“It’s okay to let go of those who couldn’t love you. Those who didn’t know how to. Those who failed to even try. It’s okay to outgrow them, because that means you filled the empty space in you with self-love instead. You’re outgrowing them because you’re growing into you. And that’s more than okay; that’s something to celebrate.” ~Angelica Moone
I’ve had the most unusual, baffling, and frustrating experience with someone recently. And yet, it’s also been a massive catalyst for growth. I’ve seen myself more clearly by observing the behavior of someone who, in some ways, is a lot like me.
For me, it’s been the purest demonstration of the phrase “Others are your mirror.”
This person—let’s call him Simon—has been incredibly toxic.
He’s insulted me deeply, hurled cruel names, and used gaslighting, manipulation, and blame-shifting to twist reality.
At times, he cloaked control in false compassion, pretending to help while subtly undermining me.
He projected his insecurities onto me so persistently, I began to doubt my own sanity—wondering if I really was as terrible as he claimed.
Thankfully, I’m in a strong place mentally right now. I can see how someone more vulnerable could be shattered by Simon. In fact, I know he’s left a trail of broken relationships behind him. People abandon him left, right, and center—the moment they get close, his toxicity flares.
At his worst, Simon has been absolutely vile. He ticks nearly every box for narcissistic traits. He can’t handle even mild criticism. When I offered gentle, constructive feedback, his ego erupted, and he lashed out with shocking viciousness. He claims to want self-improvement, but when real opportunities arise, his ego slams shut. Growth is blocked at the gates.
And yet, despite all this, I feel deep compassion for him. I’ve read enough about narcissists to understand where this behavior might come from. He’s going through hell: job loss, depression, drug use. I’ve been in a scarily similar place. So my empathy kicks in hard. Even though he’s been monstrous, I see pieces of myself in him.
After clashing with him multiple times, I gave it one final try. I knew by then that avoiding narcissists is usually the wisest route—they rarely change—but I extended one last olive branch.
It lasted less than a day. He snapped it in half and flung it back in my face.
It feels like I’m some kind of unbearable truth agent to Simon. His soul just isn’t open enough to withstand my presence. I’m far from perfect, but I’ve worked hard on myself. I try to stay humble, self-reflective, and growth-oriented—and that’s like kryptonite to someone with such a fragile, inflamed ego.
So now, Simon is blocked. I’m proud I tried. It didn’t work. And for my own well-being, I had to let go.
I’ve grieved the friendship that might have been. Because, believe it or not, Simon has redeeming traits in spades. He’s brilliant, creative, charismatic. He seems to care about others—though I wonder if that’s driven more by ego than empathy.
So what good came out of all this chaos? Watching Simon’s worst traits has helped me examine my own.
Don’t get me wrong—I’m pretty sure I’m not a narcissist, and I don’t think I’ve ever been as vile as Simon.
But. I have lashed out. Especially when my ego’s taken a hit.
Back when I was addicted to drugs, I had a devastating fallout with one of my oldest friends—let’s call him Anthony. He was deeply concerned about my behavior. He had a young son, and didn’t trust me—with good reason.
I’d promised I wouldn’t take drugs on a lads’ holiday, then did it anyway. I betrayed his trust. Later, when we tried to arrange a meetup, Anthony did something incredibly difficult: he told me I wasn’t welcome at his home. He couldn’t risk me having drugs on me—in case his son found them.
Anthony tried to handle it with kindness and care. But it crushed my ego. My best friend thought I was a danger to his child.
I exploded. I did a Musk. In a blaze of rage, I told my best friend to go F himself.
That ended a fifteen-year friendship. I was already depressed, but after that, I spiraled into suicidal depths. Deep down, I knew I was to blame—but my ego couldn’t take it. Blaming Anthony was easier than facing myself.
He wouldn’t speak to me for years. Eventually, we reconciled, but something had died. The warmth was gone. He kept me at arm’s length, understandably. Now, we don’t speak at all. It’s clear he’s given up on me again. That still stings, but I accept it.
So can you see why I felt a connection to my new friend Simon?
Watching him lash out recently awakened something primal in me. It reminded me of my worst moments. And I never want to go there again. I want to master myself; build emotional intelligence; stop letting my volatility hurt people.
Simon showed me how bad it can get when you’re spiraling—and it’s terrifying.
All my life, I’ve struggled with emotional volatility. I don’t lose my temper often, but when I do, it’s nuclear. Words are my sword, and when I swing carelessly, the damage is brutal.
Which brings me to a truth I’ve come to believe: Strong men don’t lack the capacity for destruction—they master it.
They walk with a sheathed sword, drawing it only when absolutely necessary. It’s restraint, not weakness. It’s honor. It’s the way of the gentleman, the noble warrior. My blade is my voice—sharp, but it’s best when kept in check.
Weak men lash out at the slightest wound. I refuse to be a weak man.
Meeting someone as damaged as Simon has clarified my mission. I must continue to heal. I must shed the worst parts of myself. I saw my shadow in him—distorted and exaggerated. It horrified me. And it inspired me to rise above it.
I’ve started psychotherapy. I’ve even been using ChatGPT as a kind of therapist—surprisingly helpful. This past month has been a surge of self-development. And I have Simon, of all people, to thank.
Is he doomed to remain toxic? Maybe. The scientific literature suggests that the odds aren’t good. But it’s not my burden anymore. He didn’t want my help. I have to put my own well-being first.
By cutting him off, I protect myself from future pain.
And in doing so, I’ve gained greater empathy for those who once cut me off. They saw someone chaotic, unsafe, emotionally destructive. I wish they could see how much I’ve changed in the last ten years. But I respect their choice to keep their distance.
We can’t change the past. Some bridges are too obliterated and irradiated to ever rebuild.
But if we choose humility and self-reflection, we can always choose to grow.
About Rob Collins
Rob Collins is a tech geek, reviewer, eBay guru, writer/author, dance music enjoyer, runner and mental health advocate.
