While washing my hands at a restaurant recently, I noticed a small sign taped to the bathroom wall: “If you are experiencing abuse in your marriage and need help, please call … ”

It was so discreet that it was almost hidden, and I couldn’t help wondering: Why is this in a place where almost no one will see it?

As someone who has lived it, I know that those in active abuse are rarely in a position to call a number on a wall. When you are in it, it doesn’t feel like abuse. It feels confusing, complicated, like maybe you’re misunderstanding it. You think maybe there will be one magical day, one perfect sentence, a joke you’ll crack, the thing you’ll finally do that will change things. Suddenly he’ll understand you and you’ll see eye to eye.

But narcissistic abuse is not a breakdown of love. The abuser’s goal isn’t love, and it definitely isn’t connection. It’s about dominance and control. And they achieve it by disguising control as devotion, by creating confusion on purpose, and by projecting their own emptiness onto you until you no longer recognize yourself.

The best way I can explain it—as someone who has lived it—is that it feels like being cast under a spell, numbed by your own reality. Not because you are weak and not because you are unintelligent. But because manipulation is so discreet and very strategic, that by the time you question it, you no longer trust your own mind.

Learning to Mistrust Myself

I’ve always had a strong intuition. I was the kind of child who could sense when something wasn’t right. If someone came into our home and their energy felt off, I would quietly go upstairs to my room. In school, I once told my mother that someone felt “weird” to me, and years later, that same person ended up in jail. I didn’t have language for it then but I just knew.

But life and circumstances have a way of dulling that voice. Sometimes it’s being the child who lives in the shadows of louder siblings, learning to shrink so there’s less friction. Sometimes it’s being abandoned emotionally or physically by a parent. Sometimes it’s becoming so attuned to everyone else’s needs that you stop noticing your own. And sometimes it’s manipulation so subtle that you don’t even realize you’re slowly abandoning yourself just to keep the peace.

Over time, you begin to mistrust what you feel. You override the pit in your stomach. You convince yourself maybe you’re too sensitive or overthinking (a trauma response you haven’t named yet). And then one day, you wake up and realize your gut was never dramatic, it was protective.

I Could Immediately Tell Something Was Wrong

Not long after moving to a new town with my husband, we were invited to someone’s home for Shabbat. The moment I walked in, I felt a heaviness, a darkness I couldn’t ignore.

You can walk into a home and immediately sense whether the woman of the home is cherished and honored. When she is, there’s warmth and lightness. When she is not, you feel that too, even if no one says a word.

I sat down feeling completely uneasy. And then I understood why. It was the husband. The way he looked at me, not friendly, not curious, but assessing. Predatory. I had seen that expression before. Expressionless face, unmistakable empty eyes. The same look I had once known too well in my own previous marriage.

The energy was so intense that I asked my husband to pour me a glass of wine, something I almost never do (and isn’t usually the wisest thing to do). He knew that something was off. Almost immediately a little tipsy (which is why I don’t drink), I found myself in the kitchen with the hostess, sharing parts of my story I hadn’t even shared with close friends.

I told her about my divorce. About narcissistic abuse, love bombing, gaslighting and smear campaigns. And what struck me most was that she didn’t react with shock. She didn’t look confused or say, “That sounds terrifying.” She nodded as if it were normal and familiar, which told me more than any dramatic response ever could.

“My friend is in that situation, but she has children. She can’t leave,” she confided.

I looked at her and said, “What? No, it’s the opposite. Especially if she has children, she has to leave. Children feel everything. They absorb anxiety, even if they don’t say anything. They are not in denial.”

As we spoke, her husband walked into the kitchen with a dish, pretending to help so he could listen and monitor our conversation. I recognized that too.

When her name came up on my caller ID sometime after, I had a gut feeling about what she was about to share.

“It’s not my friend,” she said quietly. “It’s me.”

There was a pause.

“Could we meet?” she asked.

And that was the beginning of it. When we sat down together, I didn’t start with advice. I asked questions.

Were you in a vulnerable season of your life when you first met him? Yes.

Did he move quickly? Yes.

Was there a part of you that was still longing to be chosen, to be understood, maybe—especially—by your parents? Yes.

Did it start with love bombing? Yes.

With each question, she looked at me with incredulity. “How do you know this?”

But when you’ve lived it, you don’t just recognize the behavior, you recognize the feeling. You recognize the way it starts and the subtle shift when admiration turns into control. You recognize the confusion that creeps in so slowly you begin living in denial. You recognize it because you’ve stood there, and once you’ve stood in it and fought your way out, you can see it forming in someone else long before they have the words for it.

My Mission Unlocked

We helped her quietly—with groceries, financial support, hour-long phone calls, and steady encouragement. Eventually, the truth surfaced publicly and he was no longer welcomed in the synagogue. She is now divorced and living a healthy life, thank G‑d.

Since then, I have helped two other women in nearly identical situations. One asked to meet me at a gym because her husband was tracking her location and it was the only place she could speak freely.

The pattern never changes, and as if a decision like this isn’t already hard enough, Jewish guilt adds another layer. It whispers that you are the one destroying a marriage. That if you just tried harder, prayed harder, stayed quieter, it would work.

But here is what you need to remember: Pikuach nefesh (protecting life) overrides almost everything. Emotional, physical, and psychological safety are part of that obligation. The directive to safeguard your health—v’nishmartem me’od lenafshoteichem—is not optional.

A spouse has halachic responsibilities like dignity, protection, and security. Ongoing abuse is a violation of those obligations. Doing what you need to do to preserve your life is not a sin!

And when you save your own life, when you rebuild your intuition, your clarity, your emunah, you become able to help someone else recognize what they are living with.

This has become a quiet mission of mine. Not as a profession, just something G‑d seems to place in my path. So sometimes, saving your own life is the very thing that positions you to save someone else’s.

If you are reading this and recognizing yourself, here is what you need to understand: narcissistic abuse does not heal with time. It does not improve with patience. It does not get better because you try harder or endure it more gracefully.

I am not speaking theoretically. I am speaking from experience. This kind of abuse does not dissolve with love. It requires distance. It requires courage. It requires support. And with G‑d’s help, you can leave. You can heal. You can rebuild the beautiful life you once envisioned, and the one you deserve.

If I could heal from what I’ve been through and remarry a true mensch—someone who does not see my divorce as a flaw, but as proof of my strength, my growth, and the work I’ve done—then so can you.

Your soul wants to live in its fullest capacity in G‑d’s light. And with His help, you will not just leave the darkness, but illuminate this new path—not only for yourself, but for others.

Editor’s Note: If you or your loved one has questions or concerns about relationships, or are currently in an unhealthy or abusive relationship, call, text or WhatsApp the confidential Shalom Task Force Hotline at 888-883-2323 or chat with a live advocate at shalomtaskforce.org .