Cultivated

In this episode, I read an essay that began as a protest — and became something closer to a manifesto. It asks what happens when you stop trying to prove your memories true. What if the real work isn’t verification, but rebellion?If you’ve ever struggled with truth, memory, or what it means to tell your story, this one’s for you.Subscribe for more: https://kristenhmcleod.substack.com/Watch more: https://www.youtube.com/@CultivatedWithKristen Get full access to Cultivated at kristenhmcleod.substack.com/subscribe

Listen above, watch or read below. The 2x2s took modesty seriously—weaponized it, really. So naturally, denim was suspect. Unwritten dress codes were less about hiding skin than functioning as a system to keep us in line. Our sedate skirts and dresses served as uniforms for an invisible battle and served as declarations of our compliance.The 2x2s didn’t write the rules down. They didn’t have to. Because everyone already knew them.My father joined the 2x2 cult when I was a child. They called themselves true Christians. No, that’s not quite right, they didn’t like that label, although I’ve seen the odd business card indicating that the name we didn’t have was—in fact—Christian Fellowship. The cult was less religion, more a dress code with severe afterlife implications. Women wore long skirts and long hair. Men were mostly left alone, which seemed doctrinally inconsistent given the beard situation with Jesus.No jeans. No makeup. No jewelry. No bare shoulders. Nothing fitted, nothing bright. Nothing that might suggest you’d chosen your outfit purposely or thought you looked good.Modesty wasn’t about covering up. It was about erasing.I didn’t believe. Or, I didn’t believe easily. I wanted to. I wanted to want to. I hoped that counted.So I obeyed. I wore knee covering skirts, one swishy and flower patterned and with 57 buttons that—if I hadn’t been forced to wear it, I’d have loved. It was a confusing flicker of personal taste amid obligation. I covered my shoulders and my new and alarmingly full breasts that, from comments and stares, drew attention. I hated how I looked even more than the baseline of self-hate assigned to all pre- and fully-fledged teens, which meant I was doing it right. The worse you felt, the closer you were to God. That was the theology—unspoken, airtight, and deeply unflattering.One spring, I wore a faded denim number to Meeting. Nineties-long and light-washed. (The redo has been on the racks at Aritzia for a couple years now and I can’t believe I’m saying this, but I bought one. Maybe someday I’ll ceremoniously burn it, because I haven’t been able to bring myself to wear it.)Listen. I knew that particular fabric for a Meeting was risky. Only the rebels wore denim and everyone knew they were fast tracking themselves to hell. But Wednesday night Bible Study was—in theory—more relaxed than the Sunday meetings. I’d crunched the fashion math, and determined the skirt’s length cancelled its fabric. Turns out I was just as bad at fashion math as regular math. The Elder scanned the room as he closed with his Testimony. “Sometimes the Enemy disguises comfort as righteousness. The path is narrow, and we must take care we’re not led astray." On that last beat, he looked directly at me.That’s how correction worked—never explicitly addressed, never direct. It came in riddles, in warnings, and through carefully calibrated glances. Unless that correction came in the form of a Worker who convinces your high school principal he’s your minister—so it’s cool beans if he takes you out for lunch a few times and then ends up in your bedroom so you can talk privately. But those stories are for another day. They belong to a different rage.I went to Convention one summer dressed for salvation and—let’s be honest, in hopes I presented well enough at what was, essentially, an approved venue for finding your mate.I had learned by then not to save my best outfit for Sunday. Technically, Sunday was the most important day, but Convention ended after the second setting of lunch had been served in the Dining Shed. Saturday was better suited for showing off, but truly, Friday made the most sense. That way, the impact of people’s shock and awe on seeing my beautiful outfit wouldn’t be wasted by leaving the next day. I yearned for at least one dusty gravel path walk, with at least one of the boys, and of course, I was hoping it would be one of the shiny born and raised who would choose me for a stroll. Navy dress, stiff white blouse, fabric-wrapped buttons, hair pulled so tight I gave myself a temporary facelift well before I needed one. I was clearly in the game. Someone’s mother stopped me on my way out of the Sleeping Barn after I’d shellacked my hair in place. I’m confident she told herself she was helping.“How’s your mother doing?” she asked, her tone less inquiry, more accusation. She knew my mum didn’t attend meetings, and that unspoken failing always hung heavy in the air, a shadow on the piety I tried hard to show.The hem hit mid-shin. The top’s neckline sat just below my throat. Buttons and hooks pressed my chest into compliance. Every visible inch had been cleared by some internal modesty calculator I didn’t realize I’d built. Still, it wasn’t enough. Because it was never enough. The navy dress under the securely fastened and modest blouse? It was strapless. I knew I’d never wear it that way, but the thrill of seeing myself in the changing room mirror when I’d tried it on had been too much to resist. Maybe it had given me a fire in the eye this boy’s mother caught a glimpse of, maybe she connected it to what she knew was under my sedate top, had seen me when I’d dressed in the Barn. Her words were innocuous, all harm done with tone—a thing I’d become adept at discerning. I hadn’t understood then I was dangerous, I wouldn’t for a while yet. But she did, and she took a moment to let me know.The system was brilliant. You couldn’t follow the rules. Not all of them. Not completely. And that kept you trying. Kept you quiet. By the end of my first year of high school, I was changing outfits in the bathroom. Skirt on the bus, jeans for the school day, reversed before going home. Other 2x2s didn’t ask; they weren’t aware of my double life. People at school—including many concerned or simply curious teachers—asked all the time about the dress to jeans swap, and depending on my mood, I answered with short or even shorter explanations. My mood, to be clear, was generally not good, so whatever the length of my explanation, it was delivered with the fury only teenagers can so quickly tap.It wasn’t the rules (that were of course not rules at all) that broke me. It was how perfectly they worked. Every outfit a test. Every gaze an exam. The trick wasn’t to appear modest as much as it was to set yourself apart from the World. Signify different, embody meekness. I was an example, they said. I was, but not of what they implied. I functioned as an exact replica of subjugation, and I became complicit in vanquishing, of vanishing, my self.Once I started dipping out of the compliance charade, once I couldn’t ignore conversations with myself about what made sense and what didn’t, I still only deviated from the rules out of sight. This is a complicated thing to do at that age, and while I didn’t (thank heavens) develop into a prairie Sybil, splitting myself in two for years didn’t do much for my development.When splitting myself in half wasn’t an option anymore, I left. Another story, for another day. And after that, my first fully and completely defiance? It was wearing jeans in public, a thing I’d by then frequently done, but my dissidence was found in not changing after I got home. No hidden skirt in my backpack, no mental checklist. No constant scanning for the ones who might catch me out. Just me, in blue jeans. No one died, but it sure felt like I might when Dad came home that day. He didn’t say a word, but to use a tired phrase, if looks could kill, I’d have been flat on the floor, laid out in, of course, a demure skirt.My mutinies stacked on themselves, my external appearance becoming an unsubtle battlefield against 2x2 dictates. Years later, I cut my hair. Not as a statement. Well, maybe it was, or it’s likely I wouldn’t have chosen the pixie cut that made me look like the scissors were nearby and I was feeling some things.Workers had often warned us about slippery slopes, implying the seemingly benign disguised a quick gateway to hell. Everything Worldly, defined explicitly and implicitly, inevitably led to a life on earth devoid of meaning and worse. They preached an afterlife of regret for being too weak to walk in the world without being of it. Publicly breaking the rules did not, of course, lead to my ruin. It led, first, to relief, although that lightness was tempered by dragging what I knew was not sin—but felt like it—behind me, a small, heavy thing weighting me down. And it was a long time before I assimilated myself into me, and why I’ve struggled until now to write much more than beyond the surface of these years.Oh, you know, I found that skirt recently, the one with 57 buttons. Found the strapless blue dress, too (I’d forgotten it had a thin, stiff crinoline, which was why it kept its shape so well) and its white blouse topper. I held it up to myself in the mirror, crumpled and sad looking after nearly forty years in a storage bin. I saw myself at that moment. Tired and pale, 51 and far from young, but I saw her in the mirror, too. When last she wore that dress she hadn’t yet inhabited rage—but it was so close. It was so close to her.My heart ached for her, knowing what was coming, and how hard it would be.But the tired face looking back at me? There was something important in it, and I’m glad I didn’t miss it. Dark circles, yes. But that face was also free. For so many years, I’d always been slightly off—too much for the 2x2s, not enough for the rest of the world. I hovered, unbelonging, off balance, and dressed for a heaven I was pretty sure I wasn’t interested in. That hovering has been hard to shake. Maybe it always will be. Secretly keeping a foot in two worlds messes with your sense of self, wrenches you into parts. And while I do what I can to stitch the fragments of those two selves back together, it’s less Kintsugi—elegant, radiant, touched by gold leaf and wisdom—than it is dollar store tape, unsticking at its edges.But maybe reassembly itself is an art form. Maybe it starts with cheap tape and shame and ends with something that catches the light, even if it’s just barely. If you were raised to believe God watches hemlines, you might enjoy what happens next. Modesty might have been next to godliness, but honestly? Comfort is divine. ◡̈ Reply, leave a comment, or forward this to someone who’s still untangling fashion from faith. Or don’t. You’ve survived worse choices. Get full access to Cultivated at kristenhmcleod.substack.com/subscribe

Convention: Part TwoIn this follow-up to Convention: Part One, I return to the sacred prairie grounds of my childhood — where silence was holy, dresses were regulation-length, and folding chairs marked the line between sinner and saved.But Part Two goes closer in. Past the lawnmowers, the crustless sandwiches, the illusion of belonging. Into the cracks.If Part One gave you the lay of the land, this one walks it barefoot.Dust, doubt, obedience — and a child learning to hold her breath. Get full access to Cultivated at kristenhmcleod.substack.com/subscribe

Episode 01: The Cult of My Dreams Was ItalianA memoir in sound — life after the 2x2s.I thought I was writing a memoir. But the present kept interrupting.This is the first episode of Cultivated, a literary memoir of resilience and reinvention after life in a cult. It's a story told in essays, unfolding in real time. It begins not with escape or revelation, but with a question: What am I now?Raised in the secretive 2x2s, I’m still untangling what that upbringing gave me, what it stole, and what it means to make something of a life after all that.✍️ Read the full essay and subscribe for future episodes athttps://kristenhmcleod.substack.com📺 Watch or listen on YouTube.🎧 Subscribe to Cultivated for weekly memoir episodes. It’s free, sometimes funny, and always honest.Know someone who escaped something? Share this with them. Get full access to Cultivated at kristenhmcleod.substack.com/subscribe

Every summer, we packed our bags — modest ones — and drove to a stranger’s farm. There, beneath billowing canvas and strict silence, we gathered with thousands of others who believed they belonged to the only true church on earth.We called it Convention.In this episode of Cultivated, I return to the field — literally — to tell the story of the 2x2s’ most sacred gathering. It's about heat, hymns, itchy tights, and the deep hum of unspoken rules.This is the next chapter in the Cultivated series — now available in audio, video, and print.—Mentioned in this episode:2x2 conventions (also known as annual Special Meetings)The hidden architecture of religious silenceThe difference between feeling moved and being watchedFollow + Subscribe:Newsletter: kristenhmcleod.substack.comYouTube: Cultivated with Kristen H. McLeod Podcast: Cultivated on Spotify / Apple / Substack Get full access to Cultivated at kristenhmcleod.substack.com/subscribe

In this episode, I share the story of a seemingly small moment — the day my mum turned off The Flintstones at lunchtime.I was seven years old, and what followed was a full-blown meltdown. But looking back now, I can see it for what it was: the first quiet indication that something had changed. That the rules were shifting. That the World, as we called everything outside the faith we’d joined, was starting to close to me.This is a story about childhood, culture, belonging—and the slow, invisible beginning of leaving it all behind. Get full access to Cultivated at kristenhmcleod.substack.com/subscribe

Episode SummaryPublic speaking is terrifying enough—now imagine your eternal salvation is on the line. At thirteen, I stood up to Profess my faith, declaring absolute belief in front of a congregation that expected unwavering certainty. Twice a week, I performed for an audience of severe-faced judges, mastering the art of belief—whether I truly believed or not. What started as survival training became something dangerously close to strength.In this episode, I share the story of how forced public humiliation shaped me, how the weight of religious scrutiny made me a performer, and why I can now walk across hot coals—or stand in front of a crowd with a steady voice—even if my insides are unraveling. Get full access to Cultivated at kristenhmcleod.substack.com/subscribe

In this episode, I start with squirrels - specifically, the ones taking over my backyard - but, as usual, we end up somewhere else entirely. This is a story about small, ridiculous battles: against rodents, childhood rules, Costco temptations, and the ongoing attempt to keep life from unraveling. It’s about control, chaos, and what happens when things (inevitably) get chewed up along the way.If you’ve ever found yourself deep in a fight you never meant to have—whether with pests, parents, or patio lights—this one’s for you.Mentions in this episode:🐿 The Great Backyard Squirrel Takeover🏡 How a patio light installation went horribly wrong👗 A childhood dress-code negotiation with eternal consequences🎯 One (shockingly accurate) BB gun momentEnjoy the episode, and if you like what you hear, don’t forget to subscribe, share, and leave a review! Get full access to Cultivated at kristenhmcleod.substack.com/subscribe

Welcome to Cultivated.This is the starting point — an introduction to what this is, how to read or listen, and a little about the faith I grew up in (the one so secretive it forgot to name itself). Whether you like to follow things in order or prefer to jump around, you’re in the right place.Each chapter is a breadcrumb, a fragment, a piece of the story — because that’s how memory works, and honestly, that’s how my brain works too.Mentioned in this episode:The rules (no TV, no jewelry, no pants)The feeling that leaving would cost you everythingGlossary + References for the curious (workers, conventions, and more)How to subscribe and why sharing helpsWhy this is not a retirement planHowever you got here — I’m really glad you’re here. Thanks for being curious.Link to First Episode:01. What Am I Now? I’m cultivated. Get full access to Cultivated at kristenhmcleod.substack.com/subscribe

Before I understood what was happening, before I knew what The Truth would come to mean for my family, there were signs. My mother’s growing defiance. My father’s quiet but relentless insistence. The way a simple question—“Why do the women all have long hair?”—was met not with an answer, but with silence.This episode is about the slow pull of indoctrination, how belief is not always imposed at once, but planted, reinforced, made inevitable. It’s about the night my father used the Bible to teach me what I was supposed to believe—and the moment I realized that what was written on the page would dictate my life.A door slams. A child retreats into books, searching for something that makes sense. And a family shifts, irreversibly.Listen in as I take you back to the moment when the rules began to change. Get full access to Cultivated at kristenhmcleod.substack.com/subscribe

I didn't see the 2022 summer media coverage of the 2x2 abuse scandal...And then. Get full access to Cultivated at kristenhmcleod.substack.com/subscribe

As I aged I had no clue how to perform friendship, and learned—from books and magazines and far too many mistakes—how to be and how not to be a friend.I presumed once I was all grown-up, I’d understand the nuances I’d often misinterpreted.I’d settle into the deep, protected, and protective friendships I saw others enjoy.I settled instead onto the peripheries of friendship, and whether this was because it was where I belonged, or because I put myself there, it wasn’t where I wanted to be.The truth of that edge-dwelling? The veracity of hope, that wishes come to be?It’s not true belief makes a thing so.At the same time, it is sometimes true that belief makes a thing so.My best friend in elementary school was a gift, and I think I knew it at the time.I’m sure we became friends from happenstance—she lived a block away—but she saved me, over and over.She spoke out when kids picked on different.She coached me every day to stand up for myself; told me one day things would change.She was blond and beautiful and her mother kissed her good-bye every single morning and I wanted everything she had and to be like everything she was.My best friend in elementary school was proof but I didn’t know it at the time.Proof I’d not been lost, as I straddled being in the World, as defined by the 2x2s, with the cult’s unspoken edicts to not be of it.Proof I had value, even as the parts of me that had once been valued turned into the parts I needed to shun.Proof the seeds of doubt in me were not of Satan, and were worth tending.The Workers raged endlessly about the World and the slippery slopes designed to slide us into Satan’s clutches. Cautions about obvious temptations, like TV and attire, were frequent, but the challenge of having us walk among the sinful required a lot of attention.It’s clearly well understood by most high-control groups that it’s far easier to control people if you purchase a few acres and design a community.But since 2x2s participated in the world—had jobs, went to school—enforcing the rules (that were never, ever called rules) necessitated a constant, slow drip of cautions against the dangers we willingly subjected ourselves to.My elementary school peers became gateways, to TVs and immodest clothing, certainly.But far worse than those very bad things was Satan’s understanding of how easily I might question The Truth if I had Worldly friends, and his willingness to use this against me.Does short hair actually dishonour God? Is TV really that bad? Would missing the odd Meeting to play baseball truly function like a fast train to Hell?I’d have found my people. I know it.When you start kindergarten at four, you might struggle to find friends, especially when you throw up on the story-time carpet and poop your pants in the locker room and lie about it when Robbie accuses you of doing so.You might only be a touch less mature than an immature crowd, but kids decipher difference in an instant. And generally, they don’t appreciate it.But none of that would have much mattered.We ran in packs with loose affiliations based on where we lived because back then, we all walked to and from school, and back and forth for lunch.It might have taken me a bit longer to find that good friend, but looking back?Even immature, I’d been well on my way.But the stark line, the sharply drawn demarcation between us and The World meant not only should I not have Worldly friends, I should not want them.Regardless, around grade five somehow, around the same time I was sinking deeper into the 2x2s, steeping myself in its rules and dictats, I got the good friend I wanted.My friend’s family was loud and fun. Her mum yelled things like, Is anybody naked? Kristen’s here! when I showed up, an alarming concept given no one was ever naked in my house, except privately in the bath.I like to think I knew I needed her; in fact, I’m certain I understood that I did.Because I battled for her.Ignored Dad’s constant admonitions to not spend time with her (or most anyone else, frankly), this child chosing Satan over God.Especially her, with her naturally platinum hair, shaped short and spikey, with her ear cuff long before most girls had even their lobes pierced.Why she took me on, in my weird dresses and with my scraggly long hair, I’ll never fully understand.She had so many choices. (And later, she made them.)But perhaps she chose me because she had her own freedom to choose. She walked her own path, undeterred by what everyone else was doing. She did and dressed and spoke with her own mind; not that of the crowd.It’s only now, so many years later, I wonder if she identified some strange congruence, between her determination (and freedom) to walk her own path, and my suffering as others decided mine for me, as I walked starkly different, every minute of every day.Is there a symmetry between her innate and easy confidence, and my reluctant defense of choices I embodied, but were not mine to make?When she made other choices later, when she selected other friendships and deselected ours, it wasn’t because she’d changed; rather, it was because I had, and I’d done so not in a good way.I’d allowed myself to sink. I’d decided. If this was hell?To hell in a handbasket I’d go.My story isn’t the only story of childhood unhappiness.I’ve struggled to balance the hurt I felt with what I imagine I reasonably should have felt.(Still feel.)And then struggled with the knowledge mine is only one tale of many. We all drag around those invisible baskets of hurt.I imagine a chart; unhappiness plotted. Mine beside yours, beside hers, beside his.But while none of mine matters more than another’s, it matters to me, the way yours matters to you.Or better, it matters an indication. Of how it was for a long time, and now how it is, but most importantly, of how things can be.That beautiful blonde girl whose mother kissed her good-bye every morning—I wanted to be like everything she was and to have everything she had.She told me how to stand up for myself when standing up for myself was a sin.Told me one of the people I stood up to would be, in fact, sorry. (I’m not sure it was sorry he expressed, exactly, years later, but it was some version thereof).She let me pour out my hurt and watch Days of Our Lives at her house at lunch and taught me to love Snooker, and not pool. She took the lead choir parts and I sang the harmonies and the sound and the feeling of my voice behind hers, well.I was safe with her. Safe. And that’s something.I’ve continued to reach for that feeling my whole life and whatever happens, it’s her and others like her who ground me. What the 2x2s taught me about friendship was wrong—all of it.They had no idea what friendship is or does, but I do.I do. Get full access to Cultivated at kristenhmcleod.substack.com/subscribe

At times, I used the Coles Notes version to explain why, for example, I lacked cultural knowledge around popular TV programs from the 80s and 90s.But on occasion, I was inclined to provide a more fulsome rendering to give context to my quirks.   Get full access to Cultivated at kristenhmcleod.substack.com/subscribe

Quick notes.* These are my own definitions and have absolutely not been blessed by anyone, nor did I run them by others who might want to weigh in. At the same time, I do not think myself the ultimate arbiter to define and explain. That said, this truth is mine—a slippery concept we’ll dissect later. * Two-by-Two rules and definitions shift by region. What follows are from western Canada in the 80s and 90s.2x2s or more aptly, 2x2 Cult1. what you might know them by, and how members are referred to by outsiders. Not used or accepted by members. Variations incl. the church with no name, Cooneyites, The No-Name Church, and most often, The 2x2 Religion The Truth/The Way1. how 2x2 members refer to their group; The Truth, and sometimes The Way, but only as a necessary shorthand to describe it. Members do not sanction either as official names and, in fact, reject external naming, strongly asserting there is no name.Think of these as natural shorthand; evolved for the people who collectively and rigorously refuse to name their organized pseudo-Christian gatherings.Usage: “I’m so grateful to have found The Truth;” references both the group itself, and the overarching truth of its teachings.Note: when speaking of The Truth or The Way (actually, this applies to most words and concepts defined here), terms are infused with capital letters, but members do not accept these as proper names; these phrases cede to spoken language demands for symbols to reference things. The Friends1. members refer to each other as The Friends, a quick way of establishing in and out; defining membership in a religion who swears itself unorganized and benignly identifies as merely a group of like-minded people who come together for fellowship. i.e. Who, us? they say to anyone who asks. We simply gather to study scripture. No religion here, nothing official! More frequently, queries on name are deflected with questions.Friends are—like many 2x2 rules—defined against literally everyone else who fit neatly into the pejorative World, as used in cautionary tales regarding Worldly People. Aside: I’m getting a strong sense of why, exactly, I dislike extraneous capital letters.The World; Worldly 1. positioning words and quick definers; as in of The World, Worldly people, Worldly things, Worldly wants, ad nauseam.Basically, Worldly is Satan-informed, and there’s a strong dichotomy between Worldly and not.Usage: When I was in the 2x2s, I was not of The World, and I avoided Worldly things and Worldly people. Worldly includes everything not 2x2 informed, so pretty much every thing and every person.The Word1. the word of God. Spoken with reverence, funneled direct via his “still, small voice.” Workers1. what might be in other religious orgs called preachers or ministers; Workers go out two by two to share The Word; are “called to the work” (by, of course, that still, small voice of God). Essentially, workers self-select (I crossed out some mean stuff here). These men and women go out in sex-segregated pairs, remain single and homeless, and do God’s most important work of reminding everyone that “This is a narrow way, and if we swerve on this way, we could go into the ditch.” Most (all?) workers are high-school educated at best and are not trained in any way to be spiritual leaders. Imagine what power means as these uneducated, self-identified messengers hold court over entire communities, dictating who can do (or more often, not do) what, sanctioning (or more often, not sanctioning) events, and offering endless and terrible advice that is often sought, and also often, not sought. Worker Stanley Sharpe said it himself in 1985 or 1986 at Aylesbury Convention: He got part of it right.The 2x2 Origin Story 1. The Truth is a seamless continuation of the apostles sent by Jesus to preach in pairs. No origin story here! History-free. Doing what Jesus commanded the Apostles do back in the day. Yup! Amazeballs.The Truth is a direct lineage from the New Testament, with Workers setting out just like the disciples. Fascinating, how accepted this origin story was (and is) as fact.Overseers of established areas around the world assign Worker pairs to lead regions (hence the 2x2 moniker). These Head Workers then assign Worker pairs to cities and towns, moving them around based on things the faithful are not privy to know (and in the case of reported childhood sexual assaults, moving accused and even prosecuted and convicted pedophiles to other geographic locations.) Redundant, but the origin story is b******t. It feels silly to say it, but it’s important, I think, to be clear.It’s important because its acceptance stems in part from the abject refusal to discuss origins combined with the rigid control exerted by Workers—nearly complete control over topics and conversations.Subtle but rigidly deployed management of 2x2 members means most never engage in questions. Even when knowledge—about how and when the 2x2s originated, became widespread—believers mostly outright rejected facts presented by the brave few who had left the 2x2s and discovered and publicized its history. If you’ve ever asked a 2x2 a direct question about their faith, you’ll know what I mean. Digression and redirection, coupled with responding with another question are tactics to divert giving answers that in fact, members often don’t have.Members who eventually (unwillingly) accepted updated and correct 2x2 origins often engaged, as my Dad finally did, in serious mental gymnastics to cede to the possibility the original version was still somehow correct, and asserted any manmade involvement had been mitigated by the purity of The Truth since.It’s all a bit boring, but in a nutshell, the 2x2s derived in the late 1800s from some offshoot of some other new religion. Evidence and discussions on this abound online, if you’re interested. I’m not particularly anymore, but recommend Wikipedia or one of the many sites organized around unpacking the 2x2s. Workers renounce possessions and money and are instead provided for by 2x2 members.They live with the families assigned to supply this room and board (a troubling method in some of the poverty-stricken lands where they preach) and move frequently from one home to another, travelling with the one small suitcase of clothing and toiletries allotted to each, at the behest of the head worker for their region. The name for these head workers varies across the globe, but typically, is some variation on Overseer.At the various gatherings attended by The Friends, Workers preach what they state is the word of God. They ex-communicate, set rules—some spoken, most implied, but all crystal clear—hide criminal acts of other Workers and guard finances carefully as the ultimate leaders in this authoritarian, high control group. At the 1985 or ‘86 Regina Special Meeting, Sister Worker Mable Jacobs railed against the ever-present temptation to “go back into bondage, perhaps because of a loved one who is still in bondage.”I can’t be certain that message was directed to my family, but my mother’s refusal to join the 2x2s was a sore spot for the 2x2s and remained as such for the duration of my time with them, and likely long past me leaving.My mom’s choice to remain in the bondage of the Lutheran church—the one in which she’d been raised, the church where I’d been baptized and had attended my whole life alongside my grandma, cousins, and friends—meant, according to the Workers, that our home was Divided. A girl who had been born into The Truth explained the concept when I asked her if we could play.“My mother told me I’m not supposed to spend time with you,” she said matter-of-factly. “You’re from a divided home.” A parental or other family member’s refusal to attend meetings meant the members who did were at risk, and by extension, anyone who consorted with those family members assumed risk simply by associating with them. Mom’s short hair, her earrings and lipstick, the TV only she watched—all of it implied temptation, and most Professing (Professing? Oh snap! The definitions are endless! Up next!) families kept my family at a distance. Dad had made the right choice—the only choice, in fact—by seeking The Truth, and by committing himself and his three children to it.But without his wife by his side, we were not considered fully immersed in The Truth.It wasn’t until much later that I realized we would never have been fully accepted. Born and raised, or B&R, was the only way to full acceptance.Professing 1. is a 2x2’s ongoing, public commitment, signifying membership that was never, ever called membership. To be referred to as Professing, one first had to profess. At a Sunday night Gospel Meeting or during the five-day summer Convention (the barn!), Workers test a meeting by announcing that if anyone has been called by God and wants to answer that call, to share their commitment by standing during the final verse of the next hymn. I admit being on tenterhooks when meetings were tested. Nothing exciting, or even remotely interesting, ever happened at any meeting, and I don’t think I’m lying to say most of us craned our necks to see who stood.Of course, longtime attendees had ideas as to who might stand (or who should), but I was amazed by this public demonstration of fidelity. Once this step had been taken, the person was now referred to as Professing, and I noticed the reverence with which the question was asked.“Is she professing,” followed by yes or no, was imbued with unambiguous tone, and it was obvious which was preferred. Professing didn’t much appeal to me (of course, I eventually succumbed). Professing people prayed seated and by turn, during the weekly Sunday Morning Gospel Meetings and Wednesday Night Bible Studies and enjoyed the option of standing to pray by turn in front of hundreds at Convention (the barn!).But Professing wasn’t only prayer. More importantly, Professing people were expected to Give Testimony. Giving, or Sharing, Testimony 1. standing up by turn, reading a Bible verse selected from the person’s private studies (or on Wednesday, from the assigned Bible reading), followed with explication of the person’s understanding of said verse and, crucially, the meaning they derived from it. This was all, of course, informed by the “still, small voice of God,” which was a regular occurrence, according to the Workers and Professing people’s Testimonies. These soliloquies ranged from the shortest possible statements delivered rapid-fire to inaudible mumbling to the most painfully long and rambling versions of convoluted thinking even I, a child, frequently identified as gibberish.  Workers minister to members of The Truth, understandable as the congregations who attend meetings and conventions, who are known as those In the Way. In the Way/In the Truth1. another quick and dirty method of establishing if a person is one of The Friends or Of the World, the only two possible categories a person could be in.In the Way of Jesus, In the Way of righteousness, blah blah blah.There are more of these definitions and I’ll get to them, but it’s a bit tedious, no? Necessary, though, I imagine.The thing about redefining language? It bothered me then and still bothers me now. I’d far rather the engrams and anatens and enthetas of scientology because if you left, you could reasonably expect to never hear those words again. But truth? Friends? The world? I had to take them back, a thing that got easier with time, but is still work (work!) to do, and always small but constant reminders I am not in the way, that I’ve chosen bondage.It’s okay. I made that decision long ago. If the choice is hell or the 2x2s?I’ll take hell. And choose it every single day. Subscribing means you’ll get weekly posts. It also makes it easier for former 2x2s to find this (algorithms, apparently). But no pressure. Drop in, drop by. It’s nice to have you. Get full access to Cultivated at kristenhmcleod.substack.com/subscribe

It is likely she did not, but she hopes she played with particular abandon at recess later that hot afternoon.She hopes she swung upside-down from the monkey bars, that she tumbled down the hill and laughed off its bumps.She hopes she ran and jumped and relished those last few free hours.She knows she understood what was coming on some level, but she was only ten, and she could not have—no one could have—understood how deep the fissure. Get full access to Cultivated at kristenhmcleod.substack.com/subscribe

My favourite movie used to be Sliding Doors. It still might be, but that's not what matters here. I loved it because it played out two versions of how things could go. In one, main character Helen makes her train. In the other, she does not. The audience toggles between these versions of her life; encouraged to build what we intuit is a faulty allegiance to one of them. The life we root for is too easy. We grasp this, even as we cheer for it. Get full access to Cultivated at kristenhmcleod.substack.com/subscribe

Do you want to go to heaven when you die? That’s the question my dad asked when he walked me to school that day when I was about ten. I solemnly assured him that of course I did, even though I knew this to be a lie. If heaven was anything like the members of the 2x2s described it, I was certain. I preferred hell. Get full access to Cultivated at kristenhmcleod.substack.com/subscribe

Cultivated is where I’ll talk about the 2x2 cult, but only a little, because it’s mind-numbingly boring. I wish I was in one of those glamorous cults; you know, the kind where everyone drinks poison at the end?I would’ve survived to tell the tale, I’m nimble like that.. Get full access to Cultivated at kristenhmcleod.substack.com/subscribe