There is a strange, intoxicating burden to being a "prophet." You begin to believe your own press. When fifty people look at you as if you hold the secrets to the universe, the line between your ego and your "divine mission" disappears.
By the second year, "The Framework" had moved from a weekly seminar to a live-in community. This is where the shift happens. As a leader, you start to believe your own press. If five hundred people tell you that you’re the only one with the answers, you eventually stop questioning yourself. My Life as a Cult Leader
I never wore a robe. I never drank blood, never owned a compound in Waco or a fleet of Lexuses. I didn’t have a harem—at least, not the way you picture it. I was a cult leader, and for eleven years, I ran a “spiritual wellness collective” out of a converted warehouse in Portland, Oregon. We had a podcast, a turmeric latte recipe that went viral on TikTok, and a waiting list of 400 people who wanted to join our “sovereign living intensives.” There is a strange, intoxicating burden to being a "prophet
I destroyed two hundred and thirty lives. I slept eight hours a night. And I still believe, somewhere in the rotten part of my brain, that I was helping them. This is where the shift happens
In the beginning, my role was "The Great Listener." I found people who were adrift—brilliant engineers, lonely teachers, disillusioned students—and I gave them a mirror. I didn't tell them who I was; I told them who
At first, it was a support group. We met in a rented church basement. I handed out printouts of my ramblings. I taught them a "cleansing breath" I invented while waiting for my pasta water to boil. They cried. They thanked me. They called me “The Listener.”
The transition from a "spiritual retreat" to a totalizing lifestyle is a slow-cooker process. You don't ask for their bank account on day one. You start by asking for their weekend. Then their evenings. Then, eventually, their loyalty.
