Today, we need to talk about a very specific kind of mind-f**k. We need to talk about what happens when you wake up one day, as a fully formed adult, and realize you were raised in a cult. When society talks about “cults,” we have a very specific aesthetic in mind. We picture isolated compounds in the desert. We picture Kool-Aid, matching tracksuits, and weird robes. When we hear phrases like “speaking in tongues,” “spiritual warfare,” or “demonic possession,” we immediately picture the Deep South: a guy in a sweaty tent in Alabama handing out snakes. But that wasn’t my reality. My cult didn’t have a compound. It had marble floors, stained glass windows, and the official, globally recognized stamp of approval from the Roman Catholic Church. Respectability Politics and the Velvet Rope To understand the cognitive dissonance of my childhood, you have to understand my environment. This wasn’t rural, fringe religion. My parents were wealthy. They owned a highly successful restaurant right here in Philadelphia. We were respected members of the community. My dads best friend was the US Ambassador to Italy under Bill Clinton. My family was deeply integrated into the fast-paced, high-status, politically connected culture of the Northeast. We didn’t look like cult members. We looked like the local elite. But behind closed doors, our reality was dictated by high-demand, high-control spiritual paranoia. My parents genuinely believed they were privy to the “hidden teachings” of the Roman Catholic Church. And to be clear, this wasn’t some rogue, underground basement sect. Every single Wednesday, my mother attended Charismatic Catholic meetings at the prestigious Basilica of Saints Peter and Paul, right on the Parkway in Philadelphia. You cannot get more mainstream. But the theology we practiced inside those walls, and inside our home, was something else entirely. A Step to the Left: The Cosmology of Paranoia If you grew up “regular” Catholic, you know the drill. It’s highly structured. It’s bureaucratic. You stand up, you sit down, you recite the Creed, you eat the wafer, you go home. It is quiet, it is guilt-ridden, and it is entirely devoid of spontaneous emotion. Charismatic Catholicism is the exact opposite. In my house, Heaven wasn’t an abstract place in the clouds you go to when you die. It was described to me as another dimension. I was literally taught that you could just take a step to the left, and you would be in Heaven. The veil between realities was exactly that thin. And because the veil was that thin, my very existence was framed as a constant, active battle for my soul. The spiritual world wasn’t a metaphor. It was immediate, it was violent, and it was happening right in our upscale living room. Everything was boiled down to this absolute, high-stakes binary of Heaven and Hell, and my parents were constantly warning me about the Devil. Because we believed the spiritual realm was just a step to the left, we also believed that anything could cross over. People could be possessed, yes—but so could things. Which brings me to the magic. Vatican-Approved Witchcraft If you look at Charismatic Catholic practices through an anthropological lens, it is straight-up folk paganism. My reality was saturated in ritualistic protection. There was holy water everywhere, all the time. My mother would actively anoint me. She spoke in tongues. I have vivid memories of her literally chasing me around the house with a rosary. In my family, every single time we bought anything, the priest had to be involved. * New business? Blessed. * New home? Better bless it. * Family dog? Once a year, bring them to church for a blessing. * A lamp from a thrift store? Absolutely needed to be blessed. Why? Because in this branch of Catholicism, we implicitly believed in animism. We believed that a used sweater or a piece of jewelry could carry a demonic attachment, a curse, or negative spiritual residue from its previous owner. Think about that for a second. The belief that an inanimate object holds spiritual energy, and that you must perform a ritual using specific elemental tools—like salt and water—to cleanse that object and protect your home... That is witchcraft. That is warding. That is the exact same foundational logic used by pagans, shamans, and ceremonial magicians to banish negative energy. At least once a week, we would go to church and do what was essentially candle magic. We would write our intentions on a little piece of paper, put them in a slot, light a candle, and sit there candle-gazing for five minutes before going home to do homework. We just called it a “blessing.” We used Holy Water instead of moon water. We used a Vatican-approved priest instead of a coven. But the mechanics of the magic were identical. We were casting protective circles around our material possessions because we lived in constant terror of the unseen world. Pathologizing the Body & Mind The most insidious part of being raised in an environment of constant spiritual warfare is that the war never actually ends. And if you step out of line, or if you suffer, it is framed as your own fault for leaving the protective circle. Worse, I was taught a horrific theology of suffering. I was told that before I was born, I chose my struggles to earn “extra points with Jesus.” If I complained, I was told I was too fresh and needed to speak to a priest. Because of this, my entire life, my autism and my chronic fatigue syndrome were never treated as medical realities. They were treated as spiritual failings. I was told I was just lazy, or that I was stubborn. My neurodivergence was just me refusing to submit. The Weaponization of Tragedy Recently, this theology reached its violent, logical conclusion. I survived a horrific dog attack. I lost my right hand to amputation. My left hand is barely functional, held together with internal fixators after multiple surgeries. As an autistic person with fibromyalgia, the sensory nightmare of having my bandages changed in the hospital was agonizing. To manage the pain and the sheer terror, I used what actually works for me as a yoga teacher. I played a beautiful track of a woman singing a Sanskrit heart protection mantra. I was using sound to ground my nervous system in the face of unspeakable tragedy. My mother and I are very low-contact—I essentially have to “grey rock” her to protect my peace. But she visited me once during this hospital stay. Big mistake. Besides policing my food the entire time to make sure I didn’t get “too fat,” she went behind my back. Without my knowledge or consent, she pulled the doctor aside and told them I would have no support at home and that they needed to put me in an institution. And then, before she left, she looked at me and dropped a bomb. She told me that instead of putting on a Sanskrit chant, if I had gotten on my hands and knees and begged Jesus, maybe I wouldn’t be lying in a hospital bed. Think about the sheer cruelty of looking at your child, who has just survived something that could have killed her, with metal bars screwed into her forearms, and telling her she was maimed because she didn’t grovel hard enough to the right God. And then she left me alone with two disabled children to take care of. That is not love. That is a hostage situation. Taking the Magic, Leaving the Cult It is a massive pill to swallow, realizing your reality was built on a foundation of theological paranoia and abuse. But naming it is the first step in dismantling it. I am no longer afraid of their Devil. I do not blame the universe. And I no longer believe the universe is a war zone between angels and demons fighting over my soul. Most importantly: I will never, ever get on my hands and knees to beg for anything from anyone. But I still believe in the weird and the wonderful. I believe our thoughts shape our realities. The difference now is that I have stripped the fear, the punishment, and the dogma out of it. I can look at a chanting ritual not as a desperate defense against a vengeful God, but as a highly effective, practical psychological tool that regulates my nervous system. I took the magic, and I left the cult behind. If this resonates with you—if you are unpacking your own religious trauma, or if you just want to explore the esoteric without the guru-b******t and the dogma—subscribe and stick around. We have a lot of untangling to do. Stay weird. Stay grounded. And I’ll catch you next time. This is a public episode. 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