The Unseen Cycle: How Victims of Narcissistic Abuse Can Unintentionally Become Abusers

By: Tanisha Christie, LCSW (she/her)

Photo by Cottonbro Studio

There’s a hard truth we don’t talk about enough: sometimes, survivors of narcissistic abuse can find themselves repeating the very behaviors that once harmed them. Not out of malice or intention—but out of unhealed trauma, fear, and learned survival strategies. It’s uncomfortable. It doesn’t fit neatly into victim/perpetrator binaries. But it’s real, and we need to talk about it.

Narcissistic abuse is a psychological assault on identity. It warps your sense of self, fractures your reality, and isolates you from your support systems. Victims often endure cycles of gaslighting, manipulation, love bombing, and devaluation. Over time, you learn to adapt—to anticipate needs, suppress your instincts, and survive emotionally chaotic terrain. But these adaptations, meant to protect, can calcify into habits that hurt others when they go unexamined.

Here’s what that might look like in real life:
You’ve spent months, maybe years, walking on eggshells around a narcissistic partner. You weren’t allowed to have needs, opinions, or emotions that diverged from theirs. Your nervous system learned vigilance. Now, in a new relationship, the first sign of criticism sends you into a tailspin. You become defensive, controlling, even emotionally withdrawn or punitive. You’re not trying to manipulate—you’re trying to protect yourself. But the impact on the other person is still real.

Or maybe, after being chronically invalidated, you become hyper-focused on being heard. So much so that you interrupt, dominate conversations, or dismiss the other person’s feelings when they don’t mirror yours. This isn’t narcissism—it’s trauma. But the line between protection and harm can become blurred.

Photo by RDNE Stock Project

Survivors can also adopt the narcissist’s behaviors unconsciously. After all, that’s what you were taught intimacy looked like. You learned that withholding love created power. That emotional explosions meant someone really cared. That boundaries were threats. You may find yourself love bombing a new partner, not out of manipulation, but out of a desperate need for connection. You may retreat or lash out when they don’t respond the way you expected, repeating the cycle you once hated.

And let’s be honest: sometimes after surviving narcissistic abuse, you just get tired. Tired of caretaking everyone else’s emotions. Tired of being the one who always understands. So you overcorrect. You draw hard lines. You start saying things like “I’m protecting my peace” or “I’m done explaining myself”—but use those lines to justify shutting people out, refusing accountability, or acting coldly. Healing should involve boundaries. But boundaries without reflection can become walls.

Photo by Keira Burton

When You Begin a Caring Romantic Relationship

Here’s where things can feel both beautiful and terrifying: you finally meet someone who is kind, emotionally available, and genuinely invested in your well-being. They check in, listen, offer support, and want to build something grounded. But instead of feeling relieved, you feel...uneasy.

That’s because a loving relationship doesn’t just soothe your nervous system—it also activates your trauma. Suddenly, you’re being asked to trust someone. To be seen. To receive. These are the very things your past experiences taught you were dangerous.

In this context, being loved can feel like a threat. You might start testing your partner, picking fights, withdrawing affection, or keeping score. You might even try to manage their emotional expressions—guiding them away from anger, need, or independence—not because you’re trying to be controlling, but because you’re trying to control the intimacy.

Let’s be specific:

Sometimes, survivors of narcissistic abuse—especially when they haven't felt safe in past relationships—develop subtle ways of managing the emotional climate of their new relationships. You may find yourself wanting your partner to express affection in only the ways that feel familiar to you. Or you might discourage them from being too emotionally open, too angry, too independent, or even too joyful—because their full emotional range feels destabilizing. It’s not always obvious. It can look like giving “feedback” on how they express themselves, withdrawing when they’re vulnerable, or only rewarding them when they say or do what makes you feel safe.

This is an intimacy control strategy: if I can shape how you show up emotionally, I don’t have to sit with the unpredictability of real closeness. I don’t have to feel powerless. I don’t have to risk rejection.

The impulse comes from a wounded place. When you’ve lived under emotional tyranny, you might confuse vulnerability with danger, and autonomy with threat. You may try to shape your partner’s self-expression to keep intimacy manageable—not too much, not too raw, not too complicated. But intimacy doesn’t work that way. It isn’t tidy. And trying to control your partner’s feelings can reproduce the very dynamics you escaped.

So what do you do when you’re in a good relationship but parts of you are preparing for war?

Photo by Liza Summer

1. Slow it all down.
   You don’t have to rush into anything. If you find yourself attaching too quickly—or pushing someone away before they can get close—pause. Ask yourself, “Is this about them, or is this my nervous system trying to stay safe?”

2. Practice radical honesty—with yourself and your partner.
   You might say: “Sometimes I get scared and try to control things. I don’t want to hurt you, and I’m working on it.” This vulnerability not only interrupts the cycle—it builds intimacy.

3. Name the past without letting it steer the present.
   Acknowledging that you’ve survived narcissistic abuse is important. But it can’t become the justification for mistreating your current partner. “I act this way because I’ve been hurt” can be a starting point—but it must lead to accountability, not excuses.

4. Let go of scripting the relationship.
   If you find yourself trying to mold how your partner shows affection, grieves, argues, or shares joy—pause. Ask yourself: “What am I afraid will happen if they show up fully as themselves?” Then sit with that fear. That’s the real work.

5. Learn to tolerate repair.
   In narcissistic relationships, rupture often meant abandonment or punishment. In healthy ones, rupture can mean growth. Practice coming back after a fight, apologizing sincerely, and staying with discomfort long enough to repair.

6. Invite your partner into your healing—not as your fixer, but as your witness.
   You can let them know when you're triggered. Let them see how you show love. Share what safety looks like for you. But don’t make them responsible for doing your emotional labor.

7. Reparent yourself.
   When the impulse to control, criticize, or withdraw arises, ask: What does the wounded part of me need right now? Often, it’s reassurance, validation, or a moment to breathe. Learn to give yourself that pause before turning it outward.

8. Celebrate the fact that you noticed.
   The very awareness that you might be reenacting an old dynamic is healing. Most people don’t notice. Most people just repeat. You are interrupting the cycle—and that matters.

Photo by Nicholas Swatz

Trauma can lead us to try and manage intimacy by regulating other people’s emotions—an understandable, but ultimately harmful coping mechanism. Recognizing this dynamic is a powerful step toward healthier, more spacious love.

If you’re reading this and it’s hitting uncomfortably close to home, that’s okay. It means you’re self-aware. It means you want something different. That willingness is everything.

Victims of narcissistic abuse didn’t choose what happened to them. But we do get to choose what we do with that pain. We can stay stuck in survival mode, or we can learn new ways of being in relationship—with ourselves and with others.

The most radical thing a survivor can do is to stop the cycle. To say: the harm ends with me. That doesn’t mean being perfect. It means being accountable, intentional, and deeply human.

And that? That’s power. Not the kind that controls others—but the kind that transforms.