Healing From Narcissist Abuse: A Spiritual Perspective

Existentialists teach us that we can spend our lives leaning on others to meet our needs, or we can take the courageous leap of relying on ourselves—and discover who we are truly capable of becoming. If we sit in a box of survival, the “shoulds” in life, then we feel lonely and disconnected. When we give out gifts, our strengths, our unique values to the world we connect in an authentic way. 

When we fall for someone, it’s rarely about who they are at first; it’s about how they make us feel. Valued. Beautiful. Safe—emotionally or financially. Those feelings lift us, and for a while, it’s intoxicating. We are giving our gift of empathy to another person and it’s working! In return they are giving us the feeling we crave and want. 

But slowly, almost imperceptibly, we begin handing over pieces of our power. We defer, we soften, we avoid conflict. Not because we’re weak, but because we’re empathic by nature—wired to nurture, to love, to maintain harmony. In those tiny moments of sacrifice, we disconnect from our own center. Eventually we look in the mirror and barely recognize the person staring back. Guilt creeps in, becomes the seed of blame we start to carry, and the nervous system shifts into vigilance.

In chronic alert mode, the brain prioritizes survival, not connection. Short-term memory falters. Words get stuck. Processing becomes foggy. And with each moment we can’t respond the way we want to, we lose more faith in ourselves.

Inevitably, the cycle becomes too painful to continue. Either we walk away or someone walks away from us. And we’re left sitting in heartbreak, gathering the fragments of our worth and wondering how to begin again.

So how do you truly heal—deeply enough to return to yourself, and eventually to love?

You begin by honoring the fact that you survived. That you built, loved, cared, accomplished, endured, tried, and stayed human through it all.
You look toward the people—human or animal—who genuinely care for you. You borrow their reflection of you, piece by piece, until your own mirror begins to rebuild.
You notice your proud moments, however small, and allow them to accumulate. That is how self-trust regrows.

And then comes the real work: learning to love yourself.
To appreciate your light and your shadow.
To give to yourself the very things you once hoped someone else would provide—validation, safety, beauty, stability, admiration.

This isn’t about blaming yourself; it’s about understanding the truth with compassion.
We gave away power because we longed to be loved.
We acted from our shadow when we felt unsafe.
We chose patterns that felt like the only choice available at the time.

We grieve those versions of us—the ones who didn’t know better yet were doing their very best. We let the tears come.

And then, we rise.

We rise with the strength of someone who has loved deeply.
We rise with the courage of someone learning to trust their own voice again.
We rise into a balanced inner landscape—the yin and the yang—where we know when to speak, when to soften, and when to pause until clarity returns.
Self-love becomes the ground beneath our feet, the place where our reactions become responses, where compassion replaces self-gaslighting, and where our needs stop being negotiable.

From this grounded place, we create lives that feel meaningful and joyful—the cake. Anyone who enters is simply icing, and the icing must enhance the cake, not diminish it. We no longer chase connection; we attract what aligns. And when something sticks, beautiful. When it doesn’t, we let it go without collapsing.

Because once we stop trying to fill a void through someone else, dating becomes clear. We no longer overreach or over-armor. We simply allow.

It is profoundly human to want to feel valuable, desirable, and safe with someone. It is natural to crave closeness. The balance comes from trusting ourselves to hold both intimacy and independence.

This journey will be messy at times, triumphant at others—thrilling, humbling, disappointing, and inspiring. Through every rise and fall, keep your ground: your people, your passions, your routines, your joy. Keep returning to yourself.

And even when someone wonderful comes along—someone with whom you feel safe and cherished—you will still need that internal anchor. Because that is what makes you safe, always.

Do not lose yourself again.
You are the home you’ve been searching for.