If you’ve ever been labelled the problem, the black sheep, or the difficult one, there’s a good chance you grew up with narcissistic parents.

If you grew up with narcissistic parents, you probably learned to read the room before you even entered it, scanning their moods, anticipating outbursts, minimizing your emotional needs and adapting yourself to survive.

You might have grown up feeling like your worth was conditional: on your performance, your compliance, or your ability to make them look good.

For me, it meant living in a constant state of self-editing. I wasn’t the golden child or the people-pleaser. I rebelled. I challenged abusive behaviour. I spoke my truth even when it cost me. And that meant I was often labelled the “problem child.” I got in trouble for calling things out that others were too afraid to name. My refusal to play the role they wanted made me both a target and a scapegoat.

I learned there were certain truths I couldn’t speak, certain behaviours I couldn’t challenge, and no real expectation of accountability. Praise was rare and usually came with strings attached, while criticism could be sudden, sharp, and deeply personal.

Not all kids in narcissistic families rebel. Some take on the opposite role, becoming the peacekeeper, fixer, or overachiever in a desperate attempt to keep the household stable. They sacrifice their own needs, silence their opinions, and overextend themselves to maintain approval. Whether you rebel or comply, the impact is the same: you grow up without the safety of unconditional love, and it shapes how you see yourself and your relationships.

As an adult, those patterns don’t just disappear. They show up as people-pleasing for some, and for others like me, they show up as hyper-independence, a resistance to being controlled, a desperate need for authenticity, and an unshakable urge to protect my voice at all costs. Even when we rebel, the wound remains. We carry the ache of being misunderstood, and speaking our truth feels threatening and dangerous.

The word narcissist gets thrown around so casually in our culture that it’s almost lost its meaning.

Since the evolution of the selfie, the word has been completely misconstrued and misunderstood. Just because someone posts a selfie or feels confident in their appearance does not automatically make them a narcissist. In fact, misusing the word this way is dangerous because it teaches people to minimize the true severity of narcissism.

We hear it used to describe someone vain, obsessed with selfies, or overly concerned with their appearance. But real narcissism isn’t just about vanity or being self-absorbed. It’s a deeply ingrained personality structure marked by a lack of empathy, a constant need for control, and the inability to take responsibility for harm caused.

The truth is, a narcissist’s world doesn’t revolve around mirrors and filters. It revolves around their need to protect their fragile ego and self-image at all costs.

And that cost is usually paid by the people closest to them.

What Narcissism Really Is (and Isn’t)

In today’s world of social media and selfies, it’s easy to slap the label “narcissist” on anyone who’s ever posted a picture or video of themselves. By that logic, nearly everyone would qualify, which is both ignorant and untrue.

While vanity might be one small, surface-level trait, narcissism runs much deeper. It’s about emotional control, manipulation, and creating a reality where they’re always right, always the victim, or always the hero, depending on what serves them best in the moment.

Someone who’s vain may still care about how their actions affect others. A true narcissist will dismiss, deny, or twist your reality to avoid facing theirs.

The Narcissist You See Vs. the One You Don’t

I’ve suspected for a long time that my dad displayed traits consistent with what’s described as malignant narcissism. Malignant narcissism blends the self-importance and entitlement of narcissism with traits of aggression, paranoia, and cruelty. It often shows up as a constant need to control others, a readiness to belittle or dismiss anyone who challenges them, and an undercurrent of simmering anger that can feel intimidating even when unspoken.

This type of narcissist thrives on keeping others off balance, sees independence as a threat, and shows no empathy for the harm they cause. When confronted, they are far more likely to retaliate or deflect than take responsibility. These personality traits were very prevalent and easy to identify when looking back on his behaviour throughout my childhood.

Because his behaviour was so overt, it was easy to see my mom as the victim in their relationship. But it wasn’t until recently, when I began observing her behaviour more objectively and noticing her own lack of genuine empathy, that I started to question that assumption. Learning about the other, less obvious types of narcissism brought a lot of clarity (and relief). I now recognize that the patterns I’ve observed in her behaviour align with what’s described as a combination of covert narcissism and communal narcissism. These dynamics help explain so much about my experiences growing up and how they shaped me.

Covert Narcissism

Covert narcissists do not demand the spotlight in the same way the stereotypical narcissist does. They often appear quieter, more reserved, and often times self-sacrificing. But beneath the surface, they carry the same entitlement, lack of empathy, and refusal to take accountability. Instead of loud demands, they use guilt, victimhood, passive-aggressiveness, and subtle manipulation to get their needs met.

In my experience, this often showed up in my mom as a pattern of chronic martyrdom, always the one who “did everything for everyone,” but quick to become resentful and bitter if she did not get validation or recognition. Common statements I'd hear would be:

“I did the best I could,”

“You should be grateful,” 

“After all I’ve done for you.” 

These phrases shifted responsibility away from her actions and onto me, implying that my hurt is an overreaction rather than a valid response.

An emotionally mature mother, instead of deflecting or using guilt, might say: “I can see how my actions hurt you, and I’m sorry. How can I do better?” She would listen with empathy, take accountability, and work toward repairing the relationship.

Often, my mom would go silent or withdraw from conversation until enough time passed that we simply moved on without addressing feelings. She might bring up all the things she had sacrificed for me as a way to shut down a difficult conversation. If my feelings threatened her version of events, she would dismiss them, twist the narrative, or subtly imply I was overreacting. Over time, these patterns trained me to second-guess myself and feel guilty or sorry for her instead of simply expressing my truth.

Communal Narcissism

Communal narcissists build their identity around being a “good,” “helpful,” or “selfless” person. They thrive on being seen as caring, generous, and morally superior, but their kindness is often transactional with hidden motives. It can be a tool for control, a way to secure loyalty, or a performance to protect their image. These are the people who volunteer, donate, or offer help in ways that are highly visible, yet are far less consistent with private acts of care that require real vulnerability. They often expect validation and praise for their efforts, and when it doesn’t come, they may become resentful, bitter, or even withdraw their help altogether.

For my mom, this often showed up as a focus on her reputation or public image over more genuine, private acts of care. From my perspective, she seemed to go out of her way to help people publicly, offering comfort, assistance, or praise in front of others, while the emotional needs within our own home felt overlooked. In private, I often experienced her as dismissive, defensive, or even cold when I shared how I was feeling. I'd often hear things like:

“I do so much for everyone,” 

“I bend over backwards for people,”

“No one appreciates anything I do.”

To me, these statements seemed to reinforce her image as selfless while overlooking the emotional needs at home and shifting the focus away from any real accountability. In contrast, a supportive parent in these moments might say something like: “Your feelings matter to me, and I want to understand how to make things right.” They would focus on connection over image, take responsibility where needed, and work toward genuine repair instead of shifting the focus back to themselves.

It always seemed like her priority was maintaining her reputation and public persona, not truly fixing problems or having empathy for how others were feeling. This disconnect between the warm, caring figure she projected and the emotional unavailability she showed behind closed doors left me questioning my reality and wondering why compassion seemed to be reserved for public displays.

My Parents' Relationship Dynamic

For most of my life, I saw my mom as the victim in their marriage, and in many ways, she was. It's impossible to be married to a partner who portrays malignant narcissistic traits and not experience abuse. I had absolutely witnessed and was victimized of abuse growing up. However, learning about covert and communal narcissism made me realize something important. She wasn’t just enduring my dad’s behaviour, she was participating in a cycle where they fed off each other’s dysfunction.

My dad’s obvious arrogance and my mom’s covert participation created a toxic loop that shaped the entire emotional climate of my childhood. Both of them were more alike than I realized, and both were equally invested in protecting their own image rather than repairing the damage or seeking professional help.

Why Narcissists Rarely Change

I am not a psychologist, but you don’t need to be to identify narcissistic behaviour. While narcissism is a diagnosed personality disorder, most people with it go undiagnosed because one of its most prevalent traits is the belief that they do not have a problem in the first place. You can’t heal what you refuse to acknowledge.

When you grow up around people who operate this way, you learn to spot the patterns long before they unfold. Knowing what to look for doesn’t just help you understand them, it helps you predict how they’ll act so you can protect yourself with healthier boundaries.

The Impact

Growing up with what I now believe to be a malignant narcissist father and a covert/communal narcissist mother shaped my entire understanding of safety, love, and self-worth. My father’s simmering anger and need for control taught me that danger could arrive without warning, while my mother’s passive-aggressive martyrdom and image-obsessed kindness taught me that my feelings were only valid if they did not disrupt her narrative.

This combination wired my nervous system for survival, not peace. I learned hyper-vigilance before I even knew the word, constantly scanning moods, monitoring tone, reading micro-expressions, and adjusting myself to avoid conflict. My body was always on high alert, ready for the next emotional landmine.

My mother’s obsessive need to maintain a spotless reputation and carefully curated public persona was wired into my own consciousness. I absorbed the belief that being myself and speaking openly was dangerous, that authenticity could cost me love, acceptance, or safety. Even though I have always had a deep desire to be transparent and authentic, my conditioning made it feel risky, almost like telling the truth would lead to rejection or punishment. This inner conflict created years of self-censorship, where my truth stayed locked inside even when I desperately wanted to express it.

As adults, those patterns still try to sneak in. They show up in our instinct to walk into a room already on guard, our need to over-explain, and our readiness to brace for conflict before it even happens.

The difference now is that we can start to see it clearly. These are not flaws in us; they are the scars of being raised in a dysfunctional system where safety was never guaranteed. And because we can name them, we can challenge them. We can re-train our bodies and minds to understand that real love does not demand fear, and true safety will never require us to silence or shrink ourselves.

This level of self-awareness does not happen overnight. It comes from intentional work, whether through therapy, self-reflection, or a deep commitment to personal growth and accountability.

Why Naming It Matters

Some people think labeling someone as a narcissist is about blame or bitterness, but for me, it’s about understanding.

When you understand someone’s behaviour patterns, you stop blaming yourself for their choices.

Narcissistic abuse is designed to make you feel like you are the problem. It’s meant to keep you apologizing, doubting yourself, and working harder for their approval.

When you name it, you take back that power. You can start to repair the damage and unlearn the negative traits you inherited from growing up in a dysfunctional family, instead of mistaking them for permanent parts of your personality and suffering through them.

The Bigger Message

Understanding why people are the way they are doesn’t excuse the harm they’ve caused, but it does give you clarity.

It helps you predict how they’ll act in the future so you can decide how close or far you need to be from them. It also sheds light on why you struggle with certain things as an adult so you can start doing the personal work to heal those wounds.

If you grew up with narcissistic parents, you are not broken.

You are not too sensitive.

And you, my friend, are not the problem.

The problem was that you were asked to carry the weight of their dysfunction, and now you have the power to end the generational cycle and rewrite the story.

When we grow up in dysfunctional families, we often develop our own negative or unhealthy behaviour patterns. When we can identify them, understand why we have them, and trace them back to their source, we can replace them with healthier ways of living.

We can re-regulate our nervous systems so we are no longer stuck in fight-or-flight.

We can re-parent ourselves through the lens of our inner child, giving ourselves the love, safety, and acceptance we never received.

And in doing so, we not only free ourselves from the cycles of dysfunction but we also become the generation that finally breaks them.