My Story: Can a Narcissist Change?

When I first met him, he seemed humble. He gave me a lot of space and listened to me in a way that felt different. You know that feeling when someone isn’t just waiting for their turn to talk? He had that.

He would put his phone away, maintain intense eye contact, and say, “Tell me everything, I have time.”

He’d mirror my thoughts, finish my sentences, recall the smallest details I’d forgotten I’d even shared. And he was always validating me, telling me how deep my thoughts were, how special my perspective was. 

For a while there, it was intoxicating. I remember thinking, “This is it. I’ve found my other half, someone who finally understands me.

Then the attentive listening that made me feel seen disappeared, replaced by a quiet coldness. His encouraging nods transformed into dismissive interruptions, cutting me off to correct my story or redirect the conversation back to himself. 

The feelings he once validated were now reframed as “overreactions” or “misunderstandings,” a subtle but cruel rewrite of my reality.

When I tried to share the stress of a work deadline, he’d scroll on his phone, barely looking up.

If I paused, he’d prompt a robotic, “Uh-huh, I’m listening,” though he couldn’t recall a single detail moments later. 

Our conversations became his monologues. When I tried to speak, I was met with blank stares or sharp pivots back to his interests, and I started to feel not just unheard but silly for trying at all.

It wasn’t a huge fight. It wasn’t an affair. 

I was telling him about a promotion I’d just been offered. It was a major achievement, something I’d worked toward for years. I was buzzing with excitement and nervous energy.

When I finished, there was a long silence. He turned, not with pride or congratulations, but with a flat, assessing look.

“Well,” he said, his tone analytical and cold. “That’s a lot of responsibility. Are you sure you can handle it? You get stressed so easily. Honestly, I’m a little worried for you. It might be too much.”

At that moment, everything rearranged itself. 

I started remembering everything differently: all the listening he did, the praise he’d give, the way I’d been slowly shrinking myself to keep the peace. I realized none of it was accidental. It wasn’t even love, and it was a performance.

And once I saw that, the illusion broke for good. I just left him without saying anything.

Months later, we found ourselves in the same room at a mutual friend’s party. He asked if we could talk. I assumed he might apologize or try to explain himself.

“I started therapy,” he said. His voice lacked the weight he used to give every statement. Then, he said: I need to fix how I relate to people. I’m a difficult person.”

Part of me wanted to hope. He talked about therapy, his childhood, and how hard life had been for him. When he finished, I told him how he had hurt me and how it felt.

He didn’t argue. “I know,” he said. “I used being broken to avoid being responsible.”

We didn’t rush. There were no sweeping declarations, only cautious, mutual steps across a new bridge, with generous space and deliberate boundaries.

I began to notice a change. His behavior altered in precise, surprising ways: no more bids for reassurance, respect for stated boundaries, acceptance of criticism without deflection. 

Was he healed? Not even close. 

He was running a new playbook. He had audited the previous breakup, identifying my boundaries and my voice as the critical failures in his system. His return required a temporary software update: mimicry.exe.

He targeted my hope and empathy. He says, “See? I learned. I’m trying.” And for a moment, I would waver: Maybe he is different, maybe it was all just growing pains, look at the effort he’s making.

Now I saw it: the core hadn’t changed. The entitlement, the lack of true empathy, the need to control—they were all still there. They had only learned to wear a better mask.

The goal remained the same: my compliance, my energy, my self-doubt. The most painful realization? The “change” itself had been just another phase of the cycle.

Years later, people still ask me: Can a narcissist change?

“Sometimes,” I say. “But they don’t change for you. They change for access. 

They change to get what they want, to keep a door open, or to make you believe they’ve changed. Most of the time, that change is just a new mask over the same old patterns.

Note: These kinds of stories are about vulnerable narcissists. They don’t show overt aggression, but rely on subtle behaviors instead. They can display more than 20 signs and tactics used to quietly control their victims.