Until recently, I didn’t know what a narcissist really was in the clinical sense. I thought a narcissist was just someone who loved attention or talked about themselves too much; someone vain or showy. What I’ve come to understand is that a narcissist doesn’t always fit the stereotype we often associate with one. Narcissists aren’t always loud, overtly arrogant, or obviously self-absorbed. Sometimes they appear humble, gentle, thoughtful, grounded, and kind.
I’ve also come to understand that gaslighting and manipulation do not always look the way we imagine. Manipulation can happen without blowout fights, without shouting matches, without chaos, without overt cruelty. Someone can gaslight and manipulate you while appearing calm, loving, patient, and composed. They can control you in quiet, calculated ways. It doesn’t always look like cruelty. Sometimes it looks like care. And it can happen to anyone; even someone intelligent, driven, grounded, and surrounded by supportive friends and family. Even someone who’s normally been a good judge of character.
I’m now nearly four months out from being discarded by a narcissistic man who manipulated me in ways I did not recognize at the time. On paper, he was the perfect man: tall, fit, attractive, with a wholesome New Jersey upbringing. A college lacrosse player at a top school, highly intelligent, an Ivy League MBA, and a successful private equity career. A man with many hobbies and interests. He appeared loving, kind, self-effacing, calm, and committed. And it wasn’t just my impression; every friend and family member who met him said the same thing: He’s amazing. He’s so genuine. So easy to talk to. To someone meeting him for the first time, he was more likely to sit quietly, asking thoughtful questions about them rather than talking about himself. That’s what made him so disarming.
I’m writing this not to define myself as a victim, but in the hope that it might help someone else recognize the signs of narcissism and gaslighting sooner than I did. I didn’t deserve what happened, but I can’t change it. What I can do is take what I’ve learned and make sure it doesn’t define my future. This is also my final act of closure — my way of letting go and leaving him in the past.
We matched on Hinge in early July 2024. When he texted me, he volunteered his last name, and I googled him. His firm’s website listed him as being based out of a city across the country, not in New York, where I live, so I told him I wasn’t looking for something casual with someone based in another city. He replied that he “technically” lived in that city but would be in New York for six months and was planning to stay after that. That small reassurance — shaped just right — would become a pattern: answers that sounded comforting but were strategically vague and designed to serve his interests.
On our first date, July 12, it felt like we had instant chemistry. Conversation flowed. He asked a million questions and reflected everything back to me in a way that made me feel impressive and deeply seen. It didn’t feel like fake flattery; it felt genuine. I even apologized for talking so much and tried to shift the focus to him, but he kept asking about me. At the time, I read it as genuine interest and connection. Later, I would understand it as the hook — mirroring to build rapid intimacy.
On our second date, the questions became probing — career goals, five-year plans, what I wanted out of life. It felt a little like an interview, but I brushed it off because as him just being a serious person craving a serious relationship. Still, I remember feeling an urge to answer well, as if each response were part of some unspoken test — to prove I was ambitious enough, thoughtful enough, worthy of his interest. After dinner, we went back to his place. We made out. I said I didn’t want to have sex. He said calmly, “Okay, but do you want to make me cum?” and then took off his pants and climbed over me on the couch, face-fucking me while I lay there. I remember a flicker of discomfort but told myself he seemed gentle and nonthreatening otherwise. I minimized the red flag because everything else felt respectful.
On our third date, the testing began again. He asked detailed questions about college classes I’d taken almost a decade earlier and seemed surprised I couldn’t recall specific content. He remembered everything from his classes, he said. I felt small, like I was failing some unspoken test — but because we were also laughing and having fun, I filed it away. We had sex on date three.
Dates four through six happened across three days. One was planned; the next two were last-minute texts — Can I come over? He showed up, we had sex, we went to dinner. I felt that classic worry — am I being used for sex? — and asked him directly. He said, why would he skip a whole day at the beach with his family to see me if he didn’t care? He sounded sincere, and the explanation was tidy. The anxiety stayed at bay. That’s when I started living in a state of confusion that I mistook for excitement.
On date seven, we spent nearly an entire weekend together — a hike, lunch, dinner, a sleepover, and brunch again. I looked across the table at brunch and knew I wanted to marry this man. I had never felt this way before. I felt crazy for thinking that after only 7 dates, but I thought this was my “when you know, you know” moment.
On date eight, he mentioned that he had just booked a two-week trip to Europe and said we were almost at the point where we could take a trip like that together. I was both flattered and confused — we hadn’t even defined our relationship yet — but I took it as proof he was serious. That’s how fast-paced intimacy works: you accept the speed as evidence of depth.
The intense, marathon dates continued — pre-dawn alarms to drive upstate and hike before work, sex, full workdays, then meeting again after work for dinner, sex, and a sleepover. He told me I was the only woman who would wake at 3:45 a.m. to do that with him, that I was strong and fit, more interesting, more ambitious, and so different from anyone else he had dated. The pedestal felt incredible. I tried to be worthy of it.
On our early dates, he asked a lot about my childhood and my parents’ divorce, and I answered everything because I wanted to be fully transparent — to be enough for him. When I asked about his childhood, the answers were vague. He asked me about my past relationships, I told him everything. When I asked about past relationships, he kept it short; one ex was fun but too up and down; another was too emotional; another too jealous; another had a temper when she drank. The reasons were always about them.
When I pressed further, I learned there was very little time between relationships. He’d had a serious girlfriend from 2016 to 2017; they were on and off through 2018. Two different girlfriends in 2019. Then one girlfriend who he lived with from 2020 through early 2022. Within three months of ending that relationship, he was dating someone new. When I asked how he could go from living with one partner to to having a new girlfriend three months later, he said, “It just happened.” He told me that he hadn’t been looking for a new girlfriend. In hindsight, this pattern of cycling through women reveals a lot. Narcissists need constant attention — a steady stream of validation — and they fill the gaps immediately.
It took six more dates before he asked me to be his girlfriend. I said yes and immediately asked whether that meant he was staying in New York after December. He seemed surprised and very defensive that I’d brought it up. He said that it wasn’t the right time to raise it at work yet, and that I should trust him. That became a theme: my reasonable questions were taken as criticism.
For months, there was a quiet undercurrent of anxiety running through our relationship: his living situation. Until February — seven months into dating — he still didn’t have confirmation that he’d be able to stay in New York long-term. I had made it clear from the beginning that I wasn’t interested in a long-distance relationship. For 7 months, I constantly lived in fear that the man I’d fallen in love with might have to leave, that the future I was investing in could vanish overnight. He called me “silly” and “emotional” for worrying about him leaving. In hinsight, I think its pretty rational to be afraid of investing time, energy, and emotion in someone who may have to get up and move back to the other side of the country at any given moment.
That uncertainty became part of a larger pattern — one of never feeling fully safe or secure with him. There was always something unstable or unfinished: a question unanswered, a plan unconfirmed, a reassurance withheld. He seemed to prefer it that way. I voiced these concerns to him. He brushed it off as him being busy and therefore not being able to plan. It kept me in a constant state of emotional waiting. Looking back, I see how this was its own form of control. A narcissist maintains power over you through inconsistency.
Right after he asked me to be his girlfriend, he went on a family vacation. The night he returned, he came over after a work dinner and had very aggressive sex with me — trying things you’d normally discuss first, without asking. I told myself he was just tipsy from dinner. It became a pattern. Instead of discussing what he wanted to try, he would just do it. Sex was always on his timeline. He’d wake me in the middle of the night and expect me to be responsive; when I wanted morning sex, he said no. I loved him and loved our intimacy, so I told myself it was fine. But the entitlement was real.
In public and around friends, he came across as endlessly down to earth, but in private, the humblebragging began to leak through. He’d lower his voice to share what sounded like reluctant truths: that he was the smartest person at his private equity firm, that the founders had only gotten where they were through luck and connections, that at his previous firm he’d been the top associate — the only one chosen to attend business school. Among his brothers, he insisted he’d been the best lacrosse player, despite starting later than they had. It was always framed as fact, never arrogant, but over time it became clear he genuinely believed he was smarter and more hardworking than everyone around him.
He’d pick apart his friends from undergrad one by one: one wasn’t smart but was personable; another wasn’t bright but worked hard; another was lazy but lucky to have married well; one was smart but lacked executive presence. I could go on. He’d rank them by intellect and work ethic. It quickly became clear that he believed he was the only one who had gotten where he was purely through intelligence and effort. Everyone else — his friends, his classmates, his brothers, his bosses — had luck, privilege, or connections to thank.
When he first joined his current firm, he spoke with genuine admiration about its female CEO — how sharp and impressive she was, how much he respected her. But a year later, that admiration had soured. He decided she wasn’t actually that smart, that her career had been built on luck and timing. His other female colleagues were lazy, unintelligent, inexperienced, or “too emotional.” The only woman he seemed to tolerate was the most junior associate — the one he could control. Even his once-close female coworker, whom he had initially admired for her intelligence and work ethic, eventually became “too difficult.” They went from spending weekends together as friends to him resenting her presence entirely. It was the same cycle he repeated with every woman in his orbit: idealize, devalue, discard.
Even the way he spoke carried quiet superiority. He’d pause in conversations and speak slowly, as if giving people space to catch up, but his tone wasn’t patient — it was condescending. I noticed it most when he talked to others; there was always an air of smugness.
He made small comments about my body that seemed flattering but were really reminders to keep being good enough for him. “You look very thin in this photo.” “You look so skinny today.” “You look fit right now.” I started wondering what he thought on the days he said nothing. He never called me fat or criticized me outright. I excused his comments, telling myself he was just a clueless man who didn’t understand how much pressure women already feel to be thin — or how remarks like that can create insecurity. I’d heard his father say similar things to his mother, so I told myself he’d just grown up hearing it and didn’t know any better.
Over time, those small comments and subtle manipulations turned into full-blown gaslighting. If he had a work trip during the week and I happened to have weekend plans that I’d made months earlier, it was my fault if we didn’t have as much time together. He’d sit me down and tell me that we wouldn’t be in this position if I didn’t take so many personal trips. I once counted these trips out and showed him I’d only taken one more than he had; he dismissed it and refused to accept that our numbers were almost identical. I felt like I was losing my mind, counting them on my fingers while he insisted I was wrong. So, I tried to plan my personal life more carefully, to make sure it didn’t interfere with us — but when I tried to plan ahead, he brushed me off, saying he didn’t want to think that far yet. Then, when things went unplanned because he refused to plan with me, it was still my fault. I could not win.
He would also do things entirely of his own accord, only to use them against me later. During the holidays, he invited me to his parents’ home in Florida. I never asked to go. I hadn’t even hinted at it. He presented it as something special — saying it would mean a lot to him if I came — and it did feel special. We had a wonderful time. Months later, during an argument, he threw it back in my face, saying he’d only invited me because otherwise I would have been anxious. Hearing that broke my heart. Something he had once described as wanting me to spend more time with him and his family was suddenly reframed as something he’d done out of obligation and pity.
He had a ritual for manipulating me that I’ve since named the gaslight shit sandwich. He’d kiss me, tell me he loved me, and then, in a calm voice, explain what was wrong with me — before ending again with affection.
One example of this that I now find highly amusing was the night he sat me down, kissed me and reinforced how much I meant to him, then proceeded to tell me that the fact I didn’t orgasm every time we had sex was proof that I had a fixed mindset. He said this gently, as though he were helping me uncover something about myself. I sat there stunned, ashamed, and somehow convinced I needed to fix myself. Apparently, I needed to have a growth mindset in order to orgasm. Months later, he would use that same evidence — my not always orgasming — as one of his stated reasons for breaking up with me.
It’s absurd when I look back now. His lack of effort in helping me reach orgasm had somehow become my flaw, my supposed psychological limitation. For months prior to him bringing this up, I had debated whether to bring up the fact that he’d stopped trying to make me orgasm during sex, but I did not want it to seem like I was giving him a hard time or accusing him of not being generous in bed, so I stayed quiet.
Now, I find humor in the absurdity: one of the official reasons for our breakup was that he’d stopped trying to make me orgasm but it was somehow my fault, something was wrong with me because he was selfish. My friends joke that we should send him the book She Comes First.
He also began isolating me quietly. When I told him I was planning to visit my dad one weekend, he said he understood but would “really rather I stayed.” It sounded loving but made me feel guilty, so I stayed. When I had a bachelorette weekend booked, he made me feel selfish for going, gently urging me to cancel. Even the morning I left for it, I was torn, unsure if I should go. He never forbade me from seeing anyone, but I felt guilt every time I did.
I found myself performing quiet acts of service for him constantly: folding four loads of laundry he’d left in baskets for a week, doing dishes while he worked. He never asked, but it was always assumed. Sometimes he didn’t even notice; sometimes there was an unspoken expectation that if he was busy, I would take care of everything else. I wanted to make his life easier because I loved him — and he let me. The irony was that it wasn’t even my apartment.
I learned not to ask when he’d be free. Anything that sounded like planning or wanting more time together was off-limits — he’d see it as needy or controlling. Everything had to be on his timeline. It became an unspoken boundary I didn’t dare cross. So, I kept my evenings open, my phone nearby, waiting for him to call when it suited him. When he did, I’d listen to him talk about his day for an hour. He rarely asked about mine. I told myself his job was more stressful, that it made sense for me to be the sounding board. I loved him, so I didn’t mind, but in hindsight, I was making myself smaller for him.
Then there was the future faking. Four weeks before the breakup, he sat me down and told me that he believed he had moved back to New York for a reason — that reason being me. “I think I moved back because I needed to find my person, you,” he said. It was so sweet, I cried as he told me this. Three weeks before he broke up with me, he sat me down on the couch and told me “My goal is for us to get married and be happy.” Nothing had ever made me happier. I thought it was the best moment of my life. Four days before he broke up with me, he said he wanted to marry me and was thinking about the same timeline for moving in together. Three days before, he booked our Airbnb for an upcoming vacation to France. Two days before, he sent loving texts and called as usual. Then he ended it — no fight, no warning.
The night he broke up with me, he called me on his way over to my apartment. I told him I’d found more flight options for our France trip; he asked questions, he sounded excited. The call lasted thirteen minutes of me going on and on about things we could do in France. When I said, “Hurry, I can’t wait to see you,” he said he couldn’t wait either.
He arrived, kissed me, showered, ordered takeout, made out with me on the couch — making me believe it was a normal weeknight date — and then broke up with me. He gave me four reasons for breaking up with me: that missing him when we were apart was proof I was anxious; that I had “style issues”; that not orgasming every time we had sex meant I had a fixed mindset; and that I had “abandonment issues to work on.” He said I should get a therapist and that he could send me the books he’d read. He told me he had already “done the work” on himself and that I needed to heal outside of a relationship. He spoke with clinical certainty, as if he were diagnosing me for my own good.
What stunned me most was that, except for the comment about orgasms, he had never mentioned any of these supposed “issues” before that night — never once tried to talk through them, express concern, or work on them together. There had been no conversation, no prior communication, no warning. It was as if he’d compiled a list of manufactured flaws to justify leaving, delivering them like a diagnosis he’d been preparing in secret.
He then sat at my kitchen table eating dinner while I cried and begged for answers about how just three days earlier we were discussing moving in together and getting married to this. He was cold, detached, unbothered. There was no empathy. I see now how arrogant and cruel that was — and how typical. When he was done eating, he left. That was it.
Part of why it hurts so much is because I loved this man more than anything. I believed he was the love of my life. I believed this was my happily ever after. I’ve had two long-term relationships before, but I had never loved someone like this. I thought we’d be moving in together this fall — because that’s what we talked about — that we’d get engaged and married within the next two years. I had no doubts that he was the person I wanted to spend my life with. And he told me he wanted the same.
Yes, I’ve written about the gaslighting and manipulation, but the majority of the time, things were wonderful. We had so much in common. So much romance. Great sex. Beautiful trips. Our weekends felt like vacations even when we were just at home. In his own words, “Every weekend with you feels like a mini getaway.” Friday takeout and movies, Saturday and Sunday mornings at the climbing gym, long talks, dinner reservations every Saturday at great restaurants. I spent five weekends at his family’s beach house. He came on my family’s annual ski trip and he also spent three long weekends at my family’s beach house. We took two ski trips out West — including a backcountry adventure. On New Year’s Day, I chartered a private boat and we went island hopping. In that year together, we traveled, laughed a ton, and built what I thought was a deep partnership. Aside from the moments of confusion and self-doubt he seeded, it felt intoxicating. I was madly in love. We had deep conversations, moments of total silliness, and constant laughter. Making out in elevators, climbing mountains, sharing stories late at night. It was easy to believe I had finally found the one.
In the days and weeks that followed, my brain looped relentlessly, trying to understand what had just happened. I was completely blindsided. My brain has spent the last four months trying to process something I never got closure from. Narcissistic abuse leaves deep mental replays because everything is designed to confuse you.
Looking back, I now see that he idolized me until I had needs. Having basic needs made me no longer perfect. He devalued me when I wanted clarity or reciprocity. And that’s the hallmark of narcissism: they idealize you, put you on a pedestal, then devalue you once your humanity shows.
He didn’t end things because I was broken — he ended them because I stopped being easy to manage. He broke up with me because it was getting too serious — moving in together — and because I don’t think he could hold on to the good-guy mask anymore. He ended things when I began pushing back on his gaslighting — when I started pointing out facts, like that we both had nearly the same number of personal trips. He broke up with me because I finally began asserting agency — asking to plan, talking about moving in together — he panicked. He couldn’t handle losing control. He didn’t want a partner; he wanted someone he could dictate. Everything had always been on his timeline. We saw each other when he wanted; we became official when he decided; everything moved at his pace. He wanted control, not equality.
And that’s what I was — his equal. I wasn’t someone he could look down on, or easily impress, or teach about the world. I am highly educated; I attended top schools just like he did. I grew up privileged, just as he did. I’ve traveled widely as well. I’ve built my own career in finance, and I’m an accomplished athlete — hyper-driven and curious, with countless hobbies that keep me grounded and alive. In every sense, I matched him. That equality unsettled him.
Within three months, he had a new girlfriend. New supply. Unsurprisingly, he’s repeating the same pattern — jumping into a new relationship immediately after ending another, leaving no time for self-reflection. He even takes her to the same climbing gym we were both members of — the place we spent nearly every Saturday and Sunday morning together for a full year. It’s such a specific and intimate routine that seeing him replicate it with someone new is proof of his lack of empathy. He knows he’ll run into me there, and he doesn’t care how much that might hurt me. He feels no discomfort repeating the same rituals, the same words, the same gestures. To him, people are interchangeable props in his story.
It’s laughable that he told me I needed to “do the work” and “heal,” when he’s already moved on to his next distraction without an ounce of reflection. Narcissists don’t heal — they replace. He’ll idealize her, devalue her, and eventually discard her too. My ex will never take the time to reflect. He’ll never find real peace or happiness. He will repeat the same cycle over and over — after all, he already found new prey less than three months later.
Getting over a narcissist is hard because they train you to crave their attention and approval. It’s all in the small things: the microaggressions, the pedestal they put you on, the subtle comparisons to their exes, the constant remarks about your body, the waiting for their texts or calls that might never come. You start to live in anticipation — your nervous system tuned to their whims. I was conditioned to seek his validation like a pet waiting for treats. Those sweet words about our future were the rewards that kept me obedient and hopeful.
I was never the love of his life; I was the great use of his life — one of several. But I’ve made peace with that. Because I now know it was never about me. I’ll keep working on myself and paying attention to why I ignored his red flags — why I let things slide and made myself smaller to please him.
I’ve found peace in knowing how deeply I’m loved by the people around me. Nothing shows you how much you’re loved like the support from those who rally to your side in your darkest moments. The discard made me softer, not harder. It reminded me to be kind — because everyone around you is fighting their own invisible battle. It showed me how lucky I am — to be loved, to want to love, and to have the self-awareness to heal.
And I come back to myself: I have so much value. I am kind, hardworking, intelligent, fiercely loyal, endlessly curious. I push myself to grow stronger, to explore the world, to try new things, to set lofty goals, to understand others, to love wholeheartedly. I’m proud that I loved fully and vulnerably.
It hurts to have been used. What happened wasn’t fair or deserved, but I won’t waste another ounce of energy on him. After nearly four months, I feel the shift. I no longer miss him, and I no longer wish him harm. The person I loved never existed — I fell in love with a mask. It takes time for the brain to accept that it was all fake. But I’ve reached peace. I’m letting go of the rage, the unfairness, the grudge. He sleeps soundly at night, never thinking of me, while I spent months replaying everything — but now I release him. I release the anger. I am not defined by what he did. My future is brighter because he’s no longer in it.
So, thank you, D. Thank you for discarding me.
To quote one of my favorite songs:
Here’s to love and here’s to hope.
Here’s to loss and letting go.
Here’s to brand new origin stories.
Here’s to taking flight and falling.
Here’s to getting back up and walking.
Lastly, I end with gratitude
To my father — for making me feel safe, for holding me, and for loving me unconditionally.
To my dearest friends — for checking in constantly, for listening to me go on and on about this for months, for rushing to my side in the days immediately after, and for making sure I never felt alone.
To my brother — who did absolutely nothing except laugh at the situation, which, surprisingly, was exactly what I needed.
To my coworkers — for their empathy and understanding.
To nature — from the shores of Tod’s Point to the beaches of Bahía and the glaciated peaks of the Alps — thank you for reminding me how vast and beautiful the world still is.
To my therapist — for making me feel seen and validated.
To my body — for healing me through movement and reminding me how strong I was, even when my mind felt broken and weak.
To my cozy Brooklyn apartment — for holding me, protecting me, and being my sanctuary.
To my mind — for working overtime to make sense of what happened, for rebuilding, learning, and growing.
