The Limits of Empathy in Toxic Relationships

One of the most corrosive aftereffects of enduring abuse is how it warps your inner life. Your emotions go offline. You feel disconnected. It becomes hard to pinpoint what you’re feeling or who is responsible for the pain. Within a family this confusion and resentment ricochet in every direction and can glue everyone into the same poisonous pattern that caused the damage to begin with. I’m not a clinician, though I’ve been through it personally and have spent my career addressing the fallout. Today’s letter comes from a woman I’ll call Ruth. She writes, “Dear Anna, my 44-year-old daughter suffers badly with CPTSD originating from emotional abuse from her father and older sister.” Okay — I’ve got my mental highlighter ready to mark things to revisit, but let’s unpack Ruth’s account. She says she has an issue with me — that I was emotionally absent during her formative years and that I’m still emotionally distant when she needs me. I want to believe I did what I could given the circumstances, but I also know it wasn’t enough. At the moment the daughter must live with us because she has nowhere permanent to go and is not working. After enduring many emotionally abusive relationships, she struggles to relate to other people. Ruth asks for advice about how to respond when her daughter verbally lashes out at her for supposedly lacking understanding. Ruth feels she’s trying her best, yet during those episodes she becomes dysregulated and cannot find a way to calm herself so she can help the daughter in that emotional moment. Ruth added another detail: “She has horrific nightmares every night and when she berates me for my lack of understanding, it’s usually early in the morning after another bad night. She never sleeps well.” So I wrote back and asked for more information because I had a lot of questions. I wondered whether the daughter’s anger might be amplified by trauma-driven thinking and whether she’s expecting Ruth to heal wounds only she can heal. I asked whether family members might be minimizing what happened to the daughter, leaving her feeling isolated. Could both be true, worsening her despair and making communication harder? I asked whether Ruth would consider the daughter’s current behavior toward her emotionally abusive. I asked if they’d tried a more structured way of communicating, such as therapy, and whether the daughter had ever articulated concrete requests or criticisms describing how she would like to be supported now. Maybe the daughter thinks Ruth is dismissive or is trying to coerce Ruth into fixing her. I wanted clarification so I could better understand what was going on. This is what Ruth told me. She said that her daughter, whom she calls Helen, told her some years ago that she had a breakdown about eight years earlier after years of feeling unwanted and repeatedly put down by her sister, who called her stupid, selfish, and worse. Helen spent long periods isolated in her room playing alone, and she also used a lot of energy trying to win her sister’s approval. The father’s default mode when upset was to raise his voice as a way of making a point or shifting blame for household mishaps. Ruth and Helen have recently come to suspect he might be somewhere on the autism spectrum. The sister frequently pinned blame on Helen. There are several items I’ve circled mentally that I’ll want to return to. Ruth admits she’s ashamed she didn’t realize how extensive the harm must have been and so wasn’t there emotionally for Helen. Her own upbringing — she grew up with three sisters and had to fend for herself — meant she assumed things would sort themselves out. Neither the sister nor the father ever acknowledged Helen’s suffering, so the family offered no emotional support. Ruth recognizes that when she wrote she “did her best,” that phrase reads now like an excuse for not doing more when Helen was small. On top of that, Ruth had an alcohol problem for several years; she’s been sober for 23 years, but that certainly interfered with her ability to notice and respond at the time. I marked that as a significant point to return to. Over the last couple of years Ruth has discussed matters with Helen and can now appreciate why Helen is so furious. Helen lacked emotional nurturing in childhood. The family tried practical interventions — moving her to a different school to escape bullies, speaking with the head teacher about a bullying teacher — but they feared making things worse, and Helen chose to stay at the school she knew. Helen later worked for her sister’s business for about seven years, during which her sister brought in a boyfriend described as very toxic and narcissistic; between those two people Helen became more damaged until she finally walked away and had her breakdown. She was also in a romantic relationship with an older narcissistic man who used her as a counter to her sister. After that collapse Helen hasn’t worked — for eight or nine years now. Two years after the breakdown she had a physical collapse and was bedbound for six months. Living with Ruth’s household is itself toxic for her: she’s perpetually on edge about upsetting her father, forcing both Ruth and Helen to tread carefully in the house. They live in a state of hypervigilance. Helen is also constantly anxious that her sister might show up unexpectedly. Recently Ruth has secured a place for Helen about five miles away, hoping distance will relieve some pressure. Yet Helen’s PTSD symptoms — fear of people and agoraphobia — persist and may intensify when she’s more independent. Ruth still sees her other daughter occasionally; that sister has two daughters and never talks about Helen, offering no sympathy and, in the past, urging the family to throw Helen out. From Helen’s point of view, Ruth could “fix” her by being emotionally present, but she accuses Ruth of being emotionally withdrawn and lacking empathy. She has told Ruth that she should never have had children if she couldn’t care for them emotionally. Helen has said she could press a button and end her life — she would, if she could. Ruth accepts responsibility for her shortcomings and insists she’s trying to do her best. Because of Helen’s agoraphobia, Ruth drives her to places where she might meet people: creative classes, sketch classes. Sometimes Ruth goes in with her; other times she waits in the car in case Helen needs to leave. Ruth knows these actions aren’t the same as being emotionally attuned and says she finds it hard to speak from the heart. When she does try, Helen accuses her of “ticking boxes,” saying Ruth’s words are perfunctory rather than heartfelt. Ruth admits there are many times she doesn’t know what to say. She does tell Helen she loves her and that she’s special. In reply to my earlier question, Ruth thinks Helen’s anger is indeed magnified by trauma-driven thinking and that Helen is trying to compel Ruth to heal problems that ultimately belong to Helen to resolve. Ruth isn’t sure how far Helen has come toward accepting responsibility for her own recovery. Ruth agrees the family has minimized Helen’s suffering and that both minimization and trauma-driven thinking are contributing to Helen’s despair. When I asked whether Helen’s behavior counts as emotionally abusive, Ruth was uncertain. She sees Helen as empathetic and believes Helen appreciates that Ruth’s upbringing shaped her reactions. Still, Ruth says she feels emotionally wounded by the constant criticism — for example, being accused of not washing dishes properly, which Helen interprets as a threat to her safety; saying the wrong thing to the father, which Helen says puts her at risk of his anger; not reacting to her emotional pain. Because Helen has had terrible nightmares every night since the breakdown, mornings are particularly hard for them both. Helen often wakes in a state of terror, which makes it difficult for Ruth to respond from the heart. Ruth admits they have not tried therapy; she’s suggested it, but Helen insists Ruth should have empathy as her mother and that they shouldn’t need a third party to teach them how to communicate. Helen has told Ruth she has no empathy and should never have been a mother. Helen also suffers a number of chronic physical issues dating back to glandular fever (mononucleosis) in her teens: sudden stabbing nerve pain when she feels threatened, frequent overheating, irritable bowel symptoms, palpitations, asthma, hypoglycemia, and more. Those bodily symptoms, coupled with nightmares, leave Helen in a heightened state of alarm each morning, and Ruth — always hurried and eager to get home to keep the peace with her husband — recognizes that rushing can trigger someone with complex PTSD. Ruth closes by thanking me for replying and asking for help. My heart went out to her. I’m not a clairvoyant nor a licensed therapist, but I do have a perspective I want to offer, and I’ll share it in case it resonates. If it doesn’t, that’s fine — take what helps and leave the rest. My impression is that Ruth is in denial about how abusive her husband is. There are clues throughout her letter that she’s minimizing the gravity of that relationship. For example, saying she hurries home “to keep the peace with my husband” and that everyone has to tiptoe around the house is not normal — that suggests someone in the home can erupt with rage if things aren’t handled just so. Helen’s symptoms are severe and consistent with complex PTSD: the chronic physical complaints, the nightly nightmares, and that intense early-morning irritability. For many people those mornings are emotional flashbacks — sudden, overwhelming feelings as if the trauma is happening again. If you look up complex PTSD and emotional flashbacks, you’ll find that clinicians like Peter Walker describe how these reactions can mimic war-related trauma: the body and mind react as if danger is present even when the original events occurred long ago. Helen sounds caught in a loop of unprocessed emotional reactions that keep replaying. I’ve experienced something similar in the mornings: a rush of irritability, the sense that others don’t understand, and the feeling that everyone is dumping responsibility onto me. That pattern often traces back to early life stages — perhaps when you had to shoulder responsibilities for younger siblings while caregivers were absent or impaired. Ruth didn’t elaborate about her own trauma, but her daughter acknowledged it. Ruth herself appears profoundly fogged, perhaps dissociated or chronically accommodating — caretaking to defuse the father’s anger. And yet she’s doing a great deal: housing Helen for years, driving her to classes, supporting her practically. At the same time, Helen seems to expect Ruth to “fix” her, which is unrealistic; healing requires the daughter’s own active work. An apology and a committed response from a parent can be profoundly healing, but it’s not a cure-all. If Helen is open, resources such as the book Complex PTSD: From Surviving to Thriving by Pete Walker can help explain emotional flashbacks. For some people with severe symptoms, audio formats or guided programs are easier to manage than long print books. My own book, Reregulated, is another resource that many have found helpful — its audio version is popular for those who struggle to read. Returning to Ruth’s situation, the family dynamics point to real abuse having occurred. Ruth’s repeated “I did the best I could” is a common refrain but can feel like avoidance to someone who needed protection. It’s also the case that a parent who knew about abuse and failed to shield a child is seen, rightly, as having been complicit by omission. Where I live, this kind of failure to protect can have legal consequences; the broader point is that parents bear a responsibility to keep children safe, and it’s painful to realize one did not do enough. From what Ruth describes, she seems stuck in a kind of protective fog, perhaps because she is still living under an abusive partner. I can’t diagnose her, but I suspect that while Ruth has been surviving, she hasn’t fully confronted what’s been happening to her and her family. If that’s true, Helen’s anger could reflect not just past injuries but her frustration that Ruth hasn’t fully seen or acted on the abuse. If you accept that suspicion for a moment, there are different steps Ruth might take. One is for Ruth to do her own work: research, therapy, or a structured program where she can examine how her trauma shaped her parenting and her present choices. Joining a supportive membership or course that focuses on unpacking intergenerational trauma and learning practical skills could help Ruth prepare a sincere apology and a real plan of action rather than a hurried, defensive “I did my best” response. A heartfelt apology might sound like this when Ruth is ready and it’s genuine: “Helen, I now recognize how deeply you were harmed within our family. I saw it and I didn’t do enough to protect you. That must have been awful, and I am truly sorry. I wish I’d understood then what I know now. I was scared about the practical consequences and lacked the tools to act. I regret that I failed to protect you. I see how it has affected you, and I want to be here for you now. I am willing to help you get away from the source of harm.” Preparing to say something like that requires inner work; don’t rush an apology that’s meant only to appease. Also consider whether Ruth can actually support Helen well while she remains in an abusive household. If Ruth continues to live with someone who triggers fear and forces her to tiptoe daily, her capacity to face reality and help Helen is limited. Leaving an abusive partner — or at least getting professional support to assess the situation and safety options — may be a necessary step for Ruth to heal and to be a more present parent. Therapy can give a person a paced, safe place to face painful truths and to receive a reality check about what’s normal and what’s abusive. That process will be painful but may ultimately lead to greater freedom and the possibility of repairing relationships. Practically speaking, Ruth can begin using small, consistent tools while she decides her next move. I recommend a daily practice I teach: two simple techniques that work together. First, a focused writing exercise in which you put down fearful and resentful thoughts and feelings — getting them out of your head onto paper. Then, a brief period of meditation to calm and reset the nervous system. If you’re spiritually inclined, you can frame the release as a prayer; if not, simply imagine letting the worry go. These two inexpensive, accessible steps — paper, pen, and a quiet seat — can start to dissolve the fog and reduce the body’s constant alarm. If you’d like support learning them, my membership program offers guided instruction, live Zoom sessions, and a community that practices together and answers questions. My book Reregulated goes into these techniques and into the broader structure of complex trauma, dysregulation, disconnection, and self-defeating patterns, and it explains the steps toward reclaiming a whole, authentic self. Healing is possible. Helen has a huge role to play in her recovery, and whether or not you fully understand her needs yet, you can be a part of her journey by offering tools and resources — books, audiobooks, classes — and encouraging her to work on symptoms directly. She’s welcome in our membership, too, should she choose to join. You can find more about membership and the book in the description below. To return to the immediate practical help: try the daily practice. It’s free to learn, takes about an hour to try, and includes FAQs. If you sign up, you’ll also receive invitations to weekly free Zoom calls where my team and I lead the techniques and take questions to help you learn to use them effectively. Doing these exercises well matters; they can make a real difference in getting through rough patches. So why not try the free course? I’ll leave that option here with a link, and I hope you’ll consider it. I wish you all the best and I’ll be glad to see you in the program if you decide to join.