The Beast In Me: An IFS Perspective on Aggie’s Grief, Rage, and the Part That Wanted Revenge

Netflix’s The Beast In Me is more than a psychological thriller. It’s a study in grief, fragmentation, and the parts of us we fear so deeply that we would rather destroy ourselves than admit they exist. At the center of the story is Aggie — a mother who loses her young son in a tragic car accident and whose entire internal world ruptures in the aftermath.

IFS (Internal Family Systems) offers a framework that helps us understand Aggie’s behavior in a way the show itself only hints at: Aggie is not “losing her mind.” She is being overtaken by a protector part that wants revenge so fiercely, so desperately, that her system can no longer contain it.

And because she tries to bury this part, it becomes the “beast” in her.

Not because it is monstrous — but because it is unseen, unheard, and shamed.

This blog explores Aggie’s journey through an IFS lens, and how her grief, denial, intuition, and vulnerability opened the door for manipulation by one of the show’s most unsettling figures: Niles.

Aggie’s Protector: The Part That Wants What No Mother Wants to Admit

After the accident, Aggie does what many grieving parents do: she tries to function. She tries to be composed. She tries to be the version of herself that makes other people comfortable — the version who cries politely, attends meetings, talks about forgiveness, and maintains a kind of social grace.

But beneath that thin, brittle exterior lives a part of Aggie that is burning.

A part that wants revenge.

A part that wants justice.

A part that wants someone to hurt as much as she does.

IFS calls this a Firefighter protector — a reactive, intense part that tries to extinguish unbearable emotional pain by taking drastic action. This part believes it is protecting Aggie from drowning in grief. It carries the burden:

“If someone pays, maybe the pain will stop.”

But Aggie is terrified of this part.

She sees it as dangerous, shameful, unmotherly.

So she pushes it down.

And down.

And down.

But buried parts don’t die.

Buried parts ooze.

When Suppression Creates the Beast

At first, the suppression seems to work. Aggie looks composed. Her voice stays steady. She functionalizes her grief, presents well, meets expectations.

But her protector continues to rise.

Ignored protectors — especially ones burdened with rage and trauma — begin leaking into behavior:

• sharp tone

• impulsive decisions

• fixation on the accident

• restless agitation

• inappropriate emotional closeness

• pulling away from people who ground her

• sudden outbursts that don’t match the situation

The show depicts this unraveling with haunting precision. Aggie’s “beast” isn’t a separate personality — it’s the part of her she refuses to acknowledge, taking over more and more of the system because she refuses to speak with it.

And someone else sees it.

Someone who knows exactly what to do with it.

Niles: The Man Who Sees Her Protector Before She Does

One of the most disturbing and psychologically rich aspects of The Beast In Me is Niles — the man who reads Aggie’s inner world with a predator’s precision. While Aggie denies her vengeful impulses, Niles sees them immediately.

He recognizes:

• the quickened breath when the boy’s name is mentioned

• the tightening around her eyes

• the way her grief shifts from sorrow to heat

• the fracture lines in her composure

• the energy of a protector part ready to hijack her

IFS teaches that when a person is disconnected from one of their own parts, that part becomes a blind spot — easy for someone else to manipulate.

Niles weaponizes that blindness.

He mirrors her hidden rage back to her, giving the protector part validation Aggie refuses to give it:

“You’re not crazy for feeling this way.”

“Anyone would want justice.”

“You see the truth that others are afraid to admit.”

“I understand you.”

He becomes the only person speaking directly to the part of her she refuses to face.

This is the psychological trick:

When a protector part is ashamed and silenced, it becomes vulnerable enough for someone else to claim it.

That is what Niles does.

He speaks to her rage.

He stokes it.

He shapes it.

He positions himself as the only one who “gets” her.

And Aggie, unmoored from her own Self-energy, begins to follow the part — and Niles — down a path she would have never chosen consciously.

Shelly: The One Who Knows Something Is Off Even Without the Words

The contrast between Niles and Shelly is one of the most emotionally powerful dynamics in the show.

Shelly, Aggie’s ex-wife, doesn’t have IFS training. She doesn’t talk about protector parts or burdens. But she has something more important than clinical vocabulary:

She has attunement.

She knows Aggie.

She feels her shifts.

She senses the internal storm that Aggie keeps denying.

While everyone else sees a grieving mother doing her best, Shelly sees:

• the brittleness under her calm

• the compulsive edge to her choices

• the secrecy

• the emotional volatility

• the way Aggie seems both present and missing at the same time

• the way Niles hovers around her like a shadow she won’t acknowledge

She tells Aggie something profound without using therapeutic language:

“You’re not okay. Something is wrong.”

And Shelly is right.

She doesn’t see the protector part directly — but she feels its heat. She senses that Aggie is blended with something she’s too scared to name.

Where Niles manipulates the protector, Shelly recognizes the danger.

And in true IFS terms, Shelly is responding to Aggie’s blended state with compassion, not fear.

The Beast Was Never the Enemy — The Denial Was

From an IFS perspective, Aggie’s “beast” was never actually the threat.

It was a part of her carrying:

• grief too vast to process

• guilt too heavy to hold

• rage too frightening to admit

• terror too overwhelming to face alone

The real danger was that Aggie refused to acknowledge it.

When we reject a part:

• It gets louder.

• It gets stronger.

• It takes over.

• It becomes manipulable.

• It acts without our consent.

Aggie didn’t need to “get rid of” her vengeful part.

She needed to turn toward it — gently, compassionately — the way IFS teaches:

“What are you afraid will happen if you don’t protect me this way?”

“What are you carrying that is too heavy for you?”

“What do you need from me to trust me again?”

Because the beast is never a monster.

It is a wounded part burdened with impossible pain.

Why This Story Matters Beyond the Screen

Whether someone has lost a child or is grieving something else entirely — a relationship, a dream, a sense of self — the protector parts that emerge can feel frightening or shameful.

The Beast In Me shows us a truth that IFS names clearly:

Our darkest impulses usually come from the parts that love us the most.

They are trying to protect us.

But protection without connection becomes destruction.

Aggie’s journey is not a story of evil.

It is a story of fragmentation.

A story of unacknowledged parts.

A story of how grief can harden into something uncontrollable when it is not witnessed with compassion.

And it is a story of how someone like Niles can exploit the parts we fear — while someone like Shelly can sense their presence and call us back to ourselves.

If you see pieces of yourself in Aggie — protector parts that feel too big, too scary, or too shameful — you don’t have to face them alone. At Dynamic Counseling in Colorado Springs, we use IFS-informed therapy to help clients gently reconnect with the parts they’ve spent years avoiding.

Not to unleash the beast.

But to unburden it.

To help it finally rest.