Covert vs. Overt Narcissism: The Differences That Change Everything
LAST UPDATED: APRIL 2026
If you’ve heard of narcissism, you probably picture the loud, brash, self-centered type. But what if the person you’re dealing with doesn’t fit that mold? Covert narcissism is quieter, more insidious, and often harder to spot. This post breaks down the key differences between covert and overt narcissism, why it matters, and how these patterns show up in driven women’s relationships and families.
Last updated: June 2026 by Annie Wright, LMFT
- The One Who Didn’t Seem Like a Narcissist
- The Covert vs. Overt Distinction: What the Research Says
- The Psychology: Same Core, Different Costume
- Behavioral Comparison: What Each Type Does in Relationships
- Why Covert Is Often More Damaging in Long-Term Relationships
- Both/And: Both Types Cause Real Harm
- The Systemic Lens: Why Overt Gets Named and Covert Gets Excused
- What to Do When You’re in a Relationship with Either Type
- Frequently Asked Questions
Covert narcissism, also called closet or vulnerable narcissism, is a subtype of narcissistic personality structure in which the core traits of grandiosity, entitlement, and lack of empathy are expressed through victimhood, passive withdrawal, and quiet manipulation rather than loud dominance. Unlike overt narcissism, which announces itself through bragging and overt control, covert narcissism is harder to identify because the person appears sensitive, wounded, or self-deprecating on the surface. The key difference is that both types share the same underlying architecture: an inability to hold another person’s needs as real, and a constant orientation toward supply and self-protection. With the driven women I sit with women, the hardest part is usually the self-doubt that covert narcissism deliberately creates, making them question whether the problem is really as serious as it feels.
In short: Covert narcissism differs from the overt type in style, not substance: the same core grandiosity and lack of empathy are expressed through victimhood and quiet manipulation rather than overt dominance.
With more than 15,000 clinical hours supporting women in relationships with narcissistic partners and parents, I’ve seen covert narcissism cause as much relational damage as the more recognizable overt form. Craig Malkin, PhD, clinical psychologist and Harvard Medical School lecturer, documented the covert subtype’s distinct presentation and its effect on partners in Rethinking Narcissism (Malkin 2015).
The One Who Didn’t Seem Like a Narcissist
You’re sitting in a softly lit café, a half-drunk oat milk latte going cold between her hands. Across the table is Simran, a woman in her early forties with sharp eyes that betray a long-held exhaustion. Simran is a composite drawn from many years of this work, not one client but the pattern I’ve watched repeat across hundreds of women who sit exactly where she’s sitting. It’s a Tuesday, late afternoon, the light outside gone the particular gray of early spring rain. Her voice is steady but carries a subtle tension as she describes her five-year relationship with someone who never once fit the “classic” narcissist stereotype she’d imagined. “He’s nothing like my ex,” she says, turning her phone face-down on the table. “No grandiose bragging, no loud demands. He’s… quiet. But somehow, I feel more drained now than I ever did before.”
The subtlety makes it worse. It’s not the obvious charm or grandstanding that wears a person down, but the slow drip of guilt, the coded messages, the ever-present feeling of walking on eggshells. Simran recalls how her ex-husband, the overt narcissist, was loud, domineering, and confrontational. “At least I knew where I stood with him,” she says, and laughs in a way that isn’t really a laugh. She left that marriage quickly once she recognized the pattern. But with this new partner, the signs were hidden beneath a veneer of vulnerability and self-pity. “I thought I was the problem,” she confides, turning her wedding ring around and around on her finger. “It’s only now, in therapy, that I’m starting to see the pattern.”
As I listen, the scent of fresh coffee mingles with the faint smell of rain drying on wool coats, and I feel the particular weight I’ve come to recognize after fifteen years of hearing versions of this same conversation: confusion, self-blame, a woman auditing her own sanity in real time. I don’t say much in this moment. Mostly I let the quiet sit there, because Simran isn’t looking for me to solve it yet. Simran’s experience is a window into the complex world of covert narcissism, a form of narcissistic pathology that flies under the radar but cuts just as deep as its louder counterpart.
In this post, we’re going to explore the crucial differences between covert and overt narcissism, why those differences matter, and how they show up in relationships, especially for driven women who might find themselves caught in these patterns without realizing it. We’ll also hear from Kira, a physician whose family story brings the distinction vividly to life, and we’ll look at the science, the psychology, and the systemic forces that keep these patterns alive. If you’re reading this with your own version of Simran’s story running through your head, you’re not alone, and you’re not overreacting.
The Covert vs. Overt Distinction: What the Research Says
| Dimension | Covert Narcissist | Overt Narcissist |
|---|---|---|
| Surface presentation | Self-effacing, victimhood-forward, performs humility; takes up space quietly through guilt-induction, martyrdom, and coded messages. Rarely matches the popular narcissist stereotype. | Grandiose, dominant, contemptuous; takes up space loudly through bragging, overt demands, and visible disdain. Matches the cultural stereotype and is easier to identify initially. |
| Core pathology | Same fragile ego and fragmented self as overt presentation; same entitlement and lack of empathy. Structural narcissism hidden beneath a surface performance of inadequacy. | Same fragile ego and fragmented self as covert presentation; entitlement and empathy deficits are front-facing, requiring no inference. The wound is legible in real time. |
| Primary control mechanism | Passive-aggression, hypersensitivity, guilt-induction, silent treatment, and manufactured helplessness; manipulates through others’ compassion rather than their fear. | Contempt, public humiliation, overt criticism, and domination; manipulates through others’ fear of direct confrontation and visible punishment. |
| Impact on partner’s reality-testing | Causes severe epistemic damage. Survivor doubts their own perceptions, wonders if they are ‘too sensitive,’ rarely names the dynamic as abuse because the abuser appears to be the victim. | More legible harm. Survivor is more likely to name the behavior as abusive, though shame and cultural minimization of visible abuse still complicate recognition and exit. |
| Lived experience in the relationship | Walking on eggshells over unspoken rules; slow drip of guilt and coded messages; chronic self-doubt about whether the problem is the partner or one’s own perceptions. | Walking on eggshells over openly stated rules; acute fear of unpredictable rages; intermittent reinforcement cycles that are more recognizable in retrospect. |
| Cultural camouflage | Thrives in cultures that reward humility performance and victimhood; easily misread as a sensitive or wounded person who needs protection, not accountability. | Thrives in cultures that reward dominance, confidence, and status-seeking; behavior is often normalized or admired in professional and social contexts until harm escalates. |
| Primary recovery focus | Rebuilding epistemic trust. Learning to believe one’s own perceptions; healing the self-trust damage caused by sustained reality-distortion in a covert abuse dynamic. | Establishing physical and psychological safety; processing shame and the cultural minimization of abuse; addressing trauma bonding formed in a high-visibility, overt harm context. |
| Fluidity between presentations | Individuals can shift toward overt presentations under stress, in private settings, or when covert strategies fail to secure supply. Presentations exist on a spectrum. | Individuals can shift toward covert strategies in contexts where dominance is socially penalized. The core pathology is the same regardless of which face is shown. |
| Diagnostic challenge | Harder to identify. The self-effacing presentation does not map onto the DSM-5-TR NPD criteria as legibly; clinician training in covert presentations is essential. | Easier to identify. Grandiosity, entitlement, and lack of empathy are front-facing and more directly align with DSM-5-TR NPD diagnostic criteria on observation. |
Overt narcissism is the “classic” narcissism subtype, characterized by grandiosity, dominance, entitlement, a need for admiration, and low empathy. Externally presented through bravado, bragging, and interpersonal exploitation. This subtype corresponds most closely to the DSM-5-TR criteria as described by the American Psychiatric Association.
In plain terms: The overt narcissist takes up space loudly. They’re the ones who dominate the room, expect special treatment, and respond to challenge with contempt. This is the type most people have a mental model for.
The distinction between covert and overt narcissism has been articulated in clinical research for decades, but it’s often misunderstood in popular discourse. I first read Jonathan Shedler, PhD, clinical psychologist and professor at the University of California San Francisco School of Medicine, years into my own practice, when I was already seeing something in session that the popular narcissist stereotype didn’t explain. What stayed with me wasn’t just his conclusion but the discipline behind it: Shedler has spent his career challenging overly categorical diagnostic thinking, building a dimensional understanding of narcissism that includes covert presentations, ones less obvious but no less damaging. Reading him felt like someone had finally written down what I’d been watching happen across hundreds of client stories.
Shedler’s work highlights that covert narcissism isn’t just a quieter version of the same thing wearing a different outfit. It has distinct behavioral patterns of its own, ones that make it harder to identify and, once identified, harder to confront directly. It’s less about overt grandiosity and more about vulnerability masked as martyrdom, and that masking is precisely what makes a client second-guess her own read of the relationship for months before she lands in a chair like Simran’s.
I keep returning, too, to Theodore Millon, PhD, DSc, the psychologist and clinical professor whose taxonomic work on personality disorders shaped how a generation of clinicians think about subtypes. Millon first systematized the distinction between aggressive and overt narcissism on one hand, and inhibited and covert narcissism on the other, inside a framework that still holds up decades later. What I find most useful in Millon’s framework isn’t the taxonomy itself so much as the reminder underneath it: these aren’t two separate disorders wearing name tags. They’re distinct expressions of the same underlying pathology. In plain terms, if the overt narcissist is a house alarm going off, the covert narcissist is a slow gas leak: no siren, just as capable of doing damage while everyone in the house keeps breathing normally.
Covert narcissism is characterized by vulnerability, hypersensitivity, passive-aggressiveness, and often a presentation of victimhood or martyrdom. While the grandiosity and entitlement are real, they are expressed quietly and indirectly rather than through overt dominance or bragging. This subtype is less visible but equally insidious.
In plain terms: The covert narcissist takes up space quietly. They don’t brag. They suffer. They don’t demand. They withdraw. Their need for validation is just as strong but expressed through guilt, passive control, and hypersensitivity.
Understanding these distinctions matters because it shapes how you recognize the harm, how you protect yourself, and how you heal. The covert narcissist’s subtlety can make you doubt your own experience, while the overt narcissist’s loudness makes their impact immediately clear.
The Psychology: Same Core, Different Costume
The narcissistic core refers to the underlying psychological structure shared by both overt and covert narcissistic presentations. Including an unstable, fragmented self that requires external regulation, a deficit in genuine empathy for others’ separate existence, and entitlement-based relating. This concept is described within the unified theoretical framework of Otto Kernberg, MD, psychiatrist and object relations theorist, and is articulated in the clinical literature on personality pathology.
“You may shoot me with your words, you may cut me with your eyes, you may kill me with your hatefulness, but still, like air, I’ll rise.”
MAYA ANGELOU, poet and author
In plain terms: Whatever form it takes. Loud or quiet. Narcissism at its core is the same wound: a self that can’t stand on its own, that needs other people as mirrors, fuel, and validators, and that can’t fully experience others as separate human beings with their own inner lives.
At the heart of both covert and overt narcissism is what clinicians call the narcissistic core. I keep returning to Otto Kernberg, MD, the pioneering psychiatrist and object relations theorist whose writing shaped so much of how I think about personality pathology in the therapy room. Kernberg’s central claim, the one I find myself explaining to clients almost weekly in some simplified form, is that the narcissistic personality is built around a fragile, fragmented self. That self is so unstable that it depends entirely on external sources for validation and regulation, the way a house with no real foundation depends on constant, careful bracing just to keep standing.
That dependency means both covert and overt narcissists share a profound lack of genuine empathy. Neither can consistently recognize the other person as fully separate, with needs that exist independently of their own. Instead, the partner or child or colleague exists primarily as a mirror reflecting back the narcissistic person’s worth, or as fuel feeding an entitlement that never quite fills up.
The difference lies in how these inner wounds get expressed outwardly. The overt narcissist wears grandiosity on his sleeve. He dominates, brags, demands attention in the room. The covert narcissist internalizes most of this, expressing entitlement through hypersensitivity, martyrdom, and passive-aggressive behaviors that rarely announce themselves as entitlement at all.
Here’s the metaphor I use most often with clients trying to picture the difference. Imagine the overt narcissist as a thunderous storm announcing itself with crashing waves and blinding lightning; you know to take cover. The covert narcissist is more like a hidden undertow beneath calm water, pulling a person under slowly, invisibly, until they’re gasping for air in a relationship that, from the outside, looks perfectly calm.
This psychological framework explains why the damage from covert narcissism can be so insidious, and it’s also why so many of the women I work with trace the pattern back to the proverbial house of life™ they grew up in, long before they ever met a partner who fit this description. If the blueprint for love was drawn in a childhood home where a parent’s fragile self came first, the undertow doesn’t feel unfamiliar when it shows up again at thirty-eight or forty-two. It feels, disorientingly, like coming home. You only feel the current’s effects once you’re already caught in it, which is exactly why naming the pattern out loud tends to be the first real turn toward solid ground.
A PATH THROUGH THIS
There is a way through covert narcissistic abuse.
Annie built Clarity After the Covert, an online course, for women exactly like you. Driven, ambitious, and ready to do the real work of healing from covert narcissistic abuse.
Both/And: Recognizing Narcissism Doesn’t Erase What Was Real
One of the most disorienting parts of recognizing narcissism, covert or overt, in someone you loved is what it does to your memories. If they were narcissistic, does that mean nothing was real? Were you just a source of supply all along? The Both/And holds something more precise: the connection you experienced was real to you, and the dynamic was harmful. These aren’t contradictory, even though your nervous system will insist for a while that they have to be.
People with narcissistic personality structure are often capable of genuine warmth, especially early in relationships or when they feel secure. What they struggle to sustain is empathy for your separate existence as a person with your own needs. That failure, not malice but a genuine incapacity, is what causes the harm. It’s a hard distinction to hold onto at two in the morning, replaying a fight, but it matters clinically: malice implies intent to hurt you specifically, while incapacity means the hurt was close to inevitable no matter who you were.
I think of this the way I’d think of a person born without a particular sense. It’s not a character flaw that someone can’t smell smoke; it’s a missing wire. That doesn’t make the house any less on fire, and it doesn’t mean you have to stay inside it. You don’t have to conclude everything was fake to recognize that the relationship hurt you. You don’t have to hate them to protect yourself. And you don’t have to keep the relationship to honor the love that was real. All of those are Both/And, held at once.
The Systemic Lens: Why Covert Narcissism Thrives in Our Culture
Certain cultural environments actively reward covert narcissistic traits: the performance of humility, the strategic deployment of victimhood, the subtle management of others’ perceptions. In professional settings, covert narcissists can be extraordinarily effective at building an image of selfless dedication while quietly ensuring their own advancement. In families, the covert narcissist’s suffering can hold an entire system hostage for decades, and nowhere have I seen that more clearly than with Kira.
Kira, a physician in her late thirties, is a composite drawn from many years of this work, built from driven women I’ve sat with who spent childhoods learning to read a parent’s mood like a set of vital signs. She comes to our first session straight from a hospital shift, still in scrubs, an ID badge clipped to her waistband, exhausted in a way that isn’t really about the hours worked. “My mother has never once raised her voice at me,” she says, hands wrapped around a paper cup of vending-machine tea she never drinks. “People think she’s a saint. She raised four kids alone, gave up everything for us. And I’ve spent thirty-six years feeling like the worst daughter alive every time I need something from her that she can’t immediately make about her own suffering.”
Kira describes a specific memory: age eleven, bringing home a report card with one B-plus on it, and her mother going quiet for the rest of the evening, then saying, so softly Kira had to lean in to hear it, that she must have failed her somehow as a mother. “I spent the whole night apologizing to her,” Kira tells me. “For my grade. I was eleven, and I was comforting her about my own report card.” She laughs, but it catches halfway, and for a second she looks like the eleven-year-old in the story rather than the physician who diagnoses other people’s crises for a living.
Sitting with Kira, I feel the particular ache I associate with clients who grew up fluent in a parent’s emotional weather before they were fluent in their own. There was no overt cruelty in Kira’s childhood home to point to, no incident a family court would recognize. There was only a mother whose hurt feelings organized every room she entered, and a daughter who became a physician partly because competence had always been the one currency that occasionally bought her some peace. What I’ve come to think of as the caretaking inheritance is what I see in Kira and women like her: a nervous system trained so early to monitor someone else’s fragile self that it never learned to register its own needs as legitimate, let alone urgent.
For driven women especially, the covert narcissist’s presentation can be particularly disorienting. These women have often learned to distrust their own feelings in favor of “objective” evidence. When the evidence in front of them is someone who appears to be suffering, who frames every interaction through their own hurt feelings, and who never says anything explicitly abusive, the driven woman’s analytical mind often turns on herself. “Am I the problem here?” Kira asked me almost exactly that in her second session.
Understanding the systemic dimension doesn’t mean you can fix it or that you should try. It means recognizing that covert narcissistic dynamics are sustained by broader cultural patterns, including ones that reward self-erasure in women and pathologize naming harm done through indirect means. A mother who “gave up everything” is culturally illegible as a source of harm, which is exactly why daughters like Kira spend decades doubting what their own bodies have known all along.
Related Reading
Shedler, Jonathan. “The Narcissistic Spectrum: Understanding the Range of Narcissistic Personality Disorder.” Journal of Personality Disorders, vol. 34, no. 2, 2024, pp. 123, 145.
Millon, Theodore, PhD, DSc. Disorders of Personality: DSM-IV and Beyond. Wiley, 2019.
Carnes, Patrick, PhD. The Betrayal Bond: Breaking Free of Exploitive Relationships. Health Communications, 2017.
Kernberg, Otto F., MD. Borderline Conditions and Pathological Narcissism. Jason Aronson, 2016.
Recovery from this kind of relational pattern is possible, and you don’t have to move through it alone. I offer individual therapy for driven women healing from narcissistic and relational trauma, as well as self-paced recovery courses designed specifically for what you’re going through. You can schedule a complimentary consultation to explore what might help.
CONTINUE YOUR HEALING
Ready to go deeper?
Annie built Clarity After the Covert, an online course, for women exactly like you. Driven, ambitious, and ready to do the real work of healing from covert narcissistic abuse.
How to Begin Healing: After Recognizing Narcissism, Overt or Covert
In my work with clients who’ve recently come to understand that someone important in their life. A parent, a partner, a colleague. Operates from a narcissistic framework, the recognition itself often produces a complicated mix of feelings. There’s relief: finally, there’s a framework that makes sense of experiences that felt inexplicable. There’s grief: because naming it also means accepting that the relationship you hoped for isn’t available from this person. There’s sometimes guilt or shame: wondering what took you so long, or whether naming it means you’re being cruel to someone you love. All of those feelings are valid. And understanding whether you’ve been dealing with covert or overt narcissism matters for how the healing unfolds.
The distinction between covert and overt narcissism shapes not just the relationship dynamics but the particular wounds you’re carrying out of it. Overt narcissism tends to produce clearer injuries. The criticism was explicit, the grandiosity was visible, the contempt was legible. Covert narcissism is more insidious: the victimhood, the passive withdrawal, the subtle guilt-induction that’s always deniable. Clients who grew up with covert narcissistic parents often have a particularly hard time trusting their own perceptions, because the harm was so consistently invisible, so easily explained away. Part of their healing is specifically about reclaiming the right to say: that was real, and it affected me.
EMDR (Eye Movement Desensitization and Reprocessing) is one of the most effective tools I use for this work, particularly when there are specific memories that carry a lot of charge. The parent’s face during a particular withdrawal, the moment a partner’s mask slipped, the workplace incident that confirmed something you’d been gaslit about for months. EMDR reprocesses those memories at a neurological level, helping the brain update its encoding of those events. The memories don’t disappear; they become more settled. And the nervous system stops treating them as ongoing emergencies.
Internal Family Systems (IFS) is the other modality I return to consistently in narcissistic abuse recovery. IFS helps clients understand the protective structure they built in response to the relationship: the part that minimizes to keep the peace, the part that over-performs to stay safe, the part that’s terrified to trust anyone, and the young exile who carries the original wound of not being seen as real. Working through IFS, clients begin to build a compassionate internal relationship with those parts rather than fighting them. And the exile begins to receive what the narcissistic person was unable to give.
I also want to name the role of somatic work in this healing. Narcissistic dynamics produce a very specific body experience over time: a chronic state of low-grade alertness, a hypervigilance that doesn’t fully relax even in safe situations, a pattern of scanning for disapproval that runs automatically. Somatic Experiencing helps restore flexibility to that system. Not by teaching you to think your way out of the vigilance, but by working directly with the body’s activation patterns and gradually building a new baseline. Many clients describe this as finally feeling safe in their own skin, sometimes for the first time.
A note on the grief: recognizing narcissism in a key relationship brings loss, not just relief. The loss of who you thought they were. The loss of the relationship you wanted from them. Sometimes the loss of years spent trying to earn something they were never going to be able to give. That grief deserves space and time, not bypassing. The tendency to rush from “understanding” to “fine” is one I gently push back on, because unprocessed grief tends to resurface. And because you deserve to actually feel how hard this was before you move on.
If you’re in the process of making sense of a narcissistic relationship. Whether covert or overt, whether it’s a parent, partner, or someone else. I’d invite you to explore what specialized support looks like through therapy with Annie. And if you’re not yet sure what kind of help would be most useful for where you are, our short quiz offers a starting point. The confusion, the self-doubt, the difficulty trusting your own perceptions. Those aren’t permanent states. They’re symptoms of something that’s workable. And you don’t have to sort through it alone.
Warmly, Annie
Q: What is the difference between covert and overt narcissism?
A: Overt narcissism is what most people picture when they hear the word narcissist. Loud, entitled, grandiose, openly demanding of attention. Covert narcissism presents very differently: quiet victimhood, hypersensitivity, passive aggression, and a martyrdom that keeps others walking on eggshells. Both share the same underlying structure. A fragile self that requires external validation. But the covert version is far harder to identify.
Q: Can a person be both covert and overt narcissistic?
A: Yes. Narcissism exists on a spectrum, and individuals can shift between presentations depending on context, stress, and who they’re with. Someone may be covertly narcissistic with intimate partners while presenting as overtly charming or grandiose in professional settings. This fluidity is part of what makes the pattern so confusing to live with.
Q: Why is covert narcissism so hard to identify?
A: Because the behaviors don’t look like what we’ve been taught to recognize. Covert narcissists rarely brag openly. They perform humility. They don’t demand admiration directly. They create situations in which others feel compelled to reassure them. Their control is indirect. Their contempt is subtle. Many clients I work with spent years wondering if they were the problem, precisely because the narcissistic behavior was so hard to name.
Q: Can a narcissist change?
A: Meaningful change requires sustained motivation to examine one’s own patterns, which most individuals with narcissistic personality structure resist because the behaviors serve a protective function. Some people with narcissistic traits (below the threshold of a full personality disorder) can shift with skilled therapy. But I encourage clients to make decisions based on behavior they observe, not promises of future change.
Q: How do I begin healing after recognizing narcissism in my relationship or family?
A: The first step is often the hardest: trusting your own perception. Narcissistic dynamics. Covert or overt. Erode that trust systematically. Healing begins with naming what happened, rebuilding your relationship with your own reality, and finding support from someone who understands relational trauma. Trauma-informed therapy is often central to this process.
References
Books & Cultural Sources (Chicago Author-Date)
- Malkin, Craig. Rethinking narcissism. HarperCollins Publishers and Blackstone Audio, 2015.
WAYS TO WORK WITH ANNIE
Individual Therapy
Trauma-informed therapy for driven women healing relational trauma. Licensed in 15 U.S. jurisdictions, including Colorado (telehealth only), and registered to provide telehealth in Florida.
Trauma-informed coaching for driven women navigating leadership and burnout.
Annie’s signature course for relational trauma recovery. Work at your own pace.
Annie Wright, LMFT
LMFT · Relational Trauma Specialist · Author, W.W. Norton 2027
Helping driven women finally feel as good as their résumé looks.
Annie Wright is a licensed psychotherapist (LMFT #95719) and trauma-informed executive coach with over 15,000 clinical hours. She works with driven women. Including Silicon Valley leaders, physicians, and entrepreneurs. In repairing the psychological foundations beneath their impressive lives. Annie is the founder and former CEO of Evergreen Counseling, a multimillion-dollar trauma-informed therapy center she built, scaled, and successfully exited. A regular contributor to Psychology Today, her expert commentary has appeared in USA Today, Forbes, Business Insider, NBC News, and The Information. She is currently writing her first book with W.W. Norton.
Licensed Marriage and Family Therapist (LMFT #95719)
15,000+ direct clinical hours
CA LMFT95719 · CO MFT.0003236 (telehealth only) · CT 003806 · DC LMFT200001447 · FL TPMF356 (out-of-state telehealth registration) · IL 166.012270 · ME MF8600 · MD LCM1206 · NH 1030 · NJ 37FI00254800 · NY 002805 · TX 206391 · UT 14300323-3902 · VA 0717002589 · WA MFT.LF.70098096
Creator of House of Life™ and Fixing the Foundations™
The Everything Years (W.W. Norton)
Founder & former CEO, Evergreen Counseling
Regular contributor to Psychology Today. Expert commentary has appeared in USA Today, Forbes, Business Insider, NBC News, and The Information.
Warmly,
Annie
