Few matters are predictable when it comes to cults and high-control religious groups, but if there’s one thing that Cult Counselling Australia director Raphael Aron can count on during his sessions, it’s that he’ll hear the words: “We never thought we’d be here.”
“There’s no one group more susceptible [to being recruited] than another,” Aron says. “We all have our weaknesses and a desire to belong, and in the right circumstances and at the right time in someone’s life, the cult can swoop in. And it’s not a pretty picture.”
While exact figures are difficult to come by, it is thought that up to 500,000 Australians are involved with cults. For those who leave, says Aron, reintegrating into mainstream society is no simple matter – it depends on how long a person has been in the cult, and the degree of influence that cult has had. “They may have dropped out of uni, left their careers and harmed their relationships, so there’s a huge rebuilding process at a time when they’re riddled with guilt and trauma.”
Professional help is available, but Aron also recommends seeking out former-member groups on social media. “These can be positive influences when it comes to learning to feel comfortable in your own skin, making peace with your past and developing a plan for the future,” says Aron.
Here, three women share how they rebuilt their lives and independence.
“Leaving physically is only the first step”: Clare Heath-McIvor, 42
“I can still remember the moment my husband and I curled up on the couch to watch a documentary about Scientology, Going Clear. Though we weren’t Scientologists, he seemed to stay pale for three weeks before he finally asked, ‘Are we in an abusive church?’
My parents had taken over and become pastors at what I had believed to be an unremarkable country church when I was eight, and I had been home-schooled within that community. Everything was controlled – education, finances, career, who you marry and the way you dress. My husband and I had been brought together in an arranged marriage when I was 29.
Leaving a cult or high-control religious group physically is one thing, leaving mentally and emotionally is another altogether. You have moments of clarity – I had my first when I was just 16 – but you learn to bury them before anyone finds out. Where can you run to when you’ve been taught that this is the “one truth”, or when all of your loved ones and your values are tied up in it?
We were effectively managed out in 2016, and I found myself bringing our first child into a world without any support or community.
My marriage wasn’t all bad though; I helped my husband come out as a proud gay man three years after we left the church, and although we are now separated, we remain good friends and happily co-parent our two children. I am not in contact with anyone from my family, and I miss them terribly.
Since I entered the advocacy space as host of the Unchurchable podcast and founding president of Survivors of Coercive Cults and High-Control Groups, I’ve been clear that not all cults are religious and not all religions are cults; we need to build awareness around the different forms high-control groups can take.
How do we get the message through to domestic violence services that a woman might not only be leaving a marriage, but also a community that wants to force her back into that marriage? How do we assist our LGBTQIA+ community if their identity is being compromised? These are the questions that not only keep me up at night, but propel me forward. The grief doesn’t ever go away, but the outcome is worth it.”
“Suddenly, I was left with nothing”: Samantha Sellers, 34
“There’s something about a ready-made community that’s enticing to a 12-year-old with big emotions and few spaces in which to engage with them. When I was introduced to [a high-control religious group] through my school’s religious education teacher, I thought I’d found my people. But what I’d actually joined was rooted in spiritual abuse, conversion practices, coercive control, surveillance and manipulation.
There was a lot of policing of behaviour around sexuality and morality, and when I began dating a person of the same sex – in the group, being queer was not OK – I was first thrust into accountability sessions, then ultimately shunned. By the time I left, the church had been a core part of my life and my identity for 15 years. Suddenly, I was left with nothing.
I moved interstate to be with my now-wife three months after I left the church. I had to learn to start afresh, find new friends and a new community. Not only was I a master at people-pleasing and suppressing my emotions, I didn’t know how to set boundaries with people, or start friendships with those who belong to a different church or have different beliefs. On the flipside, I was grateful that I knew how to manage the basics of life – I had a degree, I could do my own banking.
It was 2½ years after I left the church that I began engaging in therapy with someone who worked in the spirituality and sexuality space. I now had the language about what I’d experienced and could share it with my family.
Although we’re starting to see an increase in practitioners who specialise in cult recovery and trauma, we still have a long way to go. Plus therapy isn’t accessible to everyone, and to those people I recommend tapping into a support advocacy group such as the Religious Trauma Collective, which I co-founded. My other advice is to read, read, read. Information may be controlled where you are, but there’s a reason for that: information is power.”
“I appeared successful but I was lonely”: Laura McConnell, 46
“I was the fifth generation to be born into a high-control fundamentalist Christian group that operates in closed, often rural communities. I wasn’t allowed to wear trousers, jewellery or make-up, and the expectation was that I would serve my purpose of raising children and maintaining a home where clergy could come and stay.
As I grew older, I pushed back on getting married; with my entrepreneurial spirit I thought I might like to one day run my own company. Eventually things came to a head – I got kicked out of the group when I was 19.
It took six months for me to realise I wasn’t going to die and go to hell because I’d left, a message I’d heard my whole life. It’s a terrifying way to live, particularly when you’re experiencing housing issues and eating courtesy of Foodbank.
I sought help from both doctors and counsellors, but there was a clear lack of understanding about what I was dealing with. I was told to speak to priests, or I was given medication, but nobody really addressed the trauma from such an upbringing.
Clawing myself out of poverty took time, but I was able to study at uni, then enjoy a corporate career for 17 years. On the outside, I appeared the ultimate success story [of leaving a religious group], but I experienced backlash from the community I walked away from and exploitation from the corporate world whenever I spoke out to help others leave cults or high-control groups. It was a lonely position to be in.
I began living an authentic life after I had a baby, just before my 40th birthday. There have been great moments of joy in the years since; it’s wonderful to now have control of my own body, sexuality and relationships. Or to wake up and wear whatever I want.
Nothing compares, however, to the realisation that I could build a social enterprise that helps others while continuing to work within the cult survival and advocacy space. My bedding company, GoKindly, donates 50 per cent of profits to support women experiencing homelessness. I also work within Survivors of Coercive Cults and High-Control Groups to advocate for change.
There’s more information now than ever about these groups, but there’s still a lot of work to be done. If anyone is thinking about leaving such a group, reach out. You will be believed.”
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