It’s not the kind of question you expect to be asking yourself in the second half of life. Especially not when you’ve lived a full one - when you’ve raised children, buried animals you saved with your own hands, weathered divorces, survived illness, built businesses, sat with old age and new life in the same room, and walked through more emotional fires than you can count. You start to believe you know who you are.

And then something unsettles you. A comment. A look. A feeling that won’t leave you alone.

And suddenly you’re staring at yourself in the mirror - really staring - and thinking: Is it possible that I’ve been walking through parts of life wearing a mask I didn’t even know I had on?

That’s where this question came from: Am I a narcissist?

Where the Question Comes From

I’ve always seen myself as the strong one. The thinker. The provider. I’m very smart. I’ve always had the ability to solve complex problems, see patterns others miss, and break down emotions and behaviors like I was studying animal behavior at the zoo again. My brain has always worked like that - scientific, detailed, rational.

And I’m not just smart. I’m deeply empathic. I feel things. I feel people. I’ve walked into rooms and felt emotional earthquakes before a single word was spoken. I’ve cried watching animals be reunited with their young. I’ve sat with people in grief, not because I had to, but because I couldn’t walk away. I’ve hurt when others hurt, and I carry a deep, instinctive need to fix things - emotional things, human things, broken things.

So how could someone like me be anything close to a narcissist?

Well, that’s the tricky part. Because narcissism doesn’t always look like what we think it does. It isn’t always someone standing in front of a mirror flexing or charming a crowd. Sometimes it’s more subtle. Sometimes it hides behind intelligence, accomplishment, and even good intentions.

I started wondering about this not because I wanted to criticize myself, but because I started seeing pain in others - especially in my children - and I began asking myself how much of that pain I might have caused.

The Honest Look Back

I've made mistakes. That’s not new. We all have. But some of mine haunt me. The kind of mistakes that don't go away with time - they just echo in quieter rooms. Emotional absence. Harsh words. Needing to be right. Thinking that being a provider meant being emotionally unavailable. Responding to someone’s feelings like they were a problem to be fixed instead of a heart to be held.

I thought I was helping. I thought I was being strong. I thought I was keeping us afloat.

But what if, in some cases, I was just trying to control the chaos around me so I didn’t have to deal with the chaos inside me?

I didn’t come from a background where emotional vulnerability was encouraged. The people who were supposed to raise me left gaps - emotional gaps, physical ones too. I was adopted. Loved, but always wondering what it would’ve been like to be held longer by the woman who first made me feel safe - my nanny, Daisy. I still remember her rocking me in the sunlight. When she left, it felt like my heart got yanked out of my chest before I even had the words to explain it. That early rupture shaped a lot of what came later. The fear of loss. The fear of being left. The need to control.

Later in life, when my marriages ended - especially the second one, which should never have begun - I was left with more questions than answers. That marriage changed me in ways I’m still unraveling. It taught me to mistrust. It taught me that not every kind of love is safe. It also taught me how deep emotional manipulation can go, and how much it can blur your own reflection.

I fought for my kids. I kept them when she left. I protected them with everything I had. But in trying to shield them from the damage she left behind, I may have created new kinds of damage - my own.

Narcissism vs. Survival Mechanisms

When you’ve had to survive - really survive - you develop traits that help you get through life but don’t always help you connect with life.

I learned to read people like a book, anticipate moods, head off fights, solve problems fast. That looks like intelligence and empathy on the surface. And it is. But underneath? Sometimes it’s fear. Fear of failure. Fear of not being enough. Fear of being left again. Fear of watching someone you love walk away and never come back.

And so I over-compensated. I tried to be everything: protector, fixer, planner, coach, enforcer. I ran the show when I thought the show might collapse. That’s not narcissism. But it can feel like control. It can leave people feeling unheard. It can leave your kids wondering if you ever really saw them.

And that’s the part that breaks my heart.

Because I did see them. I do see them. I just didn’t always show it the way they needed me to.

Owning the Shadow

Now, I sit in this part of life - the quieter part, where the chaos isn’t constant, and there’s space to reflect. And I look around and I see where I went wrong.

I see the moments where I dismissed someone's feelings because they didn’t make logical sense to me. I see the times I spoke from a place of pain and called it “honesty.” I see the times I used my intelligence to win an argument instead of heal a wound. I see when I confused emotional intensity for emotional depth.

And I ask myself again: Am I a narcissist?

And my answer, after all this reflection, is no.

But have I behaved in narcissistic ways? Yes.

Have I ever made someone else’s pain about me? Yes.

Have I ever avoided accountability by focusing on what they did wrong? Yes.

But I know the difference now. And I want to live in that difference.

Who I Really Am

I’m a man who is learning. A man who has been through fire, and not just survived it, but studied it. A man who has built and rebuilt, not just businesses or barns or houses - but himself. A man who has cried late at night for the people he hurt, the moments he missed, the damage he didn’t realize he caused.

I’m also a man who has loved with everything he had, even if he didn’t always love well.

I’ve learned how to apologize without justifying.

I’ve learned that empathy means listening with no agenda.

I’ve learned that being “smart” is not enough. You have to be soft too. Gentle. Open. And brave enough to ask questions like this one.

So no, I’m not a narcissist.

I’m a man who was wounded, who hurt others in trying to heal himself, and who now wants to live with his eyes and heart fully open.

If you’re someone I hurt: I am truly sorry.

If you’re someone who stood by me: thank you.

If you’re someone just now getting to know this version of me: welcome. I’ve been waiting a long time to meet you.