Trauma bonding is like someone stealing your air and then handing you a cocktail straw: you gulp it like a gift because deprivation rewires your brain.
– Jodi Pavlock
From her early dreams of recording studio spotlights in London to two decades behind the wheel of a New Jersey school bus, Jodi Pavlock’s life reads like a script that refuses to stick to one genre. What began as a music‑inspired adventure took a sharp turn into day‑to‑day normalcy, until a covert‑narcissistic relationship threatened to snuff out her signature joy altogether. Rather than surrender, Jodi transformed that pain into purpose, chronicling every raw moment in her memoir Jekyll Can’t Hyde and stepping onto the front lines as a certified Narcissistic Abuse Recovery Coach.
In this deep-dive conversation with Stacey Chillemi, Jodi to unpack the highs, lows, and hard‑won lessons behind her remarkable comeback. Expect an unfiltered look at trauma‑bonding, red‑flag detection, and the post‑breakup superpowers that helped her write a book in thirty lightning‑charged days. Most of all, expect to meet a woman who proves that even the darkest chapters can set the stage for a brighter, bolder story ahead.
Thank you so much for joining us! Our readers would love to get to know you a bit better. Can you tell us a bit about your backstory?
I’m Jersey-born and Bergenfield-bred, the kid who lugged a trumpet case bigger than her torso and believed she’d headline Madison Square Garden. I even flew to London, cut a studio album, and soaked up that whole “rock‑star‑for‑a‑minute” magic before real‑life bills said, Cute dream… now go to work. So I hopped behind the wheel of a yellow school bus and spent two decades making sure everybody else’s dreams—soccer practice, spelling bees, first dates—arrived on time. Off the clock, though, I was stuck in a covert‑narcissistic relationship that drained every drop of sparkle I had. The gap between “happy Miss Jodi” waving to kids and the private chaos at home got so wide it finally split. That fracture became Jekyll Can’t Hyde: my memoir with zero filter and the fuel for everything I do now as an advocate, speaker, and certified Narcissistic Abuse Recovery Coach.
What finally pushed you to make that second, permanent exit?
Leaving a narcissist the first time is like stretching a rubber band, you snap back. I did. The love‑bomb crumbs, the “maybe he’ll change,” the addiction to the roller coaster… it all reeled me in. The snap‑off happened thirteen months ago when I caught my fiancé on a three‑day Atlantic City escapade, with a married seventy‑year‑old, no less, and let’s just say the photographic evidence included her floral granny panties. Seeing those pictures was the cosmic two‑by‑four I needed. In a heartbeat, “no contact” went from suggestion to survival law. I boxed up my stuff, blocked numbers like a casino pit boss, and slammed that door so hard the hinges begged for mercy.
Your book came together in a single month. How on earth did you manage that?
Picture post‑breakup adrenaline brewed with iced coffee and migraine meds. I left in June, flirted with the idea in July, then in August something clicked: I opened a Word doc and the memories poured out like water from a busted fire hydrant. Every night after my “real job,” I’d sit with Netflix humming in the background and dump another chapter. One month later, I had a raw manuscript, tears on my keyboard, and a vow: “This thing hits Amazon before Christmas.” I wrestled edits, picked a cover, and… boom! Two weeks before the holidays, my book baby was live. Best revenge gift I’ve ever given myself.
Was the writing itself healing for you?
One hundred percent. It felt like digging splinters from skin—first it hurts like hell, then relief floods in. Some nights I typed sobbing; other nights I laughed at the absurdity (who dates someone old enough for Medicare?). By the final paragraph, I could skim those pages without clutching my chest. My therapist calls that “exposure therapy.” I call it reclaiming oxygen.
Why focus only on the “highest highs and lowest lows”?
Narcissistic relationships swing between Mardi Gras float and haunted‑house basement. Survivors recognize that whiplash instantly. I skipped the Tuesday grocery runs and gave readers the heart‑stopping peaks and floor‑dropping valleys so they’d think, Wait… this is my life, and realize they’re not alone.
You even filmed a two‑minute trailer. What inspired that extra flourish?
I’ve always been a creative—acting gigs, runway shows, karaoke battles, you name it. Books rarely get trailers, so I thought, Let’s stage one. I called up a few actor friends, snagged a rooftop in Jersey, and spent a weekend shooting slow‑motion scenes to a soundtrack I obsessed over for days. Picking the right song took longer than blocking the shots because, hello, perfectionist. But the result? A mini Lifetime movie that gives you goosebumps in 120 seconds.
For people who’ve never heard the term, how would you describe trauma‑bonding?
Imagine someone stealing your air and then handing you a cocktail straw. You gulp that pathetic sip like it’s a gift—because the deprivation rewires your brain. The crumbs feel like feasts. That chemical cocktail of cortisol, dopamine, and false hope latches you to the abuser tighter than cuffs.
Friends often ask, “Why didn’t you leave sooner?” What’s your answer?
Telling a trauma‑bonded partner to “just go” is like telling someone in quicksand to “just step.” Love and fear tango inside your nervous system. Judgment pushes you deeper. What actually saves you is a rope—therapy, safe friends, knowledge, not another lecture.
What subtle red flags should people watch for early on?
Rapid‑fire “Where are you?” texts, “I love you” before you’ve memorized their coffee order, ego speeches about how everyone is jealous of them, and a quiet takeover of your calendar. My covert narc even waited three full years to drop the mask, proof predators can play the long game.
You’re now a certified narcissistic‑abuse recovery coach. Why was that step important?
Living it gave me empathy; certification handed me neuroscience, trauma theory, and structured exercises. Survivors deserve both heart and homework, so I stitched them together. Now when someone says, “I’m stuck,” I don’t just hug them; I hand them a roadmap.
You mention “narcissistic black eyes.” What did you see?
During his rages, the color drained from his irises… pure onyx rings with a grin that looked guest‑starred by a demon. Science says hormones; my spirit says soulless void. Whichever explanation you pick, once you witness it, you never unsee it.
In Jekyll Can’t Hyde, you include screenshots and photos of the affair. Why share receipts?
Gaslighters survive on doubt. I wanted no oxygen left for “Maybe she’s exaggerating.” Time‑stamped texts, casino selfies, the works; slam the door on skepticism and, more importantly, remind survivors: your memory is trustworthy.
Humor pops up even in your darkest stories (pizza test, anyone?). How does laughter help?
Comedy is my pressure valve. After nine years with a man who’d hurl slurs but refuse to stop for a slice when I needed migraine meds, I decided Rule #1 for future dating is: will you feed me? Turning pain into punchlines shrinks it down to size.
Some survivors still love their abuser and feel ashamed. What do you tell them?
Love isn’t a light switch. If your heart still flickers, that just proves it works. Compassion belongs to you; shame belongs to the person who weaponized it. Let that sliver of love fade on its own timeline while you build a life that delights you.
You give clients three choices when they’re stuck. What are they?
- Stay and normalize the abuse: your body will keep the score.
- Hover in indecision: aka the emotional waiting room where life passes by.
- Walk out, shake in your boots, and build freedom brick by brick. I’ll lace up boots with you for Door #3 every single time.
What did reclaiming independence look like for you?
Step one: crash at Mom and Dad’s, ego parked on the curb. Step two: budget spreadsheets, side hustles, and a gratitude jar for every tiny win. Step three: last May I signed a lease on my own apartment, hauled IKEA boxes up three flights, and toasted the fresh paint with seltzer and a Spotify playlist labeled “Freedom.”
How can our readers further follow your work online?
Swing by JodiLynnPavlock.com for the rooftop trailer, blog posts, podcast links, and every format of Jekyll Can’t Hyde (paperback, Kindle, audiobook). Pop your email into my newsletter and twice a month I’ll land raw, relatable healing tips in your inbox. I’m also game for virtual book clubs, support‑group Q&As, and speaking gigs if you need a dose of tough love wrapped in Jersey humor.
Jodi, thank you for sharing your story and your unstoppable energy with us today. Your honesty is going to light up a lot of dark rooms.
Thank you, Stacey. Talking with you, and your readers, reminds me why I ripped those splinters out in the first place. If one person sees themselves in my story and chooses freedom, every page was worth it.
