A gray immovable rock in glass-smooth water

Here’s the thing about coming out of a narcissistic fog. You haven’t just lost your time; you’ve lost your “spark.” You’ve spent so long being a background character in their psychodrama that you’ve forgotten what it’s like to have your own plotline.

The Art of Becoming a “Gray Rock”

Before you can find your joy, you have to protect your peace. And if you can’t go full “No Contact”—maybe because of kids, or work, or a shared lease that feels like a prison sentence—you have to learn the ancient, sacred art of being the most boring object in the universe.

Enter: The Gray Rock Method.

The goal of Gray Rocking is to become exactly what it sounds like: a nondescript, dull, uninteresting pebble on a beach of millions. Narcissists crave “supply”—your tears, your anger, your frantic explanations, even your praise. They want a reaction. When you Gray Rock, you deny them the drama they use for fuel.

When they try to bait you with a snarky comment about your hair or a dramatic story about how everyone at work is out to get them, you don’t engage. You give short, non-committal answers.

• “Oh.”

• “That’s interesting.”

• “I see.”

• “Okay.”

You don’t share your dreams. You don’t share your frustrations. You become a conversational dead end. If they ask what you did today, you don’t tell them about the beautiful poem you read or the way the light hit the trees; you tell them you did the dishes and folded some some socks.

It feels unnatural at first. We want to be seen! We want to be heard! But with a narcissist, being “seen” is just giving them a target. Plus, did this person ever really see and hear you, anyway? When was the last time you felt really, truly seen and heard by them? By becoming a Gray Rock, you make yourself “un-fun” to bully. Eventually, they’ll get bored and go look for a more “reactive” rock to kick.

The Resurrection of the “Self”

Once you’ve Gray Rocked your way into some breathing room, you’re left with the big, scary question: Who am I when I’m not being yelled at?

Rediscovering joy feels like trying to start a car that’s been sitting in a field for a decade (am I side-eyeing Truckenstein as I write that???). The battery is dead, the tires are flat, and there’s probably a family of raccoons living in the glove box. You don’t just “find” joy. You have to excavate it.

Start small. I mean, ridiculously small. For example… do you even know what kind of tea you like? Have you just been drinking Earl Grey (hot) because they liked Earl Grey? Buy a sampler pack and sit there like a weird scientist, sipping six different cups of tea and taking notes. It might turn out you actually hate Earl Grey. I mean, sorry Picard, but it does kind of taste like hot perfume.

That realization—that tiny, insignificant preference—will feel like a revolutionary act. It is a flag planted in the newly claimed soil of your own life.

The Guilt of the “Frivolous”

There is a specific kind of guilt that comes with trying to have fun after abuse. You feel like you should be doing something “productive” or “healing.” You feel like if you’re not actively processing your trauma, you’re failing.

But let me tell you something: Eating a taco because it tastes good is a healing act. Painting a lopsided bird because you like the color blue is a middle finger to the person who tried to diminish you and tell you you’d never be able to paint real birds.

When you start a hobby again—whether it’s gardening, or gaming, or learning to knit sweaters for cats—the “Narcissist Voice” will show up. It will tell you that you’re being selfish, or that you’re bad at it, or that it’s a waste of time.

When that happens, I want you to look at that voice and say, “Yeah, it is a waste of time. And it’s my time to waste.”

We’ve been conditioned to believe that our value is tied to how useful we are to someone else. Reclaiming a hobby is about asserting that your value is inherent. You are allowed to do things badly. You are allowed to do things that have no purpose other than making your heart feel 2% lighter for twenty minutes.

The “Hot Mess” Renaissance

Dip your brush into the water today. Paint a blob. It might be supposed to be a flower, but it might look more like a flattened jellyfish with an identity crisis.

In the old days, you would have hidden it. You would have felt ashamed that it wasn’t “perfect.” But today, you go ahead and pin that shit to the fridge. Because that blob represents something they couldn’t take: your willingness to try.

Your house might still be a disaster. The laundry may have reached a level of sentience where you think it’s starting to form a government (I bet it’s better than our current one, maybe pack it up and send it to DC?). The existential dread might currently be humming a low tune in the hallway. But you’ll have your new favorite tea, and you’ll have your jellyfish-flower, and you’ll have the glorious, boring peace of being a Gray Rock.

We aren’t just “getting over it.” We are rebuilding a civilization from the ashes of a scorched-earth campaign. It’s slow. It’s messy. It’s vulnerable as hell. But every time you do something just for you—every time you choose a hobby over a heartache—you are winning the war.

Keep being “too much” for the wrong people and “just right” for yourself. And gray-rock the shit out of anyone who tries to be a psychic vampire around you. They think they’ll suck down all their energy, but all they’ll get is a chipped tooth.