The Funny Lady Who Accidentally Joined a Cult (Almost)

There are two kinds of people in this world: those who read the fine print, and those who accidentally join a cult because the brochure said there would be snacks.

I have always considered myself a reasonably intelligent woman. I can operate a washing machine without consulting YouTube. I know the difference between “your” and “you’re.” I once assembled an IKEA bookshelf with only three minor emotional breakdowns.

So naturally, when I received an invitation to attend what was described as a “transformational weekend retreat,” I said yes.

In my defense, the invitation looked perfectly respectable.

There were photographs of smiling people standing barefoot in a meadow. Everyone appeared to be wearing linen. The sky was suspiciously blue. Someone was hugging a tree in the background, but these days that doesn't necessarily mean anything. People hug trees at music festivals, wellness conferences, and increasingly, corporate team-building exercises.

The retreat promised “clarity, community, elevated consciousness, and a renewed relationship with your authentic self.”

It did not mention cults.

If it had, I would have brought different shoes.

The Invitation

The whole thing started with my friend Karen.

Karen has a remarkable ability to become enthusiastic about things approximately eleven minutes before I become suspicious of them.

“It's going to change your life,” she said.

“That sounds expensive.”

“It isn't.”

“That sounds even more suspicious.”

She handed me a glossy flyer.

The retreat was being held at a secluded property somewhere in the countryside. There would be meditation, yoga, nature walks, workshops, communal meals, and something called “The Awakening Circle.”

“What happens in the Awakening Circle?” I asked.

Karen shrugged.

“Awakening, presumably.”

Fair enough.

I signed up.

The first warning sign should have been the email reminding us to “release all attachment to our former identities.”

I nearly replied, “Can I keep my Netflix password?”

Instead, I packed a weekend bag.

Welcome to Paradise

The retreat center was beautiful.

That was part of the problem.

It was the sort of place where every wooden building had a poetic name. The dining hall was called The Sanctuary. The meditation room was called The Nest. The bathroom was called The Purification Pavilion.

It was, in fact, a bathroom.

There were about forty participants, all smiling in a way that suggested they had either discovered inner peace or been told not to frown.

At registration, a cheerful woman named Moonbeam handed me a name tag.

“Yes,” she said. “Moonbeam.”

I looked around for cameras.

“Is that your real name?”

She smiled.

“It is now.”

I laughed.

She did not.

This was the first moment I wondered whether I'd made a terrible mistake.

Still, everyone was friendly. People hugged constantly. They hugged when they arrived, hugged after introductions, and sometimes hugged in the middle of conversations for reasons I could not identify.

I am not naturally anti-hug. But after the sixth unsolicited embrace, I began feeling like a human airport luggage carousel.

Then came the opening ceremony.

The Leader Appears

Our retreat leader was a handsome man named Orion.

Of course he was.

Nobody named Gary was going to lead a spiritual awakening.

Orion walked onto a small wooden platform wearing loose white clothing and carrying what appeared to be a crystal the size of a grapefruit.

He spoke softly.

“Welcome home.”

A woman near me began crying.

I assumed she had emotional issues.

Ten minutes later, I was crying too.

Not because I had experienced a spiritual breakthrough.

Someone had rubbed eucalyptus oil under my nose.

My sinuses were under attack.

Orion spoke about shedding the false self.

“The person you think you are,” he said, “is only a story.”

I leaned toward Karen.

“Mine is mostly about avoiding emails.”

She elbowed me.

“Take it seriously.”

“I am.”

Orion continued.

“To transform, we must surrender.”

That sentence landed differently.

Surrender what?

Our worries?

Our egos?

Our credit cards?

Nobody clarified.

The Rules

The retreat had rules.

That was another warning sign.

We were asked to surrender our phones during certain sessions.

No problem.

We were encouraged to avoid gossip.

Fair enough.

We were told not to question the exercises until we had completed them.

Less fair.

Then came the dietary guidelines.

No caffeine.

No alcohol.

No processed sugar.

No meat.

No dairy.

No “negative foods.”

I asked what a negative food was.

A woman named Sunshine explained that negative foods were foods that “lowered your vibration.”

“Like what?”

She thought for a moment.

“Microwaved pizza.”

I immediately began grieving.

That evening, dinner consisted of lentils, kale, and something described as “spiritual bread.”

It tasted like a yoga mat.

I quietly asked Karen whether we could leave.

She shook her head.

“We haven't finished the first day.”

“We've finished dinner.”

“It's a transformational retreat.”

“I've transformed into someone who wants a cheeseburger.”

The Awakening Circle

That night we gathered in a circle around a fire.

Orion asked everyone to share their deepest fear.

People gave serious answers.

Abandonment.

Failure.

Death.

Not being enough.

When it reached me, I panicked.

“My deepest fear?”

Everyone nodded.

I looked into the fire.

“Being trapped in a conversation with someone who says, ‘Let me tell you about my wellness journey.’”

Silence.

Then one person laughed.

Then another.

Soon, half the circle was laughing.

Orion wasn't.

He stared at me with the expression of a substitute teacher watching a classroom discover fire.

“You use humor to avoid vulnerability,” he said.

I blinked.

“That is also true.”

A few people nodded knowingly.

I had apparently been psychoanalyzed by a man holding a crystal grapefruit.

Then he asked me to surrender my humor.

“No.”

The answer came out so quickly that even I surprised myself.

Orion smiled.

“Why?”

“Because it's mine.”

That was the moment the atmosphere changed.

Not dramatically.

No thunder.

No ominous music.

Just a subtle shift.

People stopped smiling.

The fire suddenly seemed much farther away.

The Meeting

The next morning, Karen pulled me aside.

“I think you upset Orion.”

“Good.”

“He says humor can be a defense mechanism.”

“Everything can be a defense mechanism if you have enough confidence.”

Karen lowered her voice.

“I heard there are levels.”

“What levels?”

“After this retreat, you can apply for the advanced program.”

“How advanced?”

She hesitated.

“Three weeks.”

I nearly dropped my herbal tea.

“Three weeks?”

“Apparently it's life-changing.”

“So is food poisoning.”

She ignored me.

“They say people come back completely different.”

“That is generally what happens when someone spends three weeks without Wi-Fi.”

Then she told me the advanced program cost several thousand dollars.

That was when the penny dropped.

Or perhaps the entire vending machine.

This wasn't necessarily a cult.

But it was beginning to resemble a very expensive club where asking questions was considered a personality flaw.

The Exit Interview

Before leaving, each participant had a private conversation with a retreat facilitator.

Mine was with Moonbeam.

She sat across from me in a quiet room.

“How has your experience been?”

“Interesting.”

“What have you learned?”

“That I miss cheese.”

She smiled politely.

“And about yourself?”

I thought about it.

“I've learned that I'm uncomfortable when people tell me I shouldn't question things.”

She leaned forward.

“Resistance is often a sign that transformation is occurring.”

“Or that something is weird.”

She paused.

“Why do you think you need to label everything?”

“Because labels are useful. This one says ‘shampoo.’ It helps me know what I'm putting on my head.”

She didn't laugh.

At this point I knew I was definitely not being invited back.

The Great Escape

I left that afternoon.

Karen stayed.

For three more days.

She returned home carrying six crystals, a handmade journal, and a new vocabulary.

Apparently, everything was now either “aligned,” “blocked,” or “energetically expensive.”

She also began referring to ordinary disagreements as “opportunities for conscious friction.”

We eventually got her back.

The final straw came when the retreat center emailed her about the advanced program.

She read the message.

Then she looked at me.

“They want $4,800.”

“For three weeks?”

“Yes.”

“Does that include food?”

“Yes.”

“What kind?”

“Plant-based.”

She stared at the email.

I stared at her.

We both started laughing.

And that, apparently, was her awakening.

What Almost Happened

Was it actually a cult?

That's not a question I can answer with certainty.

“Cult” isn't simply a synonym for “weird group.” There are recognizable warning signs associated with high-control organizations: discouraging independent thought, isolating members from outside relationships, demanding excessive loyalty, manipulating fear or guilt, and placing unusual authority in a leader.

Our retreat did not necessarily cross every one of those lines.

But there were enough uncomfortable moments to make me pay attention.

The strange thing about potentially high-control groups is that they don't necessarily begin with sinister music and a mysterious mansion.

Sometimes they begin with a friendly email.

Sometimes they promise personal growth.

Sometimes everyone is incredibly nice.

Sometimes there are snacks.

And sometimes, if you're lucky, you have a friend who can recognize the moment when “spiritual transformation” starts sounding suspiciously like “please give us your money and stop asking questions.”

The Lesson

I didn't leave the retreat enlightened.

I left hungry.

But I did learn something useful.

Healthy communities don't require you to surrender your ability to think.

Good teachers don't fear questions.

And genuine personal growth shouldn't require you to become a completely different person just because someone in linen pants told you to.

Most importantly, I learned that my sense of humor is apparently a psychological defense mechanism.

Which is fine.

I have decided to defend myself.

With jokes.

And cheese.

Preferably simultaneously.

A few months later, Karen received another invitation from the retreat center.

It said:

“Dear Beloved, your journey continues.”

She forwarded it to me.

I replied:

“Mine continues to the pizza place.”

She responded with a laughing emoji.

Then she wrote:

“You know, they did have a really good vegan lasagna.”

I stared at the message.

For one terrifying moment, I wondered whether they had gotten her.

Then she sent another message.

“Just kidding. I'm eating a burger.”

I smiled.

Maybe she had learned something after all.

Or maybe, like me, she had simply discovered the oldest and most reliable path to enlightenment:

Leaving when things get weird.

And never trusting a bathroom called the Purification Pavilion.