Personal story - Life with narcissistic parents

I was out walking with my family when we crossed paths. She smiled and greeted them, but when it came to me, it was as if I didn’t exist. Her eyes slid past mine, her face tightening slightly, and she turned her attention elsewhere. It lasted only seconds, but inside me, the familiar pit in my stomach dropped. 

Maybe you’ve had this happen too, one small interaction that cuts deeper than it should. A parent’s cold look, being ignored in a room, or hearing your name left out. In an instant, it feels like you’re back to being that little kid again, desperate for something they can’t give. It’s jarring, and it can make you question how far you’ve really come, even when the truth is you’re already holding yourself in a completely new way.

For me I felt like a little child again desperate for her to care, desperate for her love, desperate just to be acknowledged. I felt the familiar pain that comes when an old wound is touched.

In the past, an encounter like this could have consumed me. I would have been thrown into turmoil, spiraling into old coping mechanisms. It looked like dysregulation: snapping at my partner, taking my hurt out on the people closest to me, replaying toxic patterns that were written into me long ago. My nervous system would have been hijacked, convincing me I was unsafe, unlovable, destined to repeat the same cycle again and again.

This time was different. I could still feel the pull of those familiar reactions, the burn of her dismissal, the story that I wasn’t worthy of love. But alongside that pull, there was also space. Space to notice what was happening, to witness myself, to remember the tools I’ve learned. I was able to stand tall, even though part of me wanted to curl inwards.

When my eldest, who had seen the whole awkward exchange, looked up at me and asked quietly if I was okay, I could answer honestly: yes, I was fine. Not untouched, not invincible, but fine in the way that comes from knowing I’m no longer that child, trapped with her, endlessly trying to earn love that will not come. As we walked on, I breathed slowly, grounding myself in the here and now, reminding myself that I was safe, that I had a family who loved me, that I am no longer nine years old.

Reading Mother Hunger by Kelly McDaniel helped me put words to what I’ve lived. She describes the lifelong ache experienced by daughters who lacked crucial maternal nurturance, protection, and guidance in childhood. This “attachment injury” doesn’t vanish in adulthood, it often shows up as an insatiable hunger for love, unstable moods, addictive behaviours, or difficulties in relationships. For years, I carried that hunger without understanding it. When my mother ignored me that day, I felt the sharp echo of it. But I also understood that the ache is not proof of my unworthiness. It is simply the imprint of what I didn’t receive. And her coldness was not about me. It was about her inability to give what she never had to give.

This encounter didn’t destroy me the way it once would have. It hurt, yes. It brought tears later, sure. But it also showed me how much I’ve grown. Healing doesn’t mean we stop feeling the pain; it means we learn to hold it differently, with more compassion for ourselves and less shame.

Because of my own lived experience, I bring a deep understanding into my work with clients who have also endured abusive or neglectful childhoods. I know what it’s like to carry those invisible wounds into adulthood, and I also know how painful it can feel to keep repeating the old scripts without even realizing it. My healing journey gives me not only empathy, but also a practical awareness of how change unfolds: slowly, unevenly, but always possible. I don’t just draw from textbooks or training; I meet people with the knowledge that comes from having walked a similar path. For many clients, that sense of being genuinely understood is the first step toward healing.

If you’ve lived through a parent’s absence, neglect, or abuse, please know that you are not alone. The longing, the hunger, the ache, it doesn’t mean you are broken. It means you are human, carrying wounds that can be tended to. Healing is possible. Slowly, gently, with support, you can learn to step out of those old patterns and find steadier ground.

Quick Tips for Calming Dysregulation

• Pause & Breathe - Slow, deep breaths signal safety to the nervous system. Try inhaling for 4, holding for 2, exhaling for 6.

• Ground Yourself - Notice 5 things you can see, 4 things you can touch, 3 things you can hear, 2 things you can smell, 1 thing you can taste.

• Move Your Body - Shake out your hands, stretch, or walk briskly to release trapped adrenaline.

• Cold Water Reset - Splash your face with cold water or hold something cool in your hands to activate your calming reflex.

• Self-talk - Gently remind yourself: “This is an old feeling. I am safe now. I am not that child anymore.”

• Reach Out - Text a trusted friend, journal, or voice note your feelings so they don’t stay bottled up.