Joe Goldberg: You and the Romanticization of the Trauma Bond

POP CULTURE & TRAUMA • May 20, 2026

The scent of old books and stale coffee hangs heavy in the air, a familiar comfort for Joe Goldberg. He watches her from across the street, a silhouette framed by the warm glow of her apartment window. Her movements are fluid, almost balletic, as she sips from a mug, lost in thought. A faint smile plays on his lips. “There you are,” he whispers, a possessive tenderness in his tone. “I knew you’d be here. You always are.” His phone vibrates with a new notification – her latest Instagram post, a cryptic quote about longing and discovery. He scrolls through her feed, each photo a breadcrumb leading him deeper into her world. He knows her favorite authors, her late-night habits, the way she bites her lip when she’s concentrating. He knows the friends she trusts, the ones she secretly resents. He knows her. Or, at least, he believes he does. And in his mind, knowing her means loving her. Loving her means protecting her. Protecting her means controlling her. And controlling her means… well, the rest usually takes care of itself.

This article contains discussions of stalking, coercive control, and trauma bonds, which may be distressing. While You is fictional, its themes reflect real-world patterns of abuse. Please prioritize your well-being while reading. This analysis is not intended to glamorize or endorse the behaviors depicted in the show, but rather to critically examine its cultural impact through a trauma-informed lens. Spoilers for all seasons of You are present.

The Voiceover That Should Disturb You

The Netflix series You, based on Caroline Kepnes’ novels, has become a cultural phenomenon, captivating millions with its chilling premise: a charismatic, intelligent, and deeply disturbed man, Joe Goldberg, fixates on women, stalks them, manipulates them into relationships, and then, often violently, eliminates anyone he perceives as a threat to their “perfect” love story. The show’s genius, and its most disturbing element, lies in its narrative structure: we experience the world through Joe’s internal monologue. We hear his justifications, his twisted logic, his fervent belief that he is the hero of his own romance novel, saving these women from themselves or from the “wrong” people in their lives.

Consider the very first season, when Joe meets Beck. He sees her in the bookstore where he works, and immediately, his internal narrative begins. “You,” he thinks, “are the one.” He observes her, follows her, learns her routines, her friends, her vulnerabilities. He engineers “chance” encounters, inserts himself into her life, and slowly, meticulously, dismantles her existing relationships and support systems. His actions are undeniably horrific, yet the show often frames them with a seductive allure. He’s charming, articulate, seemingly sensitive. He reads her favorite books, remembers obscure details, and offers profound insights into her struggles. For many viewers, especially those who haven’t experienced such insidious forms of control, there’s a perverse appeal. He’s attentive, devoted, and seemingly understands her better than anyone else. This is the scene that explains why You still hurts: it taps into a deep, often unconscious, longing for unconditional love and intense connection, even as it portrays the terrifying consequences of such a distorted desire.

The cultural conversation around Joe Goldberg is fascinating and, at times, deeply concerning. Social media is rife with comments like “I know he’s a serial killer, but he’s so hot,” or “I wish I had a Joe Goldberg who was obsessed with me (minus the murder).” This normalization, even romanticization, of stalking and coercive control is precisely why a trauma-informed analysis of You is so critical. It highlights a pervasive societal blind spot when it comes to recognizing the early warning signs of abuse, particularly when it’s cloaked in what appears to be intense affection or devotion. It shows how easily genuine care can be twisted into something suffocating and dangerous, especially for individuals who may have their own histories of family trauma or relational wounds that make them vulnerable to such dynamics.

What You Names About Trauma Bonds and Coercion

While You is a fictionalized, exaggerated portrayal of abuse, it inadvertently illuminates several core tenets of trauma bonds. A trauma bond is an unhealthy attachment that develops in relationships characterized by cycles of abuse, where the victim becomes emotionally attached to their abuser. This attachment is often confused with love, but it’s fundamentally different. It’s a survival mechanism, a desperate attempt to find safety and connection in a deeply unsafe environment. The show, through Joe’s victims—Beck, Love, Marienne, and Kate—demonstrates this dynamic with chilling accuracy.

Joe’s pattern is always the same: intense idealization, followed by subtle (and then overt) control, isolation, gaslighting, and ultimately, violence. But crucially, interspersed with these terrifying acts are moments of genuine connection, tenderness, and seemingly profound understanding. He often appears to be the only one who truly “sees” his victims, validating their deepest fears and insecurities. This intermittent reinforcement is the bedrock of a trauma bond. The victim experiences periods of extreme stress and fear, followed by moments of relief and perceived love, which creates a powerful neurochemical cocktail of attachment. The brain, in an attempt to make sense of the chaos and find safety, latches onto the “good” moments, hoping they will become the norm.

Beck, for instance, is a struggling writer with self-doubt. Joe, through his stalking, learns her deepest desires and fears. He then steps in, seemingly as her savior, providing the encouragement and validation she craves. He isolates her from critical friends, subtly undermining their credibility. When she questions him, he gaslights her, making her doubt her own perceptions. This cycle of intense connection, followed by betrayal and then a return to perceived intimacy, creates a powerful bond that’s incredibly difficult to break. Even when Beck discovers his true nature, she struggles to fully escape, caught in the psychological snare he’s woven.

Love Quinn, Joe’s eventual wife, presents a different, yet equally illustrative, example. She’s not a helpless victim in the traditional sense; she’s as violent and manipulative as Joe. Yet, their relationship is a trauma bond of mutual destruction. They are both deeply wounded individuals, seeking to control and possess each other. Their “love” is a desperate, codependent dance fueled by their shared capacity for violence and their distorted understanding of intimacy. Even when they know the worst about each other, they remain entangled, believing that only the other can truly understand their darkness. This highlights that trauma bonds aren’t always one-sided; they can exist in relationships where both parties are deeply enmeshed in unhealthy patterns, often rooted in their own betrayal trauma or developmental wounds.

The Clinical Pattern Beneath the Story

From a clinical perspective, Joe Goldberg embodies a dangerous blend of narcissistic traits, antisocial tendencies, and a profound inability to tolerate rejection or perceived abandonment. His internal monologue, which the show so effectively uses, reveals a deeply fractured sense of self, projecting his own unmet needs and unresolved trauma onto his victims. He doesn’t see them as autonomous individuals; he sees them as extensions of his fantasy, blank canvases onto which he can paint his ideal love story. Any deviation from this script is met with escalating control and, ultimately, violence.

The early stages of Joe’s relationships are textbook examples of coercive control. He starts with “love bombing,” overwhelming his targets with attention, compliments, and grand gestures. This creates an intense emotional high, making the victim feel incredibly special and desired. Simultaneously, he begins the process of isolation, subtly (or not so subtly) criticizing their friends, family, or hobbies, suggesting they’re not good enough or don’t truly understand them. He monitors their communications, tracks their movements, and gathers information, all under the guise of caring or concern. This gradual erosion of boundaries and autonomy is incredibly insidious because it often happens under the radar, disguised as intense love.

In my work with clients, I often hear stories that echo these patterns, albeit without the literal “glass cage” or murder. The intensity, the rapid escalation of intimacy, the feeling of being “chosen” and deeply understood – these are powerful lures. The individual being targeted often feels a profound sense of connection, believing they’ve finally found someone who truly “gets” them. This is particularly true for individuals who may have experienced emotional neglect or inconsistent attachment in their early lives, as Joe’s intense focus can feel like a balm to old wounds. They may rationalize his controlling behaviors as signs of devotion, rather than red flags. This is a classic dynamic in trauma bonds: the abuser exploits the victim’s vulnerabilities, creating a dependency that’s incredibly difficult to break free from.

The show’s portrayal of stalking, while dramatized, also highlights a critical aspect of coercive control: the constant surveillance and monitoring. Joe’s mastery of social media, his ability to hack into accounts, and his physical tracking of his victims are all forms of digital and physical stalking designed to create a sense of omnipresence and control. This constant monitoring erodes the victim’s sense of privacy and safety, making them feel like they’re always being watched, even when the abuser isn’t physically present. This creates a state of hypervigilance, a common symptom of trauma, where the individual is constantly on edge, anticipating the next move of their abuser.

How This Shows Up in Driven Women: Sarah’s Story

Sarah, a brilliant and ambitious lawyer, found herself drawn to men who mirrored Joe Goldberg’s intensity, though thankfully not his violence. She’s in her late 30s, highly successful, and has always prided herself on her independence. Yet, she consistently finds herself in relationships where she feels overwhelmed, suffocated, and ultimately, unseen. She’s currently dating Mark, a charming entrepreneur who swept her off her feet with grand gestures and declarations of instant love. He called her his “soulmate” on their second date, sent her flowers every day for a week, and insisted on spending every free moment together. Sarah initially found it exhilarating. “He’s so passionate,” she told her friends, “He really knows how to make a woman feel special.”

But the intensity quickly became suffocating. Mark started questioning her long hours at work, implying that her ambition was taking away from “their” time. He’d text her constantly throughout the day, demanding immediate responses, and would become visibly upset if she didn’t reply fast enough. He’d show up at her office unannounced, sometimes with lunch, sometimes just to “surprise” her, which Sarah found increasingly unsettling. He’d subtly criticize her friends, suggesting they were jealous of her success or didn’t truly understand her. When she tried to set boundaries, he’d become tearful, accusing her of not loving him enough, of pushing him away. “I just love you so much, Sarah,” he’d plead, “I can’t imagine a moment without you.”

Sarah, who had grown up with a distant, emotionally unavailable father, found herself caught in a familiar trap. Mark’s intense focus, while overwhelming, also felt like the unconditional love she’d always craved. His accusations of her pushing him away triggered her deepest fears of abandonment. She started to pull back from her friends, to work fewer hours, to tailor her life to his demands, all in an effort to maintain the “peace” and the fleeting moments of intense connection. She felt a profound sense of loyalty to him, even as she felt her own identity slowly eroding. She knew, intellectually, that something was wrong, but the emotional pull was too strong. She was in a trauma bond, a subtle, insidious form of coercive control that preyed on her deepest vulnerabilities, disguised as passionate love.

What the Trauma Researchers Help Us Name

The work of pioneering trauma researchers provides invaluable frameworks for understanding the dynamics portrayed in You. Their insights help us move beyond simply labeling Joe as “evil” and instead understand the complex psychological mechanisms at play for both abuser and victim.

Judith Herman, MD, psychiatrist and trauma researcher, author of Trauma and Recovery, emphasizes the power and control dynamics inherent in all forms of trauma. She describes how abusers systematically dismantle a victim’s sense of self, autonomy, and connection to others. Joe’s methods—isolation, surveillance, gaslighting—are classic examples of this. Herman’s work highlights that recovery from such trauma involves re-establishing safety, reconstructing the narrative of what happened, and reconnecting with others. For Joe’s victims, the sheer scale of his control makes this process incredibly difficult, often requiring a complete severance from their past lives.

Bessel van der Kolk, MD, psychiatrist and trauma researcher, author of The Body Keeps the Score, would point to the physiological impact of Joe’s coercive control. The constant threat, the hypervigilance, the cycles of fear and relief—these experiences dysregulate the nervous system. The victims’ bodies are constantly in a state of fight, flight, freeze, or fawn. This chronic stress affects their ability to think clearly, make decisions, and trust their own perceptions. The “fawn” response, where a victim attempts to appease their abuser to avoid further harm, is particularly evident in how Joe’s victims often try to rationalize his behavior or comply with his demands, even when their instincts scream danger. This isn’t a sign of weakness, but a profound biological response to overwhelming threat.

Janina Fisher, PhD, clinical psychologist and trauma specialist, focuses on the fragmentation of the self that occurs in trauma. She would explain that Joe’s victims, under constant duress, develop different “parts” of themselves to cope. There might be a part that idealizes Joe, a part that is terrified, a part that tries to appease him, and a part that longs for escape. These parts can be in conflict, leading to profound internal confusion and making it incredibly difficult to act decisively. The internal monologue of Joe’s victims, if we were privy to it, would likely reveal this intense internal struggle, a constant battle between their intuition and the overwhelming reality of their situation.

These researchers help us understand that what Joe Goldberg does isn’t just “bad” or “evil”; it’s a systematic assault on the human psyche, designed to break down resilience and create absolute dependency. The romanticization of his character, therefore, isn’t just about finding a “hot bad guy”; it reflects a profound misunderstanding of the devastating impact of these dynamics on real people. It highlights a cultural gap in recognizing the subtle, insidious ways trauma bonds are formed and maintained.

Both/And: Holding Truth and Compassion Together

One of the challenges of discussing a show like You is navigating the “both/and” – the ability to hold both the truth of its dangerous themes and the compassion for why people might be drawn to its narrative. It’s crucial to acknowledge that the show’s creators likely intended to critique, not endorse, Joe’s behavior. They aim to expose the dark underbelly of obsessive love and the dangers of a society that often overlooks red flags in the pursuit of a “perfect” romance. The show is a commentary on toxic masculinity, digital surveillance, and the performative nature of modern relationships.

However, the execution, particularly through Joe’s charming persona and his compelling internal monologue, inadvertently creates a space where viewers can empathize with him, or at least understand his twisted logic. This isn’t necessarily a failing of the viewer; it’s a testament to the power of storytelling and the human capacity for empathy, even for deeply flawed characters. The problem arises when this empathy blurs into romanticization, when the fictional narrative begins to normalize or even glamorize behaviors that are, in reality, deeply abusive and terrifying.

What I see consistently in my practice is that individuals, particularly those with complex trauma histories, often have a powerful, unconscious longing for someone to “fix” them, to “save” them, or to provide the unconditional love they never received. Joe Goldberg, in his initial presentation, appears to be that person. He’s attentive, he’s “protective,” he seems to understand their deepest desires. This makes the initial stages of a trauma bond incredibly seductive. It’s not about being “stupid” or “weak” to fall for it; it’s about deeply human needs being exploited by someone who understands how to manipulate those needs. Recognizing this “both/and” allows us to critique the show’s potential for harm while also understanding the human psychological landscape it taps into. It allows us to have compassion for why someone might be drawn to the fantasy, while simultaneously educating them about the very real dangers it represents.

The Systemic Lens: Why This Wound Is Not Just Personal

The romanticization of Joe Goldberg and the trauma bonds he creates isn’t just a personal failing of individual viewers; it’s a symptom of broader systemic issues. Our culture, through various forms of media, has a long history of romanticizing obsessive love, jealousy as a sign of passion, and control as a form of protection. From classic literature to pop songs, narratives often conflate intensity with love, blurring the lines between devotion and domination.

Consider the tropes: the “bad boy” who is reformed by the love of a good woman, the jealous lover who “can’t live without” their partner, the dramatic declarations of love that border on possessiveness. These narratives, while often entertaining, subtly reinforce the idea that love should be all-consuming, that boundaries are a sign of weakness, and that true passion involves a certain degree of drama and control. When these narratives are consumed uncritically, they can shape our expectations of what a “good” relationship looks like, making us more susceptible to the insidious tactics of individuals like Joe Goldberg.

Furthermore, our societal understanding of abuse often focuses narrowly on physical violence, overlooking the pervasive and deeply damaging effects of emotional, psychological, and financial abuse, and coercive control. Because Joe rarely starts with physical violence (though it always escalates there), his initial behaviors can be easily dismissed or excused. The lack of visible bruises makes the abuse harder to name, both for the victim and for outside observers. This systemic blind spot allows coercive control to flourish, often unchecked, because it doesn’t fit the stereotypical image of “abuse.”

The show also touches on themes of class and privilege. Joe often targets women who are, in some way, struggling or vulnerable, but also those who embody a certain aspirational lifestyle. He sees himself as a savior, lifting them out of their perceived mediocrity or protecting them from the “superficial” world they inhabit. This narrative taps into a societal fantasy of being “rescued” or “understood” by someone who sees beyond the surface. When combined with the trauma bond dynamic, it creates a powerful illusion that is incredibly difficult to break. Addressing these systemic issues requires more than just individual awareness; it requires a cultural shift in how we define and discuss healthy relationships, consent, and the true nature of love versus control. This is why critical engagement with popular culture, like You, is so important, allowing us to unpack these narratives and challenge their underlying assumptions. For more on how cultural narratives shape our understanding of trauma, consider exploring resources on Munchausen by Proxy and its media portrayal.

What Healing Can Look Like: Kira’s Story

Kira, a driven marketing executive in her early 40s, is sitting in her therapist’s office, finally articulating the knot of confusion and shame that has plagued her for years. She’s just ended a relationship with a man who, like Mark in Sarah’s story, initially seemed like a dream come true. He was attentive, charming, and seemed to anticipate her every need. But over time, his intensity morphed into control. He subtly undermined her confidence, isolated her from her friends, and made her feel like she was “crazy” for questioning his motives. Kira, who has a history of feeling overlooked in her family, found herself desperately clinging to his validation, even as her intuition screamed for her to run.

Today, Kira is describing a moment of clarity. “I was watching You again,” she says, “and it hit me. Not the murder, obviously, but the way Joe talks to himself, the way he justifies everything. It was like hearing my ex’s voice in my head. The way he’d say, ‘I’m just doing this because I love you,’ or ‘You’re overreacting, I just want what’s best for us.’ It was terrifying, and it was liberating all at once.” This moment of recognition, facilitated by a fictional narrative, allowed Kira to externalize the insidious internal monologue that had become her own. It helped her name the coercive control she had experienced.

Healing for Kira, and for anyone who has experienced a trauma bond, begins with this naming. It involves recognizing that what she experienced wasn’t love, but a sophisticated form of manipulation and control. It means disentangling her own identity from the narrative her abuser created for her. In therapy, Kira is learning to trust her own intuition again, to re-establish healthy boundaries, and to rebuild her support system. She’s working on understanding her own vulnerabilities that made her susceptible to such a dynamic, not to blame herself, but to empower herself with self-awareness. She’s learning to differentiate between genuine care and controlling behavior, between healthy interdependence and suffocating enmeshment.

This process is not linear. There are days when the longing for the “good” moments of the relationship resurfaces, when the confusion and self-doubt creep back in. But Kira is committed to her healing journey. She’s engaging in therapy, exploring her past, and actively rebuilding a life centered on her own values and desires, not someone else’s. She’s learning that true love doesn’t diminish her; it amplifies her. This is the path out of the shadow of a trauma bond, a journey of reclaiming selfhood and fostering genuine, respectful connection. For those interested in deeper self-exploration and rebuilding foundations, resources like Fixing the Foundations can be incredibly valuable.

Related Reading

• Herman, Judith Lewis. Trauma and Recovery: The Aftermath of Violence—From Domestic Abuse to Political Terror. Basic Books, 1992.
• van der Kolk, Bessel A. The Body Keeps the Score: Brain, Mind, and Body in the Healing of Trauma. Viking, 2014.
• Dutton, Donald G., and Susan E. Painter. “Traumatic Bonding: The Development of Emotional Attachments in Cults and Abusive Relationships.” Psychotherapy: Theory, Research, Practice, Training 26, no. 3 (1989): 367–76.
• Stark, Evan. Coercive Control: How Men Entrap Women in Personal Life. Oxford University Press, 2007.