What Joe Goldberg taught me about my abusive relationship.

The final season of You was released on Netflix at the end of April, and boy did it land.

Over the course of its run, the show successfully positioned their protagonist—the cultural phenomenon that is Joe Goldberg—as a relatable, sympathetic character. He is many, many things, but one stood out to me more than ever: Joe is as narcissistic as they come.

Warning: spoilers ahead.

The final scene sees Joe delivering a monologue while reading a fan’s letter from prison. Looking directly at us—emphasizing the point that the audience is implicated in his behaviour—his last line says: “Maybe we have a problem in our society. Maybe we should fix what's broken within us. Maybe the problem isn't me. Maybe it's you.”

When I heard those words, something clicked.

You see, narcissists don’t look for people like them. They search for the opposite. They choose people who glow—people with real hearts, real emotions, real light. They attach themselves to souls full of kindness, empathy and life.

They want a mirror that reflects everything they lack. They seek spirits to cover their emptiness. They want your strength to hide their weakness. They want your loyalty to distract from their lies.

At first, it feels like love. Finally being seen, valued, wanted. They know how to make you feel chosen, like you were the answer they always needed. They study your heart, your habits and your hopes to mirror what they cannot build on their own. They create a bond that looks real but feeds only their ego and image.

The truth shows up when you start seeing through the mask. When you stop reflecting only what flatters them. When you catch the lies hidden in sweet words. When you recognize that what you gave came from the heart, but what you received came from a need to survive.

Once you see them clearly, your love feels dangerous to them. Your honesty feels like a threat. Your boundaries feel like an attack. They twist your words. They label your emotions as weakness. They turn your care into a weapon against you. Because once you see the truth, you cannot unseen it. And they lose control.

Narcissists refuse to stand in front of a mirror that shows their emptiness. They break it instead. They rewrite the story with you as the villain. They turn admiration into resentment; love into blame. They shift every failure onto you and walk away feeling justified.

I loved how the show saw Joe brought to justice by an army of his victims—women who witnessed and survived his abuse.

One scene particularly healed something in me: Marienne Bellamy—presumed dead—confronts his current love interest, Bronte.

Men like Joe, they...they really catch you off guard, don't they? Even when you think you have all the facts. Even when you think your hard-fought instincts are so good. Even though a voice in the back of your mind is...whispering. Telling you 'Don't be fooled by his smile. It's all too good to be true. The way he sees you. The way he loves you. Even when you don't love yourself. Don't believe it when he tells you he'll take care of you. Definitely don't assume the best when he says he'll keep you safe.'

You ignore that voice because it feels so good to love him and be loved by him. Like it's you and him against the world. You know what bad looks like. You know better. And when the bad things happen, well...you have to believe that they're not actually bad, right? Because...if you got fooled by this guy? You are not as smart as you thought you were. Then you're one of those women. You know the ones you, deep down, think you're smarter than. It can't be you.

But he's convinced you that you need him. And he's wormed himself so, so deep, you don't know whether you are Bronte, or Louise, or Marienne. Or Beck. Or none of those. Or nothing. […] Don't forget what brought you here in the first place. You're not stupid. And as long as you are alive, it's not too late.

What saved them was their voice; the courage to tell their stories. The unity between women who hardly knew one another stems from an unspeakable collective experience laced with fear. Yet they spoke. And they lived.

When Bronte told Joe that her erosion of self was rooted in the fantasy world that is manipulation, I was floored. She said: “The fantasy of a man like you is how we cope with the reality of a man like you.”

The hardest truth? They do not miss you.

They miss the way you made them feel powerful without earning it. They miss the attention you gave without questioning it. They miss the forgiveness you offered without demanding change. They miss the steady supply of praise, patience, loyalty, and emotional labor you carried on your back. They miss the comfort of knowing someone would always believe their best excuses. They miss the access to your energy, your kindness, your ability to heal what they kept breaking. They miss the reflection of your light shining on them because without you, the mask slips and the emptiness shows.

Healing from this means accepting that the love you needed never lived inside them. It means trusting your own heart again, even after they tried to make you doubt it. It means setting boundaries so strong that no apology, no guilt trip, no sweet words can break them. It means loving yourself so fully that no one ever uses your kindness as a place to hide their damage. It means choosing peace every time, even when a part of you still aches for the version of them your hope imagined.

Coming to terms with the reality they eventually revealed is what sets us free, and living to tell the tale is how we take our power back.

So here’s to powerful women. May we see them, hear them, believe them, be them.