How To Stop Feeling Sorry For a Narcissist

Okay, so here’s the thing I didn’t expect when I started researching narcissism: even experts—people who know all the clinical signs—can still feel sorry for narcissists. I found that kind of wild. But the more I dug in, the more I saw how empathy, even informed empathy, can backfire when you’re dealing with someone who’s wired to exploit it.

Take covert narcissists, for example. They’re not out there grandstanding or yelling; they’re sighing heavily, playing the misunderstood victim, subtly tugging at your empathy until you’re emotionally hooked.

One psychologist I read said, “You start doing emotional labor for them before you even realize you’ve picked up the shovel.” That hit me.

What really stood out in my research was this idea of “pathological empathy”—when someone’s compassion becomes compulsive, even self-destructive. It’s not talked about enough, especially in the context of professionals who pride themselves on being trauma-informed. But what happens when empathy turns into a liability?

That’s what this blog is about—how to stop feeling sorry for narcissists, even when they look wounded. Because sometimes what looks like suffering… is just another performance.

Why Experts Still Feel Sorry

So let’s get into the meat of it—why even experts get pulled into feeling sorry for narcissists, despite having all the knowledge, training, and clinical experience. Honestly, I didn’t expect to find so many psychological traps hiding in plain sight, especially the ones that affect experts, not just the average person.

Let’s start with the big one: the projection of the inner child. This comes up a lot in expert commentary and case studies. Many professionals have been trained to look for the wounded child underneath problematic behavior.

But with narcissists—especially covert ones—that projection becomes a dangerous lens.

You’re not just seeing a vulnerable person; you’re imagining a core wound that they themselves may never acknowledge or feel the need to heal. That imagined wounded child?

That’s your empathy talking, not necessarily their reality.

Then there’s professional bias toward redemption. This one surprised me. There’s a subtle pressure among therapists, coaches, and trauma-informed practitioners to “believe in the best” and “never give up on someone.”

But narcissists—especially the high-functioning or vulnerable types—exploit this like pros.

They know how to dangle just enough insight or “change talk” to keep someone hopeful. It’s not real transformation, but it’s enough to keep the expert emotionally invested.

Another big hook is the misapplication of attachment theory. Now, don’t get me wrong—attachment theory is super useful. But sometimes, it becomes a trap.

If you’re constantly seeing the narcissist’s behavior through an attachment wound framework, it’s easy to start over-pathologizing their defenses and underestimating their agency. I read one expert frame it like this: “You’re not treating a scared child; you’re negotiating with someone who has a survival strategy that includes controlling you.” That one stuck with me.

And then there’s moral injury, which I think gets overlooked in this context. This happens when professionals feel like they’re doing harm by walking away, even when they know the relationship (clinical or personal) is toxic. It’s that guilt that creeps in—what if I’m abandoning them? What if I’m not being trauma-informed enough?

But here’s the twist: narcissists are banking on that hesitation. They rely on your fear of doing harm to avoid accountability.

Let me give you a quick example I came across: A trauma coach was working with a client who constantly “spiraled” after being given any feedback.

The client would cry, talk about childhood abuse, and accuse the coach of being emotionally cold. The coach kept softening her boundaries, thinking she was being compassionate.

But after months of this, she realized—none of her efforts were helping. The “suffering” was actually a smokescreen for control. That shift in perspective changed everything.

Bottom line?

Knowledge of narcissism doesn’t automatically protect you from feeling sorry for one.

Sometimes, the deeper your expertise, the harder it is to recognize when your own empathy is being hacked.

Practices To Get Out of This Loop

By this point, you’re probably nodding along like, “Yep, been there.” And that’s exactly the wild part—even when you know the game narcissists play, you can still find yourself emotionally entangled. So the next obvious question is: How do you break the spell—especially when you’ve already bought into it?

I want to get into some practical stuff here. The strategies below aren’t just for clients. They’re for you, the expert, the helper, the one who “should know better” but still finds themselves feeling guilty, pitying, or emotionally stuck. I’ve split these into two camps: cognitive reframes (mental/emotional strategies) and somatic/behavioral practices (body-based and habit-level shifts).

Because let’s be honest—narcissistic influence doesn’t just affect your thoughts; it hits your nervous system, your sense of safety, and your core beliefs about compassion.

Cognitive Reframes That Will Help Deconstruct the Empathy Reflex

Let’s start in the brain. These aren’t just positive affirmations or clever mantras—these are mental frameworks that actually disrupt the pity cycle and rewire your instinct to rescue.

1. Shift from Empathy to Strategic Detachment

This isn’t coldness—it’s clarity. Strategic detachment means you still see what’s happening, but you no longer feel obligated to react emotionally. It’s the difference between recognizing a fire alarm and feeling like you personally need to put the fire out.

Try this: When you catch yourself empathizing with a narcissist’s pain, ask, “Is this actual pain or performative pain?” The distinction matters. One motivates healing, the other manipulates caretaking. You don’t owe empathy to a performance.

2. Re-define Compassion as Boundary-Enforcing

This one flips the typical “compassion equals tolerance” script on its head. Real compassion isn’t passive—it’s protective. It includes you, not just the other person.

Example: A narcissistic client in group therapy starts derailing the session with an elaborate story of victimization. Instead of trying to soothe or redirect them, one facilitator calmly said, “I hear you. And right now, the compassionate thing is to protect the space for others to speak too.”
That’s compassion with a spine.

3. Name the Dynamic: “Sympathy Split”

This is when your empathy is triangulated against your better judgment. You know they’re harming others (or you), but you can’t help feeling bad for them. That “split” is often where narcissistic influence lives.

Labeling it gives you back power. You’re not just confused—you’re caught in a psychological sleight-of-hand.

Somatic and Behavioral Practices To Get Out of the Fawn Response

Let’s be real: you can’t always think your way out of feeling sorry for a narcissist. Your body gets wired into a freeze-or-fawn response, especially if you’ve got your own trauma history or chronic compassion fatigue.

These body-based tools help disrupt that autopilot empathy from the inside out.

1. Body Scanning for Empathic Override

This is about catching that moment when your body starts doing the “empathy thing” before your brain is even fully aware. The clenched jaw, the slightly hunched shoulders, the breath-holding when a narcissist starts “opening up” about their pain—it’s your nervous system bracing.

Try this: When you feel the pull of pity, pause and scan your body. Ask, “What part of me feels hijacked right now?” That awareness alone starts to reset the spell.

2. Grounding Before Responding

When a narcissist starts “spiraling,” don’t join them in the drop. Regulate yourself first.
A few fast methods:

Orient to the room: Look around and name 5 neutral objects. It gets you back in the here-and-now.
Vocal toning: Humming, sighing, or chanting helps stimulate the vagus nerve and shift out of fawn/freeze mode.
Push against a wall or doorway to activate your muscles and signal safety to your brain.

By grounding before you respond, you’re not just reacting—you’re choosing. And choice is kryptonite for manipulation.

3. Empathy Audit

This one’s a game changer. Once a week, do a quick self-inventory:

Who have you felt sorry for lately?
Did that pity result in empowerment—or enablement?
Did your compassion come from clarity or guilt?

You’ll be surprised how often the answer is: “I gave more than I got clarity about.”

One trauma consultant I interviewed started keeping a literal spreadsheet—three columns labeled Compassion Given, Outcome, Emotional Cost. In three weeks, she realized that her most draining relationships were with people who used their wounds as weapons, not as fuel for growth.

Micro-Practices to Rewire the Reflex

If all that feels like too much at once, here are some small, daily things you can do to gently reprogram your internal “rescue reflex.”

The “Not My Work” Mantra
Whisper it when you feel pulled to fix or soothe: “This is not my work.” It’s simple, and surprisingly effective.
Empathic Delay
When someone hits you with a dramatic story meant to elicit pity, practice the 3-second pause. Let your nervous system settle before responding. You don’t have to perform empathy instantly.
Boundary Rehearsal
Literally practice saying:
“I believe you’re hurting, and I’m not the person to hold this for you.”
You don’t have to say it that way, but rehearsing boundary language makes it easier to speak when it counts.
Create a “Disengagement Ritual”
After emotionally charged interactions (client sessions, family calls, etc.), create a small ritual to clear the residue. That might be a shower, a song, or even five minutes of silence with your hand over your chest. Let your body uncouple from the emotional hook.

A Real-World Snapshot

Here’s something that stuck with me from a podcast interview I listened to. A seasoned therapist said she once kept a covertly narcissistic client in therapy for over a year—not because he was making progress, but because she felt bad ending it. Every session, he’d talk about being misunderstood, rejected, abandoned. She knew the pattern, but couldn’t shake the emotional pull.

Then one day, he said something like: “You’re the only person who doesn’t make me feel defective.” On the surface, it seemed like a compliment. But in reality, it was a hook. She realized in that moment—he didn’t want to grow, he wanted to keep her in his emotional economy.

She ended therapy two weeks later. With referrals. With care. But with zero guilt.

Quick Recap (because whew, that was a lot):

Use cognitive reframes to see through the pity-performance loop.
Regulate your body to stop reacting from old trauma patterns.
Audit your empathy like a precious resource—because it is.
Practice micro-boundaries and rituals to slowly rewire your response system.

Why a Narcissist’s “Suffering” is nothing but a Manipulative Practice?

Let’s talk about something that gets a lot of quiet eye-rolls in professional spaces—but doesn’t always get a full-on spotlight: Is the narcissist actually suffering, or are they just acting like it to keep control of the narrative and the people in it?

This isn’t about dehumanizing people with narcissistic traits. But it is about drawing a firm, uncomfortable line between existential suffering (the kind that fuels change) and performative suffering (the kind that fuels manipulation). And honestly, that line is where a lot of professionals get stuck.

Performative Suffering vs. Existential Suffering

So here’s the key distinction I kept running into in my research:

Existential suffering is rooted in a sense of self-awareness. It leads to genuine insight, accountability, and sometimes—actual transformation.
Performative suffering is surface-level. It’s meant to elicit sympathy, avoid consequences, or re-establish control when someone starts pulling away.

Here’s the kicker: both can look incredibly similar on the outside.
Tears, self-loathing, dramatic confessions, even what looks like vulnerability.

But the function behind it is different. One’s a signal for healing. The other’s a tool for emotional leverage.

“Defensive Despair”: A Tool, Not a Truth

One term that came up repeatedly in advanced discussions was something called defensive despair. It’s not an official diagnosis, but it nails the behavior: a display of intense sadness or self-destruction that’s actually meant to disarm confrontation and re-trigger emotional caretaking from others.

Think of it like this: instead of lashing out with anger or blame, the narcissist collapses. They spiral. They talk about how alone they are.
And just like that—you’re back in the role of rescuer, comforter, therapist, or loyal friend. It’s grief-as-bait.

Case Vignettes: The Trap of Misreading “Remorse”

Let me sketch out two quick hypothetical examples that show how tricky this can get.

ase 1: The Contrite Ex

A therapist working with a client post-breakup describes her narcissistic ex calling her late at night, sobbing, saying, “I’ve ruined everything. I’m broken. I just wanted love.”
She wonders, Was it all fake? It felt real.

What’s likely happening? He’s not actually processing grief—he’s trying to pull her back into orbit by performing pain. It’s not about insight; it’s about control.

Case 2: The Grieving Leader

A coach watches a team leader with clear narcissistic traits break down after losing his title role. He talks about how hard he worked, how no one ever sees his effort, how he’s always left behind.

On the surface?

Sounds like grief.
But in sessions, there’s no curiosity about his behavior—only complaints and manipulations to get his status back. The suffering is real in appearance, but hollow in depth.

So How Can You Tell the Difference?

It’s not easy. But experts have a few litmus tests to separate real emotional depth from narcissistic display.

Watch for these signs of authentic suffering:

The person expresses curiosity about their own role in the situation.
There’s a willingness to sit in discomfort, not just seek relief.
Insight builds over time—they don’t just recycle the same “why me” script.

Versus signs of performative suffering:

Emotional displays spike only when boundaries are enforced.
There’s no behavioral change—just dramatic storytelling.
The focus stays on external validation or blame.

Here’s a line I came across that I’ll never forget:

“Narcissists don’t process pain—they weaponize it.”

That hit me like a brick. Because once you see suffering as a strategy, you stop rushing in to save it.

And that’s the shift: not denying their pain, but questioning its purpose in the moment. Because when pain becomes a performance, the most compassionate response might be to walk off the stage.

Final Thoughts

Here’s what it comes down to: not all pain is sacred, and not all suffering deserves your empathy. That’s a hard pill to swallow, especially for those of us who’ve been trained to believe every wound needs tending, every outburst has a trauma root, and every breakdown is a doorway to healing.

But narcissists play a different game.

They learn the language of vulnerability without committing to the work of vulnerability. They know that suffering—or the appearance of it—can disarm smart, empathetic people faster than rage or blame ever could.

And if you’re in this field, you’ve likely been there. Caught in the loop. Knowing better, but still pulled into the gravity of their need.

So here’s the quiet truth I hope you take away: you’re not heartless for refusing to feel sorry for someone who’s using their suffering to keep you small, compliant, or emotionally trapped. You’re not broken for hesitating, for withdrawing, for setting a boundary that feels “too cold.”

You’re just waking up to the fact that empathy without discernment is a liability.

And waking up?

That’s not cruelty—it’s clarity.