I Survived a Cult – My Story of Escape

When I first joined the “Circle of Light” at age 22, I thought I had found a family. In an effort to escape the emptiness of my small-town life and the grief of my mother's death, I had just relocated to Oregon. Master Eli, the leader, appeared to be a shining example of goodness and wisdom. He promised peace, purpose, and healing.

It initially seemed real. We meditated for hours, shared meals, and helped in the community garden. White was the uniform, and everyone spoke of light and love with a constant smile. It reminded me of a utopia. However, the cracks began to appear gradually. Master Eli began selecting companions for "spiritual intimacy," claiming that doing so would purify our spirits. He humiliated anyone who questioned him and demanded complete loyalty. "To free ourselves from material burdens," we were required to surrender our phones and funds. I made up my mind that it was a part of the spiritual path. I wanted so badly to believe.

Isolation became the norm over time. People were "discouraged" from contacting family, and if they tried to leave, they were shunned like they never existed. I watched one girl, Emily, pack her things one night. She was gone by morning, and no one ever mentioned her name again. That frightened me. I initially questioned everything, but I remained silent. Dissent was seen as weakness.

Then, the punishments began. Silent treatments, food restrictions, forced labor—all done under the guise of “cleansing disobedient energy.” I was assigned to clean toilets for three weeks after I asked if I could visit my sister in the hospital. I cried myself to sleep that night, realizing I wasn’t free. I was a prisoner.

A journal was what finally broke my heart. While cleaning Eli’s office, I found his old notebook tucked beneath a pile of books. He wrote that "fear is the leash that binds" and that "controlling minds is the highest form of power" were two of his main points. I was sick. Control was more important than enlightenment in this situation. I knew that I had to go. But escaping wasn't easy. The compound was isolated, miles from the nearest town, and my ID and phone were locked in the main office. For weeks, I planned. I memorized guard schedules, found a map of the nearby forest, and hid a bottle of water and granola bars in my mattress.

One rainy night, I saw my chance. During a storm, the perimeter check was delayed. I snuck out through a laundry door and ran—barefoot, soaked, and terrified—into the woods. Every branch that snapped behind me made me flinch. I walked for hours, cold and disoriented, until I saw headlights. A farmer found me and called the police.

Recovery wasn’t instant. I spent months in therapy, battling guilt and self-hatred. People often ask, “How could you fall for that?” Nobody joins a cult, in fact. You join a community, a cause, a promise of something better. And slowly, you're boiled like a frog in water—too late to notice until you're trapped.

Now, three years later, I work with a non-profit that helps cult survivors reintegrate into society. It hurts to tell my story, but it helps me find my voice again. I still wake up at night in a panic, certain that I am back in that compound. But I’m not. I'm free now. You are not alone if you feel trapped in a group, a relationship, or a belief that controls and isolates you. There is life after the darkness. There is hope beyond the fear. And there is strength in the decision to survive.