In a world divided by reactions to childhood trauma, narcissists and empaths choose opposite paths. Narcissists turn their pain outward, focused on revenge and self-preservation, while empaths channel their suffering into compassion for others. Through witty banter, poignant moments, and a Syngonium plant, this story explores how human beings respond differently to the same wounds. Who will come out stronger?
How does trauma shape us?
"Trauma is just like that Syngonium plant in the corner," my therapist said one afternoon. It was her favourite, with its bright arrowhead leaves brushing against the glass window in her office. "You plant it, but you don't know how it will grow. Some bend towards the light. Others, well... they end up strangling themselves."
She had this way of comparing life’s complexities with houseplants that made me feel both introspective and slightly guilty for the shriveled cactus on my windowsill at home. I wondered if it was an extension of my deeper issues—my inability to nurture myself, perhaps?
But more on that later.
"Are we really so different, though?" I asked, deflecting.
Can empathy survive pain?
I suppose I always knew my therapist was right, even if it took me years to admit it. There was something about trauma that split people into two categories: those who, despite their scars, kept reaching out to others, and those who curled inward, protecting what little was left of themselves. I saw it with my own eyes, back when I was still with him.
To the world, Raj was dazzling. Charismatic. His laughter was as loud as it was infectious. He drew people in with his energy. And I? I was the quiet one in the background, the soft smile. "She's a good listener," they’d say. No one noticed my exhaustion after these nights, or the way I felt drained, as if I was holding up the weight of Raj's ego on my own two shoulders.
That is the thing about narcissists. They're masters at making you feel like you are the one who should be grateful for their presence. And empaths? We internalize everything. We grow up thinking that if we can just help people enough, if we can heal others, we’ll somehow heal ourselves.
I remember once, Raj had called me “too soft” during one of his typical criticisms of my personality.
"I mean, you’re too nice, too understanding," he said, as if those were insults.
"And you’re too much of an arse," I quipped, tired of the constant digs. But even in that moment, I couldn’t stay angry. I had this gnawing feeling—this need—to fix him. To understand him. Why did he act this way? What had hurt him so badly that he had to hurt others?
Narcissists: Born from weakness?
Raj wasn't born cruel. I’ve come to believe that. It’s a comforting lie we tell ourselves, isn’t it? That people are made cruel, not born. Childhood trauma was his badge of honour, one he wore like a shield. He told me stories of his neglectful parents, his chaotic upbringing, of never being enough. Each tale pulled me in closer.
“I won’t let anyone else hurt me. Not again," he’d say, with a coldness that made me shiver.
If I’m being honest, I think the truth is that Raj let that pain define him. The trauma was a pit that he fell into, and rather than climbing out, he chose to dig deeper. His anger became a weapon, and he wielded it well. I remember sitting across from him at dinner one night as he casually tore someone apart, making snide remarks about their appearance, their job, their relationship status. "It’s just banter," he’d say. But I could see the hurt in their eyes.
Narcissists are weak. That’s something I learned from Raj. Not in the traditional sense, but in how they respond to life’s cruelties. He vowed to put himself first, always. And by doing so, he trapped himself in a cycle of perpetual loneliness, no matter how many people he surrounded himself with. They were just mirrors, after all. And mirrors can’t love you back.
How do empaths stay strong?
On the other hand, empaths like me… we don’t get off easy either. There is a reason we end up being drawn to people like Raj. Our compassion, our desire to heal—these aren’t always noble traits. Sometimes, they’re just excuses to avoid looking at our own pain. We focus on others so we don’t have to face ourselves.
Growing up, I was always the peacekeeper. The one who smoothed over fights at home, made sure everyone was okay. My mother once called me her “little angel of empathy,” as though my ability to feel others' emotions was a gift. But I learned later in life that it is a gift with sharp edges.
Being an empath means walking around with your skin peeled back, constantly absorbing the emotions of those around you. And when you’re with a narcissist, you end up carrying their pain too. Empaths are strong not because they don’t feel the hurt, but because they choose not to let it destroy them. They bend towards the light, even when the darkness pulls at their roots.
Can trauma ever be healed?
Years later, I found myself planting a Syngonium. I’d read somewhere that indoor plants were good for mental health. Something about tending to them, watching them grow, helped remind you of your own resilience. Raj had long since disappeared from my life, leaving behind a tangle of memories that I wasn’t sure how to untangle. But that’s the thing about healing—it is slow, incremental. Like watching a plant grow.
I won’t say I’ve completely healed. Some days, I still feel that same pull to fix others, to dive headfirst into their brokenness as if I can make sense of my own by doing so. But I’ve learned to step back, to ask myself: Am I really helping them? Or am I just avoiding myself again?
Are we destined to repeat our patterns?
I look at the Syngonium, its leaves bright and healthy now. I think about Raj sometimes, where he might be, whether he’s still trapped in his own cycle of self-destruction. But I don’t reach out anymore. I can’t save him. He has to decide whether he will stay in the dark or turn towards the light.
As for me? I’ve chosen to grow, even if it’s slow and messy. I’ve chosen to stay soft, even when the world gives me reasons to harden.
Plant a Syngonium today and watch your mind bloom.
I am not trying to be poetic. Well, maybe a little. But seriously, there is something about nurturing something small, fragile, and green that forces you to slow down and be kind to yourself. You don’t have to solve all of life’s problems today, but you can water a plant.
And that is something, isn’t it?
Frequently Asked Questions:
- What makes a narcissist different from an empath?Narcissists are typically self-centred and respond to pain by pushing people away, while empaths feel deeply for others and often prioritize others' needs over their own.
- Can empaths and narcissists have healthy relationships?It's challenging. Narcissists tend to exploit the empathy of empaths, leading to imbalances that can cause harm if boundaries aren’t set.
- Why do narcissists and empaths end up together?Narcissists crave attention and admiration, while empaths are naturally drawn to helping others, which can create an unhealthy dynamic where the empath over-gives and the narcissist takes.
- Is it possible for narcissists to change?Change is possible, but only if the narcissist recognizes their patterns and genuinely wants to heal. It requires deep self-reflection, which many avoid.
Tushar Mangl is a counsellor and author of The Avenging Act. He writes on personal finance, mental health, and the art of living a balanced life. His work champions a greener, better society.
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