I’ve already mentioned in one of these stories the time I was on the verge of running away.

I stopped in a Walmart parking lot near my house and had a panic attack, thinking about how plagues would strike those who didn’t keep the Feast of Tabernacles.

I couldn’t do it at that time. I drove back and continued to drag myself through the life that I was becoming more and more allergic to.

But in November of 2018, I finally made up my mind to run away for real.

The friend that I was talking to online helped me realize that there was a big gap between my authentic self and the cult persona that I was forcing myself to perform every day.

I just couldn’t live that life anymore—I couldn’t recognize myself and I was unhappy, filled with shame and guilt. I had already tried resolving the situation by asking to step down and been rejected several times. I didn’t have many options left.

Although I still had projects and responsibilities, I did nothing to tie up all the loose ends—I just dropped everything, loaded my kid into her car seat, and left while Thomas was at work.

It was a five hour drive to my parents’ house. While I was there, I wrote and drew, holed up in a windowless room in the basement.

No one from my family asked why I was back. They just took care of my child and gave me space. And it was space I needed to reevaluate my life.