decision, I’d ask myself how he would react. That’s when I realized I wasn’t truly free yet.”

When you leave mentally, you breathe differently. You make choices without fear. You stop waiting for permission.
That’s when healing becomes real.

Why This Difference Matters

Understanding these stages matters because survivors often judge themselves harshly.

• If you left physically, you might wonder why you still miss them.

• If you’ve left emotionally, you might wonder why you’re still there.

• And if you’ve left both, you might wonder why their voice still echoes in your head.

All of it is normal. All of it is part of the process. None of it means you’re weak.
It means you’re human — and that healing is unfolding at its own pace.

Practical Tools for Each Type of Leaving

Here are small, powerful steps for wherever you are in your journey:

1. Leaving Physically — Create a Safety Plan

Even if you’re not ready to act, planning restores a sense of control.
Keep a list of emergency contacts, a packed bag with essentials, copies of important documents, and a backup set of keys.
Just knowing you have a plan can help you breathe easier.

2. Leaving Emotionally — Build Internal Boundaries

Start separating what’s yours from what’s theirs.
When they call you “too sensitive” or “selfish,” remind yourself:
“That belongs to you, not to me.”
You can’t stop their projections, but you can stop absorbing them.

3. Leaving Mentally — Flip the Script

If they still show up in your head, turn that moment into something positive.
Use it as a cue for action — journal a thought, take a deep breath, open a language app, stretch, pray, whatever centers you.
Make their voice the reminder to return to yourself.

As I like to say: if they’re going to haunt your thoughts, the least they can do is contribute to your growth.

Giving Yourself Permission

Stop judging the order in which you leave.
Your brain, heart, and body are all doing the best they can to survive.

If you’ve left physically but your heart still aches — give yourself grace.
If you’ve left emotionally but your body’s still there — trust that you’re on your way out.
If you’ve left both but their voice still lingers — healing will come with time.

Leaving isn’t one moment — it’s a process.
And every step, every quiet act of courage, is part of reclaiming your freedom.

Final Thoughts

Leaving a covert narcissist isn’t about proving strength. It’s about remembering your worth.
It’s about learning that freedom comes in layers — physical, emotional, and mental — and that every part of you deserves to be free.

Your story matters. You deserve to be heard without judgment.
And no matter where you are in the process, you’re already walking toward peace.

Endless Attempts, Zero Progress: Can a Covert Narcissist Ever Wake Up?

Have you ever asked yourself if the person you’re with could ever truly see the truth about themselves? Maybe you’ve tried giving them books, sharing articles, or gently explaining patterns of covert narcissism. You hoped, begged, and waited for that “aha moment,” only to be met with shutdown, deflection, or blame.

If this sounds familiar, you’re not alone. Many of us have been there—stuck in the cycle of trying to make them wake up, all while losing pieces of ourselves in the process.

The Temptation to Hand Them the Mirror

When I first learned about covert narcissism, I believed that if I could just find the right words, my husband could finally understand. I thought that if I shared the truth—explained the patterns, gave examples, offered resources—he would finally “update” his system.

But the progress bar never moved. Every attempt backfired. My insights, tools, and understanding didn’t lead to change—they led to attacks, emotional shutdown, and more confusion.

It’s natural to want to show them the mirror. We think: if they can recognize narcissism in others, surely they can see it in themselves. But covert narcissistic defenses aren’t fragile—they’re ironclad. Any attempt to confront them—even with love and compassion—is often seen as an assault.

Why It Rarely Works

Covert narcissism is as much about protection as it is about manipulation. Their ego is heavily guarded, and the moment someone tries to expose their inner truth, the system crashes. Even if they’ve acknowledged narcissism in others, the mirror is too painful to face.

This is why “helping” them rarely results in change. The shift must come from within them, not from external attempts. And while that hope can feel comforting, it’s often what keeps you stuck.

The Danger of Hope

It’s human to want to believe that the “good person” inside them might awaken. That hope is not foolish—it’s love. But it’s also dangerous if it prevents you from protecting yourself or your children. No matter how buried, that goodness doesn’t surface until they choose to face themselves—and that moment is not under your control.

Eventually, I stopped trying to reboot their system. I started building a new one for myself. I stopped hoping they would wake up—and started waking myself up instead.

If Change Ever Happens… It’s Not Because You Made It Happen

Change in a narcissist, if it happens at all, is rare. It comes from a personal breaking point, a moment they cannot deflect from, and the hard work of self-reflection. It is never the result of someone else holding up a mirror.

You are not wrong for hoping or trying. But it’s okay to stop. It’s okay to let go and redirect that energy to yourself.

Stop Hitting “Retry” and Start Healing Yourself

Imagine waiting for your phone to update, clicking “retry” endlessly, only to watch the progress bar freeze at 3%. That’s what it’s like hoping a covert narcissist will suddenly “see it.”

Every attempt to change them consumes your energy, steals your peace, and keeps you stuck in a cycle that only they control. Your life, your healing, and your freedom do not need to wait for their awakening.

You are not broken because they can’t see it. You are wise for recognizing when it’s time to prioritize your own life.

Moving Forward

It’s okay to stop trying to save them. It’s okay to say, “Yes, I did give up on us,” without defense, without shame. You’ve loved. You’ve tried. You’ve done more than most would.

Today is the day to look inside yourself with care and compassion. To work through the pain, protect yourself from further harm, and reclaim your life. Healing starts here, and it starts with you.

You deserve peace. You deserve calm. And you deserve to stop waiting for someone else’s growth to validate your own.

Call to Action:

If you’re ready to take the next step in your healing journey, I’m here to help. Just a few coaching sessions can guide you toward clarity, empowerment, and reclaiming your peace. Don’t wait—your path to healing begins today.

Covert Narcissism: It’s Not What They Said, It’s How They Said It

Have you ever asked yourself, “Am I the narcissist?”

It’s one of the most common fears I hear from survivors of covert narcissistic abuse. And here’s why: covert narcissists often use the very same words you do. At times, they mirror you. They accuse you of doing exactly what they’re doing. They’ll say things like, “You never listen,” “You always bring up the past,” or “Nothing ever gets resolved.” And these are the very things you are trying to communicate to them.

It’s confusing, disorienting, and often makes you second-guess yourself. But here’s the truth: the difference doesn’t lie in the words. It lies in the intentions behind them.

It’s not just about what is said, but how it is said, the energy behind it, and the capacity to follow through. Let’s break it down.

Why This Feels So Confusing

In a relationship with a covert narcissist, you often end up in a hall of mirrors. You hear your own words coming back at you—but twisted. You recognize your own actions reflected back—but weaponized. Over time, it makes you wonder, “Maybe they’re right. Maybe I’m the toxic one.”

The truth? Intent is everything.

Examples of “Same Words, Different Worlds”

1. “We Need to Talk”

• You: Your heart is pounding. You want to clear the air, reconnect, and repair.

• Them: It’s a warning. They’ve decided you’ve done something wrong. You’re in for a lecture or guilt trip.

2. “You Never Listen to Me”

• You: A desperate plea to be heard. You want connection.

• Them: A demand for compliance. Listening isn’t about understanding; it’s about agreeing with their version of reality.

3. “I Don’t Want to Fight”

• You: An olive branch. You want peace.

• Them: A shutdown tactic. A way to avoid accountability while blaming you if conflict occurs.

4. “I’m Sorry”

• You: Heartfelt and sincere, with a willingness to repair.

• Them: Hollow or manipulative. Sometimes followed by a “but…” or used to end a conversation without real change.

5. Silence

• You: A pause to protect yourself, collect your thoughts, or prevent escalation.

• Them: A weapon. Punishment, control, and a tool to make you chase, apologize, or feel anxious.

6. Bringing Up the Past

• You: A desire for closure and healing.

• Them: Control and manipulation. Past mistakes are ammunition, not lessons.

The Core Difference: Intent & Capacity

It’s not just the words—it’s the intent and the capacity behind them.

• Survivors are motivated by connection, repair, and growth. You bring up the past to close wounds, apologize to heal, and communicate to deepen understanding.

• Narcissists are motivated by control, avoidance, and ego protection. They mimic repair, pull out past mistakes for leverage, and use words to manipulate or dominate.

Even if you give a narcissist the exact script for healthy communication, they lack the emotional capacity to follow through consistently. Vulnerability, humility, and accountability are foreign concepts to them—they avoid them at all costs.

A Check-In for You

If you find yourself asking, “Am I the narcissist?”—stop. Instead, ask yourself:

• Am I willing to take responsibility when I’ve hurt someone?

• Am I genuinely seeking resolution, or trying to control and silence?

Here’s the truth: narcissists don’t sit around wondering if they’re narcissists. Survivors do. That doubt itself is proof of your empathy.

Closing Thoughts

If you’ve been told you can’t let things go, that you’re always bringing up the past, or that nothing ever gets resolved—remember:

It’s not proof that you’re the problem. It’s proof that you’re longing for repair in a relationship with someone who refuses to do it.

The same words may come out of both mouths, but the meaning and outcome reveal the truth:

• Their intent is control.

• Yours is connection.

And that, my friend, makes all the difference.

Covert Narcissism 102: The Advanced Curriculum Part 2

Welcome Back, Survivors
After learning the basics of covert narcissism—half-apologies, gaslighting, silent treatment, and baiting—you’ve probably realized that the advanced techniques are far more insidious. These are the behaviors that keep you trapped, confused, and second-guessing yourself.

Understanding them is the first step to reclaiming your clarity and your peace.

Chapter 7: How to Weaponize Forgetfulness

Some covert narcissists master selective memory: they forget important moments that matter to you—birthdays, anniversaries, work achievements—but never fail to remember every flaw or mistake.

They use these memories like weapons in arguments:

• “Remember when you embarrassed me in front of my friends… twelve years ago?”

• “You always forget the recycling—just like last March, and the March before that.”

The goal is control: erasing what matters to you and amplifying every misstep.

Chapter 8: Control Through Chaos

Inconsistent behavior is another advanced tactic. One day, they may be warm and loving; the next, cold and critical.

This unpredictability keeps you walking on eggshells, apologizing preemptively, and constantly guessing what will happen next.

It’s not love—it’s emotional roulette. And in this game, the house always wins.

Chapter 9: The Eternal Victim

No matter what happens, the covert narcissist positions themselves as the one always wronged.

Lost a job? The world is out to get them.
Got a ticket? The cop was targeting them.
Even when you express your pain, theirs must always come first.

This tactic keeps you confused and shifting your focus away from your own needs, always consoling the “victim” while your feelings are minimized.

Chapter 10: Hijacking Holidays

Special occasions are prime opportunities for manipulation. Birthdays, anniversaries, holidays—even vacations—can become battlegrounds:

• Forgetting a birthday, then criticizing your disappointment.

• Starting a fight on Christmas Eve so the day revolves around apologies rather than celebration.

• Creating chaos before family events to leave you unsettled.

Holidays are not about joy—they are about control.

Chapter 11: Rewrite History Like a Pro

Covert narcissists often insist the past aligns with their narrative. They deny, distort, or dismiss your memories:

• “That’s not what I said at all.”

• “I don’t remember it, so it must not have been important.”

• “You’re too sensitive; nobody else would have taken it that way.”

The repetition is designed to make you doubt yourself and question your own reality.

Chapter 12: Keep Them Hooked

Intermittent kindness is used to maintain attachment while preventing security:

• Offering affection after long periods of withdrawal.

• Planning a perfect evening, then reverting to coldness.

• Whispering love just enough to keep you tethered.

This inconsistency creates emotional dependency, similar to the reward systems used in casinos: hope mixed with despair keeps you chasing something that was never fully yours.

Graduation: Reclaiming Your Power

If any of these behaviors sound familiar, you’ve likely experienced them firsthand. Recognizing them is the first step toward freedom.

You have survived:

• Gaslighting, deflection, and manipulation

• Hijacked holidays and special occasions

• Rewritten history and emotional chaos

Now it’s time to reclaim your power. The syllabus of covert narcissism no longer defines you. Peace becomes your curriculum, joy your assignment, and healing your final grade.

You are not a student anymore. You are the graduate.

Covert Narcissism 101: The Textbook They All Seem to Have Read (Part 1)

Have you ever noticed that every covert narcissist seems to follow the exact same script?

It’s almost eerie—like they all took the same course, learned the same lines, and passed the same final exam in emotional manipulation.

Sometimes, it feels as though they sat in a classroom together, notebooks open, while some smug professor stood at the chalkboard saying:

“Welcome to Covert Narcissism 101. In this class, you’ll learn how to confuse, control, and crush your partner’s spirit—all while looking like the nicest person in the room.”

Well, I found the textbook.
And today, we’re going to read through a few chapters together.

If you’ve lived with a covert narcissist, this will feel hauntingly familiar. You might even find yourself thinking, Wait… did my partner major in this?

Let’s open the syllabus.

Syllabus for Covert Narcissism 101

Professor: Dr. I.M. Blameless
Office Hours: Never. Don’t even ask.
Prerequisites: Basic selfishness and a strong aversion to accountability.
Course Materials: One fragile ego, unlimited projection, and a partner with empathy.

Course Description:
Learn how to erode someone’s confidence, rewrite history, and maintain the perfect image in public while being impossible in private. By the end of the semester, you’ll have your partner questioning their sanity—and, with any luck, apologizing to you for the damage you caused.

Learning Objectives:

• Master the half-apology in under 30 seconds.

• Perfect the art of gaslighting until your partner Googles, “Am I going crazy?”

• Implement silent treatments that ensure nothing ever gets resolved.

• Cultivate a shiny public image that makes your partner look ungrateful.

• Weaponize sighs, eye-rolls, and martyrdom for maximum effect.

Grading:

• 50% Deflection

• 30% Playing the Victim

• 20% Selective Memory
  Pass/Fail only. (Spoiler: you always pass, your partner always fails.)

Chapter 1: The Art of the Half-Apology

Textbook says:

“Always say, ‘I’m sorry you feel that way,’ never *‘I’m sorry I hurt you.’”

Here’s how it looks in real life:
Your spouse says, “That comment in front of your friends embarrassed me.”
You sigh deeply and reply, “I’m sorry you’re so sensitive. I didn’t mean it like that.”

You’ve just denied the hurt, shifted the blame, and made them feel weak—all in one breath.

Advanced students might add an eye-roll or mutter, “You’re too emotional.”
If your partner ends up apologizing to you, that’s extra credit.

One listener told me her husband said, “I’m sorry… but you do know you bring out the worst in me, right?”
She thanked him. Because she was so desperate for any apology that she grabbed the crumbs.

That’s straight from Chapter 1.

Chapter 2: Gaslighting 101

Ah yes—the gold standard.

Textbook says:

“When your partner calls you out, deny, deny, deny. And if denial doesn’t work, accuse them of being crazy.”

They call you out calmly. You wrinkle your forehead and say, “I never said that. Why are you making things up?”
They quote your words back exactly. You smirk: “Wow, you must have a really active imagination.”

Bonus points if you whisper, “I didn’t realize you were this unstable.”

One woman told me her husband denied so many things that she started keeping a journal—dates, quotes, everything. When she finally showed it to him, he said, “Wow, you’ve been keeping a record of me? That’s creepy. You’re the abuser here.”

Straight out of the manual.
If they have evidence, accuse them of being controlling.
If they have recordings, call it stalking.
Rule number one: Never, ever take responsibility.

Chapter 3: Emotional Ghosting

Textbook says:

“Conflicts are never to be resolved. The silent treatment is your Swiss Army knife—carry it everywhere.”

When they try to talk about last night’s argument, cross your arms, stare at your phone, and say, “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

If they push harder, escalate—leave the room, slam a door, or disappear overnight.
When you return, just shrug: “I needed space from your drama.”

They’ll end up apologizing just to get back to peace, not realizing that peace never comes.

This tactic keeps them off balance. It keeps you in control.

Chapter 4: Public Image vs. Private Hell

In public, they’re the dream spouse—smiling, attentive, affectionate.
They volunteer, they charm, they sparkle.

Behind closed doors, they criticize the way you breathe.

This split creates the perfect trap:
When you finally tell someone the truth, no one believes you.

A client once told me, “He would put his arm around me at dinner parties, telling everyone how amazing I am. The minute we got in the car, he’d whisper, ‘Don’t think you fooled anyone. Everyone knows you’re a burden.’”

That’s the covert narcissist playbook.
A double life—one adored by the world, one that slowly destroys yours.

Chapter 5: Mastering Martyrdom

Textbook says:

“If life doesn’t go your way, sigh loudly. Rub your temples. Mutter things like, ‘Why does everything have to be so hard?’ If they don’t comfort you, act betrayed.”

They act exhausted, misunderstood, and perpetually burdened.
You rush to pick up the slack—dishes, kids, everything—because guilt works better than control.

And when you finally collapse into bed? They sigh, “I just wish you cared about me more.”

Martyrdom turns selfishness into sainthood—and your exhaustion into proof that you’re the problem.

Chapter 6: Baiting for Sport

When attention runs low, a covert narcissist goes fishing.

“Wow, another new outfit? Must be nice to spend money while I’m slaving away.”

“Are you really going to eat that?”

“You’re just like your mother.”

If you react, you’re emotional.
If you don’t, you’re cold.
Either way—they win.

One woman told me her partner would bring up her late father just to watch her break down. Then he’d smirk and say, “Touchy subject much?”
That’s not conversation—it’s cruelty disguised as curiosity.

Closing Thoughts: The Class You Never Signed Up For

And there you have it—the opening chapters of Covert Narcissism 101.

In our next “class,” we’ll tackle the advanced curriculum: Hijacking Holidays, Rewriting History, and Making You Doubt Your Reality for Fun and Profit.

You see, when you live with a covert narcissist, it’s not a relationship—it’s an education you never asked for.
An education in double standards, in moving goalposts, in questioning your own sanity.

You learn to read the room like a weather report.
To sense the storm before it breaks.
To shrink yourself so small that you almost disappear.

But here’s the truth:
Their textbook might feel universal, but their power is not.

Once you see the syllabus for what it is—a handbook of manipulation—you can close the book.
You can stop attending the lectures.
You can walk out of the classroom and start writing your own story.

Because you are not the failing student here.
You’re the one who will graduate—with clarity, truth, and strength that no covert narcissist can ever take away.

Take a deep breath.
Class dismissed—for today.

Forever Young, Forever Stuck: The Peter Pan World of Covert Narcissists

When you first meet them, it feels like magic. They’re playful, charming, adventurous—the kind of person who sweeps you off your feet and makes life feel light. But slowly, you realize the truth: all the fun comes with a cost.

Because when life gets real—when accountability, responsibility, or emotional depth show up—they vanish. They deflect. They sulk. They blame. And you’re left carrying the weight of a relationship that never grows, while they float off into their fantasy world.

Welcome to the Peter Pan world of covert narcissists—where one partner refuses to grow up and the other gets stuck trying to hold everything together.

Peter (or Paula) Pan: The Adult Who Refuses to Grow Up

We all know the story of Peter Pan—the boy who never wanted to grow up. In relationships with covert narcissists, it often feels exactly like that: you’re partnered with someone stuck in emotional childhood, refusing to face responsibility.

And while Peter Pan is written as a boy, let’s be clear: covert narcissism is not gendered. Some of you are living with a covert narcissistic wife—so let’s call her Paula Pan. She can be just as charming, just as playful, just as “fun”—and just as destructive when reality shows up.

At first, Peter or Paula feels magnetic. They’re spontaneous, adventurous, always ready for fun. But when life gets tough—when accountability, conflict, or emotional depth show up—they disappear. They lash out. They retreat into blame.

Why? Because fun is easy. Responsibility is not.

Here are the patterns you’ll often see:

1. Avoid accountability at all costs – They deny, deflect, or blame rather than simply owning their mistakes.

2. Express feelings immaturely – Sulking, sarcasm, or silent treatments instead of healthy communication.

3. Refuse self-care – They avoid growth, neglect responsibilities, and expect you to pick up the slack.

4. Blame everyone else – From traffic to bosses to you—it’s always someone else’s fault.

5. Procrastinate endlessly – Big dreams, no follow-through. They live in the fantasy, not the reality.

6. Sabotage progress – Quitting therapy, blowing up opportunities, or starting fights right before important events.

7. Disguise irresponsibility as “freedom” – Claiming independence when really they just want freedom from consequences.

They may talk a big game about their potential, but in practice, they stay stuck—and drag you into Never Never Land with them.

Wendy (or William): The One Who Mothers the Narcissist

In the original story, Wendy follows Peter Pan to Never Never Land. She cooks, comforts, and mothers the Lost Boys while Peter plays. In covert narcissistic relationships, that caretaker role is handed to you.

And it’s not limited to women. If you’re living with Paula Pan, then you’ve likely found yourself in the role of William—carrying the responsibilities your partner refuses to face.

Here’s how it plays out:

• You carry the emotional weight – You’re the one reading books, seeking solutions, and trying to repair conflict.

• You manage their moods – You scan the room like a thermostat, constantly adjusting yourself to avoid their reactions.

• You walk on eggshells – Silencing your truth to avoid their shutdowns, sarcasm, or blame.

• You pick up the slack – Bills, kids, chores, planning, emotional repair—it’s all on you.

• You silence your needs – Shrinking yourself so you don’t upset them.

• You fear abandonment – Keeping quiet because even their silence or withdrawal feels like rejection.

You become the stabilizer, the fixer, the adult in the room. But here’s the hard truth: Wendy’s care never makes Peter grow up. It only enables him to stay a child.

Never Never Land: Where Truth Goes to Die

Covert narcissists live in a fantasy world where nothing hard ever gets faced. And when you live with one, you get dragged there too.

This is what Never Never Land looks like in real life:

• Never talked about – Every hard conversation is deflected, minimized, or shut down.

• Never processed – Pain is swept under the rug instead of worked through.

• Never acknowledged – They deny, dismiss, or rewrite reality.

• Never healed – Wounds pile up because nothing is resolved.

• Never forgiven – Mistakes (yours or theirs) become ammunition, not points of repair.

The result? A lifetime of unresolved pain, carried by you. Your nervous system remembers what they erase. You live in a constant fog of confusion, self-doubt, and loneliness.

And that’s the point: if nothing is ever addressed, nothing is ever their fault.

You Deserve a Life Outside of Never Never Land

Here’s what I want you to hear today:

You do not have to stay in Never Never Land.
You do not have to keep playing Wendy—or William.
And you do not have to keep waiting for Peter or Paula to grow up.

You deserve closure.
You deserve emotional safety.
You deserve a relationship where reality is acknowledged, not erased.

And if you’re ready to take that next step—to grow, to heal, and to stop performing in someone else’s fantasy world—know this: you don’t have to walk that path alone.

I Didn’t Know the Words, But I Knew the Feeling of Covert Narcissism

There were countless nights I sat on the couch in silence, staring into the quiet, trying to figure out why I couldn’t communicate with him.

I would replay conversations like a broken record, searching for the exact moment I must have gone wrong. Why couldn’t I find the right words? Why did everything I said get twisted? Why did nothing ever land the way I intended?

I told myself that next time would be different. Next time, I’d be calmer, more patient, more understanding. Next time, I’d explain it better.

But next time always ended the same.

No matter how gentle, compassionate, or careful I was, he’d turn my words around. He’d zero in on one phrase and twist it into the entire issue. He’d accuse me of being too sensitive, or remind me of all the ways I had failed him in the past.

And I’d end up right back on that couch—confused, frustrated, doubting myself, and utterly exhausted.

What I didn’t know then was this: I wasn’t failing at communication. I was trying to build connection with someone who didn’t want a real, mutual, honest conversation. I thought I was searching for the right words, but what I was really searching for was a safe place to connect—something I was never going to get.

And that’s why I want to share this truth: I didn’t have the words for what was happening, but I knew how it felt.

When You Don’t Know the Words, But You Know the Feeling

Like so many survivors of covert narcissistic abuse, I didn’t know the terms at first.

• I didn’t know the word gaslighting, but I knew the spinning confusion and desperate need to prove myself.

• I didn’t know circular conversation, but I knew the exhaustion of talking in circles until my head hurt.

• I didn’t know moving goalposts, but I knew the pain of never being able to get it right.

• I didn’t know walking on eggshells, but I knew the constant tension of holding my breath in my own home.

For years, I thought I was the problem—that if I could just explain myself better, everything would be okay. But here’s what I finally realized: it was never about finding the “right” words. It was about living with someone who made sure no words would ever be right.

Naming these tactics isn’t about labeling the other person. It’s about reclaiming your story and validating what you’ve lived through.

Gaslighting — “I Never Said That”

Gaslighting is more than lying—it’s rewriting reality right in front of you and demanding that you go along with it.

I remember vividly: I’d bring up something he had clearly said, and he’d respond with, “I never said that.” My stomach would drop, my head would spin, and suddenly I’d be second-guessing myself even though I knew the truth.

Instead of mutual honesty, I hit a brick wall of certainty: “I always remember what I said. You’re wrong.”

The result? I learned to back down for peace. That’s the cost of gaslighting—it steals your trust in your own reality.

Circular Conversations — The Emotional Maze

I thought I was having a real conversation, but instead I was walking into a maze with no exit.

I’d bring up something important, but within minutes, the topic shifted—suddenly it was about my tone, my supposed misunderstanding, or something I did years ago.

Every attempt to circle back only made it worse. By the end, I was drained, apologizing just to end the tension. And the original issue? It vanished into thin air, unresolved.

That’s the cruelty of circular conversations. They’re not about resolution. They’re about control.

Moving Goalposts — “If I Could Just Get It Right…”

Living with moving goalposts feels like chasing a target that keeps changing:

• Show affection? You’re smothering.

• Give space? You’re cold.

• Ask questions? You’re interrogating.

• Stay quiet? You don’t care.

No matter what you do, it’s never enough. And so you keep chasing, thinking if you could just find the formula, things would finally be okay.

But the truth is, enough was never the goal. The goal was to keep you scrambling, doubting yourself, and believing you were the problem.

Walking on Eggshells — When Peace Becomes a Performance

At first, I didn’t connect the phrase “walking on eggshells” to my own marriage. But looking back, that’s exactly what I was doing.

I learned to monitor every mood, every sigh, every tone. If his keys clattered on the counter a certain way, I knew not to bring up bills. If his answers were short, I knew to keep my stories to myself.

I thought I was being considerate. The truth? I was performing peace to avoid conflict.

Walking on eggshells isn’t just about avoiding blowups. It’s about disappearing in your own home so someone else can take up all the space.

Why Language Matters in Healing

Here’s why naming these tactics matters:

• It validates your reality.

• It helps you connect the dots.

• It frees you from believing you’re the problem.

When you finally have the words, it’s like oxygen. You can breathe again. You can say, “I wasn’t crazy. I wasn’t dramatic. I was manipulated.”

Language doesn’t just describe what happened—it liberates you.

The Power of Language — Not to Label Them, But to Free You

This isn’t about diagnosing your partner or obsessing over labels. Healing doesn’t come from naming them—it comes from reclaiming you.

The language of covert narcissistic abuse is not a weapon. It’s a lifeline. It gives form to the fog. It gives you the ability to tell your story in a way that makes sense.

For so long, you may have been drowning in feelings you couldn’t explain. But now? Now you have the words. Not to attack. Not to label. But to speak your truth. And that’s where healing begins.

Closing Thoughts

You didn’t need the words back then to know the truth. You felt it.

But now that you have them, you get to rewrite the story. You get to connect the dots, reclaim your voice, and walk forward with clarity.

You are not alone. You are not crazy. And this knowing—this naming—is where healing truly begins.

✅ If this resonates with you, know that your story matters. You deserve to be heard without judgment. If you’re ready to take the next step in your healing, check out my coaching services. And don’t forget to subscribe to the mailing list for more empowering content like this.

I Didn’t Know the Words But I Knew the Feeling: Making Sense of Covert Narcissistic Abuse

You don’t need to know the word gaslighting to know what it feels like.
You don’t have to understand the term circular conversation to recognize when a discussion leaves you dizzy, drained, and doubting yourself.

I lived with covert narcissistic abuse for years before I had the language to name it. And in that time, I knew the feelings long before I knew the words.

The Countless Nights of Trying to “Get It Right”

I can still see myself—sitting on the couch late at night after another failed attempt at communication.
I’d replay the conversation over and over, trying to find the exact moment I must have gone wrong.

Why can’t I find the right words?
Why does everything I say come out wrong?
Why does he never seem to understand what I mean?

I’d promise myself that next time, I’d be calmer. More understanding. Better at explaining. But “next time” always ended the same—misunderstandings, accusations, and the same lonely feeling of being unheard.

It wasn’t about finding the right words. It was about living with someone who made sure no words would ever be “right.”

Gaslighting: “I Never Said That”

One of the clearest signs of covert narcissistic abuse is gaslighting—though I didn’t know that term back then.

I’d bring up something hurtful he said, and he’d respond instantly: “I never said that.”

But I knew he had. I remembered exactly where we were, what he was wearing, the tone of his voice. Still, I’d find myself desperately trying to prove it—replaying every detail in my head until I felt dizzy.

Gaslighting isn’t just about lying—it’s about making you question your own reality. And without the word for it, I just called it “going crazy.”

Circular Conversations: The Emotional Maze

I’d come into a conversation wanting resolution. But within minutes, the topic would shift.

Suddenly, we were talking about my flaws, or something I did years ago, or how I was “too sensitive.” I’d keep trying to bring it back to my point, but the conversation would spin out again.

An hour later, I’d often be apologizing—without even knowing exactly what for. And the original issue? Never addressed.

Circular conversations are designed to confuse and exhaust, leaving you feeling like you’re the problem.

Moving Goalposts: The Game You Can’t Win

This one was constant.

If I showed more affection, I was “smothering.” If I gave him space, I was “cold.” If I asked questions, I was “interrogating.” If I didn’t, I “didn’t care.”

The rules kept changing so I could never win. I thought I was chasing harmony—but really, I was playing a game where “enough” was never the goal.

Walking on Eggshells: Disappearing in Your Own Life

I’d heard the phrase before, but I never thought it applied to me.

But my life was full of subtle adjustments. Listening for the sound of his keys hitting the counter to gauge his mood. Choosing my words carefully. Avoiding certain topics entirely. Even my footsteps and laughter got quieter.

I told myself I was keeping the peace. In reality, I was shrinking to avoid setting off his reactions. That’s the real cost of walking on eggshells—you disappear a little more each day.

Why Language Matters in Healing

This podcast, my work, and my writing are not about diagnosing or labeling someone as a covert narcissist.

They’re about giving you the words to describe what you’ve been through. Words that validate your experiences. Words that help you make sense of the confusion, the self-doubt, and the hurt.

Because when you’ve lived in a fog for years, language becomes oxygen. And once you can name it, you can finally start to heal.