The Cult That Stole My Youth

I was born into a world where obedience was survival. Every decision—what I wore, what I ate, what I thought—was dictated by the teachings of the Elders. To question was to sin. To disobey was to be cast into darkness.

As a child, I didn’t question the rules. I accepted that the outside world was corrupt, that unbelievers were lost souls doomed to suffer, that suffering in this life was a test of faith. We weren’t allowed to have friends outside the community. We weren’t allowed to read books that weren’t approved, to watch movies, to listen to music beyond the hymns we sang in the hall. Education beyond what was necessary to serve the community was discouraged. Higher learning was the devil’s playground.

When I turned eighteen, the Elders chose a husband for me. He was fifteen years older, devout, respected. I was told it was an honor. I was told he would lead me in faith. I nodded, accepted the white dress, and let them take my life from me one vow at a time.

For years, I lived as I was expected to—submissive, quiet, obedient. I didn’t know what happiness felt like, but I assumed it wasn’t meant for me. I was a wife, then a mother. That was my only purpose.

Then, one winter, my daughter became sick. A fever, worsening by the hour. I begged my husband to take her to a doctor, but he refused. “If it is God’s will that she recovers, she will,” he said. “If not, we must accept His judgment.”

I held my baby girl in my arms as she burned with fever, her tiny body trembling. The community Elders came to pray over her. They told me to have faith. They told me to accept that it was in God’s hands. But faith wasn’t enough.

Something inside me cracked.

I waited until my husband fell asleep, then I wrapped my daughter in a blanket and ran. I had never driven beyond the town limits, but I drove until the road signs no longer looked familiar. I found a hospital. They took her from me, rushed her into a room with bright lights and beeping machines. The doctor told me that if I had waited any longer, she wouldn’t have made it.

That was the moment I knew I could never go back.

The Cost of Freedom

The community disowned me. My husband, the Elders, my own parents—I was excommunicated, cut off from everyone I had ever known. I stepped into the world with nothing but my daughter and the clothes on my back. I didn’t know how to function in society. I didn’t even know how to open a bank account. I had no job, no education beyond what the community had allowed, no idea who I was outside of the role they had assigned me.

But I had something I had never had before: choice.

It took months before I could speak without fear of saying the wrong thing. Every time someone asked me what I wanted—tea or coffee, water or juice—I froze. I wasn’t used to being allowed to decide. I had spent my entire life following rules, being told who I was, where I belonged. And now, suddenly, I was expected to just… exist on my own terms.

The fear followed me everywhere. At night, I heard my father’s voice in my head telling me I was damned. I had dreams of my husband dragging me back, of the Elders standing over me, condemning me. Every time I walked into a store, I felt like an imposter. I didn’t know how to talk to people. I didn’t know how to explain myself. The world felt too loud, too fast, too overwhelming.

The first time I tried to rent an apartment, I had to fill out a form with a section that said “Previous Address.” I almost walked away, convinced that if I wrote down the name of my community, someone would report me and I’d be dragged back. I had to remind myself that I was free. But freedom didn’t feel like safety yet.

I found a shelter that helped women escaping religious abuse. The counselors there spoke gently, reassured me that it was normal to feel lost, that I wasn’t alone. They gave me a place to stay, helped me enroll in therapy, connected me with resources.

Therapy was painful at first. Every session felt like breaking open a wound I had spent years pretending didn’t exist. I had to confront the fact that my entire life had been built on fear and control. I had to acknowledge that my parents had never truly loved me unconditionally—that their love had always been tied to obedience. That was the hardest truth to accept.

The guilt was overwhelming. For months, I couldn’t shake the feeling that I had done something unforgivable. The indoctrination was so deep that even though I knew I had saved my daughter’s life, a part of me still feared I had condemned myself.

To quiet the voices in my head, I began to write. I wrote letters to the girl I used to be—the one who obeyed, who submitted, who believed she was unworthy of happiness. I told her she was allowed to exist. That she didn’t have to earn her place in the world.

I also wrote letters to my parents. Letters I never sent. Letters filled with everything I wished I could say—the grief, the anger, the pain of knowing they would rather erase me than love me as I am.

I kept learning, one small step at a time.

I learned how to use a computer. How to apply for jobs. How to navigate a grocery store without feeling like I was doing something wrong. I learned how to say “no” without guilt. I learned that I didn’t have to apologize for having my own thoughts, my own desires, my own identity.

I started taking classes, one at a time, slowly rebuilding the education I was denied. My daughter started school, too—thriving in ways I never could have imagined. She made friends. She ran freely. She laughed loudly. She was learning what it meant to be a child without fear.

The first time I heard her say, “I love you, Mommy,” without hesitation or restraint, I broke down crying. Not because I was sad, but because I realized that love—real love—is never given as a reward for obedience.

Becoming Myself

Years later, I no longer live in fear of judgment. I no longer believe that love must be earned through submission. I no longer hear the Elders’ voices in my head telling me I am unworthy.

I believe in something now, but it’s not the God they forced upon me. I believe in kindness. In choice. In the quiet strength of a woman who has rebuilt herself from nothing.

I don’t know if my parents ever think about me. I don’t know if my name has been spoken in that community since I left. But I do know that if my daughter ever faces a moment of doubt, I will be there to remind her that she is strong, that she is loved, and that she is free.

And for the first time in my life, so am I.