The Documentary I Want Doesn’t Exist

Until someone shows the awkward, messy, euphoric firsts, seconds and tenths of cult survivors, the rest is just trauma porn.

I’ve got a hot take for you. Well… I’ve got about 48 hot takes, but for the sake of this newsletter, we’re sticking to one.

Cult. Experts.

I do not support “Cult Experts.” I don’t follow them on social media. I don’t own their books. I haven’t even borrowed them from the library.

Maybe you think that’s wild. Maybe you’ll decide I’m “uninformed” or “closed-minded.” Cool. Stick around and I’ll tell you exactly why.

We’re not props for someone else’s book deal.

Let’s start with cult documentaries and docu-series. They’ve got their own little cult-like followings, if we’re being honest. People grab their popcorn, pour a generous glass of wine, cocoon themselves in a blanket, and hit play. Then they watch, fascinated, like they’ve just stumbled onto an alien planet.

They’ll pause it halfway through to text the group chat: “Oh my God, I would NEVER get brainwashed into a cult! Couldn’t be me!”

And then they hit play again - watching sex scandals unfold, child abuse horror stories, underage marriages, teen pregnancies, worship of patriarchal men, the obsession with controlling women, the Rapunzel-length hair, the ankle-grazing dresses, and the pure, suffocating naivety toward the real world that exists just beyond the fence.

Here’s the part that curdles my stomach: the so-called “Cult Experts” who show up in these productions aren’t there for the survivors. They’re not there for justice. They’re there for the book sales, the paid speaking gigs, the podcast circuits, and the credibility boost that comes from looking concerned on camera.

They stand on the bones of our trauma and build themselves a brand. They sell our stories, stories that cost us everything as entertainment for people who think “religious trauma” is just a quirky personality trait, not a lifetime of untangling abuse from identity.

They swoop in, mine the pain, take the mic, and leave survivors to clean up the emotional wreckage when the cameras shut off. And then? They get called back for the next show.

But here’s the thing no one shows you in those glossy, bingeable documentaries: what happens when the cameras shut off.

The victims - the survivors - step into a world they’ve been trained since birth to believe is going to burn in eternal fire and brimstone. We have no tools in our so-called mental health toolbox. Why? Because psychology, of course, is “of the devil.” Obviously. I mean, Eve kicked the whole thing off when she had sex with the serpent (aka “ate the apple”), right?

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And here’s where it gets even more insulting: even when we do take the terrifying step into therapy, many therapists won’t touch us. Religious trauma? Not on the syllabus in psychology school. You can graduate with a degree and still have zero clue what to do with someone whose “childhood home” was essentially a theocratic dictatorship.

My mom has been in therapy for three years. The initial reason - the cult. She found a therapist with over thirty years in the game. Thirty years guiding people through heartbreak, abuse, grief, addiction - you name it. But when my mom filled out the intake checklist, her therapist came back with:

“I can help you with everything you checked off… except the box marked cult.”

Excuse me? WHAT THE ACTUAL FUCK DO YOU MEAN? THAT’S THE WHOLE REASON SHE NEEDED A THERAPIST.

And this is the gaping hole “cult experts” like to pretend they fill - except they don’t. They aren’t doing the lifelong, hands-on work of helping survivors rebuild their lives brick by brick. They’re doing the press tours, the “let’s chat about brainwashing” panels, the $150 bingo cards of “Were you in a cult,” the soundbite-friendly TED Talks. Meanwhile, survivors are sitting in real life, drowning in trauma no one in the professional world has been trained to pull us out of.

These cult experts aren’t holding our hands as we wrestle into our first pair of jeans, heart pounding like we’re about to be dragged to hell for showing a thigh seam.

They’re not there when we gag down our first sip of beer foam, wondering if lightning will strike us in the parking lot.

They’re nowhere near the hairdresser’s chair when a panic attack rips through us because the scissors are hacking away decades of “holy submission” and every snip sounds like God’s wrath in our ears.

No cult expert is telling you you’re gorgeous when your brain is screaming, I look ridiculous, my father’s ghost is frowning, and I’m going to hell for this, as you try on blue eyeshadow at fifty years old.

They’re not beside you in the movie theater when you feel like you’re trespassing on Satan’s playground. They’re not in the grocery store when you freeze because you can buy anything - Oreos, bacon, tampons, without anyone reporting you to the elders. They’re definitely not coaching you through your first attempt at flirting without accidentally offering to cook, clean, and marry the person before dessert shows up.

Because the raw, awkward, humiliating, terrifying parts of starting over? That’s not what they show up for. That doesn’t get them a book deal or a Netflix credit. That’s the unpaid labor - the kind of labor they leave to the survivors themselves while they cash in on our pain.

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And the true grotesque part? Religious trauma survivors don’t have thousands of dollars lying around to spend on “Was I in a cult?” content.

We were already exploited - bled dry - for 15% of every single financial increase. Got a raise? The church took it. Birthday money from Grandma? The church took it. A jar of coins you found while cleaning out your car? You guessed it - the church took it.

We were kept poor on purpose. Poverty was obedience. Poverty was holiness, and now, in the so-called “freedom” of the outside world, the cult experts expect us to cough up more money to buy their books, attend their conferences, and subscribe to their patreon so we can “finally” confirm what we already know in our bones: Yes, that was abuse. Yes, that was a cult.

They’re monetizing the confirmation of our reality. The reality that cost us our families, our homes, our safety, our identities. We’re not buying your “theory,” Karen, we lived the damn field research.

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I want a cult documentary that actually follows cult survivors as we crash headfirst into the real world for the first and tenth time.

I want cameras rolling in the makeup chair, catching that split-second panic before the first swipe of lipstick. I want the, “I never thought I could be this beautiful,” on repeat. I want the rock concerts - earplugs in, heart pounding, realizing no demons are present and no one’s going to drag us out for “rebellion.” I want the hairdresser cutting off twelve inches of holy submission, and the gasp when the weight - literal and symbolic, hits the floor.

I want to see 30-, 40-, and 60-year-old cult survivors dancing on a bar because we missed our teenage years barefoot, pregnant, and obedient.

I want a production company to foot the bill for shopping sprees, and I want the cameras tight on our faces when the tears come - not from trauma, but from the overwhelming joy of finally having a voice, a choice and seeing our knees for the first time.

I want them to show the movie theater fear, the sweaty palms clutching a ticket stub, and the victory of staying put and loving every second of it. I want the euphoria of a survivor with no education landing their first job at 33, the phone call to a friend saying, I did it, and I want the shot of a bank account notification - cheque cleared, and the grin that comes from knowing no one’s siphoning 15% off the top for “God’s work.”

Trust me, this is the shit made for television, and until I see that documentary, the rest of it? It’s just trauma porn with better lighting.