Narcissists use subtle gaslighting tactics that sound normal but leave you doubting yourself. From guilt trips to silent control, this blog breaks down 5 ways they manipulate conversations—and how to protect your truth. If you’ve ever felt worse after talking with them, this explains why.
Today, I’ll show you 3 facial clues that narcissists can’t hide, explain why your instincts alert you to these signs, and, since Meghan Markle is a woman often labeled as narcissistic, we’ll examine whether these red flags appear on her face—or if they’re just a coincidence.
When you're dealing with a narcissist, spotting their lies and exposing the truth can save you from years of manipulation, stress, and emotional abuse. Learn 3 simple questions that expose their lies, what you need to say to always get the truth, and the one word that unravels their whole act.
How do you know if someone has an avoidant attachment style, or if you’re actually dealing with a narcissist in disguise? Today, I’ll share simple ways to tell if an avoidant is actually a narcissist in disguise, real life examples of how to spot the difference, and simple strategies to empower you in any situation.
The mind games of a narcissist can be difficult to spot, and if you don't understand them, you could lose your job, your family, or the relationships you love most. Today, I'll share 5 mind games that narcissists play, real life examples of how to spot them, and simple strategies to empower you in any situation.
It happened again.
I watched my daughter get out of the car, sling her backpack over her shoulder and run after some friends. I watched as she crossed the busy street to the inner sanctum of junior high. She was laughing, face to the sky, hair flying in the wind, so beautiful that time seemed to stand still just for her.
I sat in my car watching, waiting for her to look back in my direction, if even for a second.
She did. She always does. A smile and a secret wave saying, "Bye, I love you."
At some point over the last few months, I decided to not have fun.
I don't know if it was the aftermath of several back-to-back work events, moving to a new home, an extraordinary and unexpected tax bill, pouring myself into writing a new book, or saying "I do" and settling into a new life. But at some point, I unconsciously decided to get serious.
As if I wouldn't do these things if I allowed myself to be happy in the meantime. As if my seriousness would make me more efficient, more successful, better at getting-shit-done. Somewhere along the line, I fell into my old habit of living life as one never-ending checklist and seeing each day as the hamster wheel that gets me no closer to what I'm truly wanting.
I'm sitting on the cold terra cotta tile floor. My finger tracing grey squares of gritty grout. The sun's warmth opens all the white lilies that line the deck, not strong enough, even on the sultriest of days, to bring this floor to even a corpse-like temperature. Its cold seeps through my jeans now and I laugh through tears. Thinking of how many times I've cursed that cold tile. Sucking the life force out of my feet for the past five winters. And even so, how I remained barefoot most of the year.
This beautiful floor. The hardness of it is highlighted by our quiet echoed conversation. Its unwillingness to bend or comfort. It had a job to do and it didn't get caught up in softening a blow to a foot or to a head. It was unconcerned with offering warmth or pliability.
It held this house together. And it kept us suspended and supported in this place.
I am holding a beautiful Wedgewood porcelain tea pot.
I found it high up and way in the back of the kitchen cabinet during my move.
This beautiful thing.
I don't know its history. When it was purchased. Who it served.
I don't know if it holds happy memories. Or terrible ones. I don't know if it held hopes and dreams of beautiful dinner parties. Or if it has served an army of broken hearts, mistrusts and betrayals.
I only know that it has been carefully stored. And that it is not mine.
And that I am sure it has stories to tell.
Doing the same thing over and over expecting different results. Einstein defined this as insanity.
I define this as...
The holidays.
Trying to create the Pinterest-perfect-Rockwellian holiday, we hurry and worry. We compare and despair. It's as if we've turned the holidays into a competitive sport. Social media being the judge and jury. And the harder we train, and the tougher our game. The worse we feel.
We hold ourselves to the standard of being thin, happy, rich, gracious, grateful, cheerful, merry and bright, while the kids must all get along, and the cards need to be sent on time, and the dog needs to stop eating the ornaments off the tree (or maybe that's just at my house). Which makes us highly susceptible to receiving gifts that we should never accept in the first place.
race yourself.
This isn't going to be a typical Thanksgiving post full of positivity-lite and generic gratitude.
Ironic, because I find myself in a place in my life where I have never been more happy. Or more grateful. And I could easily write a piece on how beautiful my life is and how thankful I am for that. To which you could roll your eyes. Or burn with jealousy. Or give me a standing ovation.
And I honestly don't think it would do either of us any good.
So, I thought about what I'd really like to share with you. What gratitude really means to me. And what giving thanks actually looks like in my life.
It's easy to be thankful for the "good stuff." A loving and kind man. Healthy kids. Career success. Strong body. Great friends. Beautiful home.
It's easy to be thankful for the "simple stuff." A hot cup of coffee. Warm fuzzy socks. The song of the black bird outside my window. Amazon Prime.
For everything, there is a season. A brief moment that is dedicated to a specific essence and place in your life.
Contemplative alertness will unveil the properties of this particular season. It will reveal the depth to which a place and time has relevance to not only this moment but to those moments that are waiting just past the horizon for you.
This past weekend, I had the privilege to step fully out of my scattered, highly-scheduled, responsibility of the early-autumn back-to-school scuffle and into the stillness of the woods of the Pacific Northwest.
A pilgrimage of respite.
I know what it feels like to be broke. Worried. Scared. To feel out of control. And to feel like a fraud.
I know what it feels like to find out that the check didn't clear. Or that the $5 in my pocket needs to stretch all the way until next Tuesday. To cross my fingers, wishing that a client will come out of nowhere. Or to feel completely crushed when I didn't get the job.
I know what it feels like to be disappointed in myself. To feel burning shame. And to wish I could pretend hard enough to make the fear go away.
I know what it feels like to feel unworthy. Stupid. Confused. To think that money would fix my problems. Or make my stress go away.
And I was wrong. Money wasn't the problem.
I was.
You probably know by now that I kinda pride myself on my fierce sense of self-reliance.
My ability to depend on no one.
And no thing.
Asking for help is a withered and atrophied muscle. Long ago forgotten.
My productivity. My accomplishments. My ability to get things done. My fearlessness. My willingness to take risks. Power through.
To be self sufficient.
Autonomous.
These attributes not only make me feel like a badass, but they also help me hold a slight sense of superiority over other mere mortals.
Last week, with typical sense of sovereignty, I packed myself up to go to Wanderlust(you're welcome) to hike myself to the top of a mountain (8200 feet) to camp (by myself) for the duration of the festival.
Last winter, my heart was broken. Someone I loved very much walked out of my life. Out of my daughter's life.
He gave no reason.
He just bailed.
And for months after, I tried to heal. I tried to forgive. I tried to forget.
I tried to pick up the pieces of my heart and scotch-tape them back together.
My chest literally hurt. My rib cage ached. I felt haunted by the Ghost of Relationships Past. Everything I did. Everywhere I went. He was there.
I came to realize this heavy brick on my sternum was grief.
And that it is normal.
And that it sucks.
