Narcissistic abuse

I’m going to write about my experience with narcissistic abuse, and there are parts of it that won’t be about being a victim, but more about how I had to face certain beliefs within myself that made me not much better than the people who hurt me. I wrote about facing my shadows, and one of the scariest things to confront was realizing that people-pleasing has its own toxic behavior.

Growing up in a narcissistic environment meant that love had to be earned. That appearances were more important than authenticity. And that, because no one validated who you truly were, you lost trust in yourself—trust that you knew what was best for you, trust that you could survive and live fully on your own. It created this hunger to be seen that drove me to do everything in my power to force visibility, even if it meant wearing all sorts of masks.

For the longest time, I believed that by being nice and by confusing empathy with self-sacrifice, I would finally be seen and validated. Because what narcissistic abuse does is create deep shame and a sense of unworthiness—but at the same time, you don’t necessarily become better than the narcissist. Or at least, what shadow work revealed to me was that I wasn’t better. I carried the same wounds as the people who raised me, but I masked them with an illusion of empathy and self-sacrifice. That, too, is a way of demanding something from others instead of accepting them as they are.

In a way, the narcissist doesn’t want to confront their own feelings of inadequacy the same way I didn’t want to confront mine. The approach was different, but the core wound was the same. I built up this idea that I was this great, amazing human—and I do care for people, deeply—but if I wasn’t valuing myself, if I was giving from an empty cup and then resenting people and situations that made me feel drained… that was one of the hardest things to admit. Pretending, performing, trying to fit in—it’s exhausting. It depletes you so much more than simply being okay with not being liked or understood.

It’s such a hard thing to face. It challenges you to dive so deeply into your wound that you realize you’ve been using generosity as a band-aid. Because it was easier to care for others, to try to get them to like me—and then resent them when they didn’t—than it was to face myself and admit that I felt ashamed. Ashamed of my wound, of my childhood, of not loving myself. I had to accept that the judgment my family directed at me was so deeply rooted that I didn’t even notice how I was doing the same to myself—and to others. I wanted compassion from others when I didn’t even know how to give it to myself. I lacked boundaries. I lacked the ability to be seen by me.

So this week, when I confronted one of my parents, I stopped and realized how I was mirroring them—and how they were trying to shame me and make me feel guilty. It was a mirror moment. A wake-up call. What I understood was that if I don’t face the parts of me that absorbed some of their behavior—and if I don’t allow myself to be imperfect, disliked, or misunderstood—I’m becoming just like them.

I can have compassion for their wounds, I can understand what made them the way they are, and still live my truth and set boundaries. It’s hard as fuck. But once my self-worth and love are no longer dependent on anything external, there’s nothing a narcissist can take away from me. Because for the longest time, that lack of trust in myself—the belief that I needed something or someone outside of me to feel whole—was what kept me empty.

Suddenly, pain isn’t scary anymore. It’s a mirror, showing me where I still need to heal. And knowing that I can give myself that love and sense of safety—that has been one of the greatest achievements of my life.

Have a great week,

Francisca