The Villain is a Sacred Role
Photo by Courtney Lindberg.
As a "good" girl, I never wanted to be the villain. I wanted to be liked. Approved of. Safe.
Growing up with an alcoholic father and unstable stepmother, that felt less like a desire and more like a survival strategy.
Conflict scared me, so I instinctively compensated. I over-gave. I people-pleased. I quieted my voice, my needs, and performed for approval—all in the name of keeping the peace.
I genuinely believed I could make people happy. Which meant, on some level, I also believed I could make them unhappy.
It felt like everyone's feelings were somehow in my hands—and mine in theirs.
That illusion stayed with me for years. I'd get glimpses of freedom from it, but nothing like what happened when it all came crashing down in the most unexpected, brutiful way… through resentment.
A few years ago, I began to carry a growing sense of upset in my relationship with Carolyn Freyer-Jones.
I want to name up front that I have her permission to share this story—which I deeply appreciate. I also want to say—I didn't try to make her the villain. I wasn't hunting for one. The story built itself quietly, almost invisibly, as our partnership inside her school deepened.
She had been my coach, a colleague, and someone I deeply respected. But somewhere along the way, I started to believe she saw me as less than.
And once that belief took hold, my mind began collecting evidence to prove it:
She didn't give me credit for the handout I had created—one that became known as “Paper Gold” because of how effective it was.
She gave credit to other teachers and coaches.
She promoted other coaches more often.
She misspelled my name consistently.
The list grew. And my ego latched on, turning her into an enemy.
But I never spoke up. I didn't name the resentment out loud. I kept it inside, trying to pretend it wasn't there—trying to stay “good.”
It lived under the surface, shaping how I saw her... and myself.
No matter how hard I tried to “prove” myself, it never felt like enough.
Because the story wasn't about Carolyn.
It was about me.
I had a deeply painful misunderstanding running inside of me:
I'm not enough. I don't matter. I'm less than.
And that was too excruciating to face head-on. So my system, in its wisdom, found somewhere safer to place it: on her.
This is how projections work.
What we can't—or aren't ready to—face inside ourselves, we tend to place “out there.” We make someone else the problem. We make them the villain.
And our ego? It loves that.
It loves being the hero. The “good one.” The one who's right.
So when something threatens that identity—when a deep insecurity like I'm not enough starts to bubble up—our ego looks for somewhere else to pin it.
Anywhere but inward.
That's what happened with Carolyn.
It wasn't conscious. But my internalized sense of lack needed a landing place, and she unknowingly became it.
It was safer to believe she thought I was less than than to face that I believed it.
What's wild is that from Carolyn's perspective, I was more than enough. I was co-creating at her school with her. I was beside her every class weekend. She had me up front—teaching, contributing, leading. She saw me as valuable—essential, even.
But I couldn't see that.
Not through the filter I was looking through.
And that's how the mind works.
It filters out anything that doesn't align with the story it's telling.
Eventually, when my life and work got especially hard, I was brought to my knees—and invited by Life to go deeper.
So I did.
I slowed down. I got quiet. And I met the resentment.
Underneath it, through many tears, I uncovered a memory I hadn't touched in decades:
Four-year-old me, hiding in a closet, terrified after my dad punched a hole in the wall and threatened my mom.
I had internalized his rage as my fault.
From that moment on, I believed: I'm the problem. I'm too much. I need to be better, quieter, more agreeable to stay safe.
That belief became the background noise of my life. The unconscious driving force behind so many of my choices—especially my desire to succeed.
I spend decades striving to be the best, to prove myself, to finally feel like I was enough.
And when that buried pain got triggered years later, my system wasn't ready to meet it—so it projected it outward.
That's how Carolyn became the mirror.
I didn't know it at the time, but what I was seeing in her—She thinks I'm less than. She doesn't value me—was really a reflection of what I believed about myself.
It was like that little girl had been locked in the closet—alone with the pain and fear she didn't know what to do with.
Seeing her and “being” with her—finally—freed me.
I could now look at Carolyn and see her clearly.
I could see the ways she had acknowledged me.
The ways she had supported me.
The ways I hadn't spoken up.
The ways my hurt had distorted our dynamic.
So I wrote her an amends letter.
Not because she needed it, but because I did.
And since then—life feels different.
I'm less reactive. Less triggered.
Because I understand where my experience truly comes from.
And when that old pattern of blame does show up, I don't run with it.
I slow down. I look inward.
Because now I know: it's always a projection.
And, this is why I say: the villain is a sacred role.
Carolyn didn't ask to carry that weight. But in some strange, beautiful way, she held it until I was strong enough to take it back.
If you're the villain in someone else's story, as painful as that may feel, it might actually be an act of love.
Their system is doing what it needs to do until it's ready to see the deeper truth—just as mine did.
And if you have a villain in your life right now, it might be worth gently wondering: Could this be pointing to something I haven't been ready to see in myself?
This is the nature of shadow.
The parts of ourselves we can't—or won't—face don't just disappear.
They show up in others.
As judgment. As jealousy. As blame. As “how could they?”
But what we're often really saying is:
I'm not ready to meet this part of me yet.
You don't have to force anything. You don't have to go digging inside. Life knows the best timing for your growth and evolution.
And, just knowing the pain might not be about them can begin to soften the charge.
There's so much upset in the world right now because we're collectively projecting our wounds onto one another.
And while we may not be able to change the entire system—yet—we can change our inner system.
We can become more honest with ourselves.
More willing to meet our shadow.
More at peace within.
And as we do—as we tend to our own inner world—we begin to see more clearly.
We begin to relate differently.
We begin to heal.
And as we free ourselves, we free the world.
One shift at a time.
With loving,
Amber
PS: This kind of work isn't easy—but it is sacred. If anything in this piece touched something inside you or if you're wanting to deepen your experience of what I share about, feel free to reach out at hello@amberkrzys.com. I'd love to hear.
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