The Subtle Art of Tearing You Down: Little Comments, Big Wounds

It was a cold winter day in February 2024 when we decided to take the kids to the swimming pool. In Norway, Sundays are quiet—most places are closed except for sports facilities, and swimming became our go-to family activity. It should have been a simple, happy outing, but our relationship was in a rough patch. It was around this time that I had begun to seriously consider the possibility that my husband might be a narcissist.

The realization didn’t come out of nowhere. My sister had sent me a video about narcissistic traits, and as I watched it, something clicked. “This is him,” I thought. The more I read and researched, the more the pieces began to fit. I was in the early stages of finding answers, but the tension in our relationship was palpable. It manifested in countless small ways—subtle comments, dismissive gestures, and undermining remarks that chipped away at me.

That day at the pool, after swimming, we sat in the cafeteria to grab a quick bite. My husband went to use the restroom, leaving me with our two kids. As I fed my youngest and playfully interacted with my two-year-old, an older woman approached. With a warm smile, she said, "It's so nice to see you with these kids! You look like a great mom."

Her words melted my heart. In a country where strangers don't usually talk to you and in a relationship where compliments were scarce, this woman's kindness felt like a balm to my soul.

Unnoticed, my husband had returned. As the woman walked away, he leaned close from behind and whispered, "She only said that because she doesn't know you."

I froze. I was paralyzed, stunned by the cruelty of his words. A moment that had been filled with warmth and connection was shattered in an instant. He didn’t yell. He didn’t make a scene. But that’s the insidious nature of emotional abuse—it’s in the subtle, cutting remarks designed to quietly erode your confidence and sense of worth.

For me, that moment at the swimming pool became a turning point. I started to see the patterns more clearly—to name them, to call them out, even if just to myself. It was also when I began writing down all these comments in a notebook—not just for my sanity, but as a record of the small, sharp moments that cut deeper than anyone could see. Writing became my refuge, a way to reclaim my voice and process the subtle wounds that had quietly accumulated over the years. Each word I wrote down felt like validation, like reclaiming a piece of myself. It was my truth—finally, my version of it—and his words no longer defined me the way they once had.

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