How to Handle Internal Conflict and Battles Within Your Characters
Most of us already know internal conflict is the beating heart of character development. If you’ve been writing or coaching stories for a while, you’ve heard the phrase “make your characters suffer” more times than you can count. But here’s the thing: just giving a character two conflicting emotions or desires isn’t enough. Not by a long shot.
What really takes a story from “solid” to “unforgettable” is how you layer internal conflict, how you evolve it across the arc, and how you let it leak—sometimes subtly, sometimes explosively—into the external world. That’s the sweet spot where character and plot start feeding each other in this beautiful, brutal loop.
So, in this piece, we’re not going to talk about what internal conflict is. We’re diving into how to write it like it matters—with psychological truth, thematic weight, and actual narrative consequences.
Deepening Psychological Realism
One of the biggest traps I see even experienced writers fall into is treating internal conflict like a plot accessory—something to throw in for flavor. You know, “She wants to leave him, but she loves him,” or “He’s a killer, but he hates what he’s become.” Cool. But unless that conflict is textured, embedded in the character’s psyche, and actively warping how they see the world—it’s just noise.
Let’s talk about depth. Because real internal conflict is never just two options on a mental pro/con list. It’s identity-level stuff.
Take Tony Soprano. His entire series arc hinges on the internal tug-of-war between his ruthless mob boss persona and his crippling need for emotional connection. It’s not just that he’s a “bad guy with feelings.” The conflict comes from him needing to be both things at once—and knowing that’s impossible. That’s what makes his therapy scenes so electric. He’s trying to intellectualize an emotional war that defies logic.
Now compare that to a lesser crime drama protagonist, where internal conflict is often treated more like a set decoration: “He’s angry because his father was abusive, but now he wants to be a good cop.” Okay… but if I can summarize it that easily, it probably lacks psychological texture.
Let’s break this down with a few concepts I’ve found useful when coaching other writers or doing my own work:
1. Wound vs. Need vs. Mask
If you’re not using this triad, you’re missing out on a goldmine of character work. Here’s how it breaks down:
- Wound: the deep, often unspoken emotional injury (e.g., abandonment, betrayal).
- Mask: the persona the character wears to avoid vulnerability (e.g., bravado, people-pleasing).
- Need: the emotional growth point that would heal them… if only they’d allow it.
The internal conflict lives right at the collision point between the mask and the need. The wound drives their resistance.
Let’s apply it to a character like Elizabeth Bennet. Her wound? She doesn’t trust people to be genuine (probably thanks to her flaky family and the societal pressure around her). Her mask? Sarcasm and quick judgments. Her need? Vulnerability and discernment. So when Darcy shows up and triggers all of these things, her internal conflict isn’t just about whether or not she likes him—it’s whether she can become someone capable of seeing others (and herself) clearly.
2. Contextual Consistency
Characters don’t exist in a vacuum. Their internal battles should be a logical outgrowth of their personal history and environment. A traumatized war veteran won’t process emotional abandonment the same way a spoiled aristocrat will. Sounds obvious, right? But I still see polished manuscripts where every character processes grief, shame, or self-doubt with the exact same emotional vocabulary.
The trick is to ask yourself: What worldview has this character built to survive? Then, make sure their internal conflict challenges that worldview, not just their goals. Otherwise, you risk turning internal conflict into melodrama—loud but hollow.
3. Let Internal Conflict Infect the External
This is a big one. Characters shouldn’t just think conflicted thoughts—they should act them out in contradictory, frustrating, sometimes destructive ways.
Look at Walter White. His internal conflict—needing to provide for his family vs. needing to feel powerful—shows up in every decision he makes. He doesn’t just have conflicting thoughts; he lies, lashes out, manipulates. His inner war creates external damage. That’s when we know it’s real.
Because here’s the secret: Internal conflict matters most when it costs something. If a character can have their inner struggle without ever paying a price, then it’s not conflict—it’s just mood.
Strategic Tools for Crafting Internal Conflict
So let’s shift gears. We’ve talked about depth—now let’s talk about technique. Because honestly? A lot of strong internal conflict never lands because it’s handled too loudly or too vaguely. Writers either make it so explicit it feels like therapy on the page, or they bury it so deep that the reader can’t feel it at all.
The trick is to strike a balance: suggest more than you say, and show more than you tell, but also know when to lean in. Here’s a breakdown of practical tools—some structural, some stylistic—that I keep returning to when shaping internal conflict that actually moves the story.
A. Techniques for Revealing Conflict Subtly
1. Subtext in Dialogue
Nothing makes me cringe like a character saying, “I just don’t know what to do.” Internal conflict in dialogue should exist under the surface, not announce itself like a flashing neon sign. Think about how people actually talk when they’re torn—they deflect, misdirect, half-say things.
Example: In The Godfather, Michael says, “That’s my family, Kay. It’s not me.” On the surface, he’s distancing himself. But we feel the undertow—he’s already too deep in.
2. Symbolic Objects or Motifs
Use physical objects as emotional barometers. A character polishing a gun they’re not sure they want to use, or returning to the same childhood song—they’re revealing internal tension without exposition.
I worked with a client once whose protagonist kept touching the wedding ring she no longer wore. We never needed a speech about ambivalence—the ring said it all.
3. Fractured Decision-Making
Give characters messy choices. Have them act one way, then regret it. Let them sabotage what they want. If they’re conflicted, their behavior should be, too.
B. Structural Choices That Amplify Conflict
4. Unreliable Narrators & Split POVs
If the character isn’t honest with themselves, the narration shouldn’t be either. Use selective memory, skewed perception, or even contradiction between what they say and what they show.
Or take it a step further—use multiple points of view to highlight a character’s internal battle through the eyes of others. Sometimes what a character hides is clearest in how people around them react.
5. Scene Architecture Based on Emotional Reversals
Build scenes around values in opposition. If your protagonist craves freedom but needs connection, structure a scene where getting one means losing the other. That way, every external beat is pulling double duty.
Think of Breaking Bad again—Walter’s scenes are almost always about choosing between ego and family. And the kicker? He chooses ego more often than not.
6. Use Turning Points to Escalate, Not Resolve
Too many writers resolve internal conflict at midpoint or climax. Resist that. Instead, use key moments to raise the stakes of the internal war.
For example, if your character fears vulnerability, then the moment they open up should make something worse, not better. That’s how you build tension that lasts.
C. Revision Checks for Authenticity
7. Is the Conflict Driving Behavior or Just Sitting There?
In revision, highlight moments where your character’s choices directly reflect their inner turmoil. If you can’t find any, the conflict may be too shallow—or too isolated from the plot.
8. Trim Easy Resolutions
Be brutal. If your character forgives too quickly, decides too easily, or “finds clarity” before they’ve earned it, cut it. Internal conflict needs resistance to matter.
9. Layer Setbacks
Give your character emotional setbacks. Not every moment needs to be forward motion. Some of the best character beats come when someone knows what they should do—and still does the opposite.
When done right, these tools won’t just showcase internal conflict. They’ll build it into the bones of your story, where it belongs.
Evolving Conflict Over the Arc
Let’s talk long-game. One of the biggest pitfalls I see—even in published work—is static internal conflict. The setup is great: torn loyalties, moral tension, buried trauma. But 300 pages later, it’s the same loop.
Internal conflict must evolve. It can deepen, twist, explode, or even mutate into a different kind of struggle altogether—but it cannot stay flat.
1. Think in Stages, Not Endpoints
Internal conflict isn’t just a binary: “She’s afraid of intimacy… then she gets over it.” That’s boring. What you want instead is a series of realizations, breakdowns, regressions, and new questions.
Example: In The Queen’s Gambit, Beth Harmon doesn’t just struggle with addiction and abandonment once. Her relationship to those conflicts changes—from defiance to dependence to denial to acceptance. Each stage feels earned because the emotional context keeps shifting.
Map your character arc like a pressure cooker. What new kind of pressure is applied at each turn?
2. Use Supporting Characters as Emotional Mirrors
Sometimes a character can’t recognize their own conflict—but someone else can. Use foils, rivals, or mentors to shine a light on the protagonist’s inner war.
In The Leftovers, Nora and Kevin serve as mirrors for each other. Their traumas are different, but their coping mechanisms reflect and clash in a way that forces internal reckonings.
When used well, these relationships externalize the internal—they make the invisible visible, which helps the audience track change without heavy exposition.
3. The Internal Arc Should Clash With the External Plot
Here’s where expert writers can really flex. If your character’s internal growth is at odds with their external goals, you’ve got gold.
Let’s say a character needs to learn how to trust. Cool. Now give them a plot goal that requires manipulation or secrecy. That’s where tension lives.
Characters shouldn’t grow in a vacuum—they should grow in defiance of the plot, or at least in conflict with it. When the external stakes make internal progress harder, your arc gets sharper.
4. Don’t Confuse Change With Clarity
Big one. Just because your character understands their internal conflict doesn’t mean they’ve resolved it. Sometimes the most powerful moment is when someone realizes they’ll never fully change—but they’ll keep trying anyway.
I love when stories end with ambiguity. In Mad Men, Don Draper’s “spiritual breakthrough” on the cliff isn’t really about healing—it’s about recognizing the machinery of his own identity. That ad he writes afterward? It’s both a sellout and a moment of self-awareness. That’s rich, messy storytelling.
5. Let the Conflict Echo Through the Final Moments
Whatever emotional war you’ve set in motion—let it echo in the ending. Even if it’s not resolved. Even if it ends in failure.
Think of Frodo in The Lord of the Rings. He “wins” the battle, but internally? He’s shattered. The cost of carrying the Ring—the guilt, the trauma, the alienation—that’s his real arc. His internal conflict doesn’t end with a cheer. It ends with a wound he can’t shake. And it’s devastatingly honest.
When you treat internal conflict as a dynamic organism, not a static idea, the character becomes more than a vessel for plot—they become the story itself.
Final Thoughts
So, that’s the whole picture: deep internal conflict rooted in psychology, structured with care, revealed through action, and evolved over time. It’s not about making your characters suffer for suffering’s sake—it’s about making them face themselves. That’s where the magic is.
As storytellers, our job isn’t just to create drama—it’s to hold a mirror up to the human condition, even (especially) when it’s uncomfortable. If you can write internal conflict that haunts, twists, and reshapes your characters? You’re not just writing stories—you’re writing truth.