Holy Gaslight: When Healing Spaces Become Harm | Mini-Series Stories by JBE Mindful Pathways
This story is about gaslighting disguised as guidance — and the courage to see through it.
The Familiar Lie
She had been here before.
Not this room, not this teacher, not this version of incense burning in glass bowls.
But the feeling.
The way her stomach tightened just before someone said her name in a sweet voice.
The way her body leaned forward faster than her spirit could speak.
The way she confused attention for safety.
The way being chosen felt like being saved.
She didn’t know it yet, but this version of love had been rehearsed inside her for years.
It changed costumes. Changed faces. Changed faiths.
But the pattern?
The pattern never changed.
And this time…
Something in her was finally ready to forget the steps.
Earlier That Morning
She hadn’t planned to return.
Not after the silence.
Not after the ring.
Not after they began speaking about her like a glitch in the system — not a person, but a phase to discard.
But Seraphina woke up early that morning with a steady ache in her chest.
Not grief.
Not confusion.
Clarity.
She didn’t want drama.
She wasn’t looking to be seen.
She didn’t even need closure.
She just wanted to speak to her — the woman she once believed was her safe place inside the storm.
The wife. The co-founder. The one who used to sit beside her during moon ceremonies and call her “sister” with tears in her eyes.
Sera thought she had finally found a best friend.
Not a temporary spiritual bond — but a real one.
Rooted. Sacred. Chosen.
She just wanted to say goodbye to her face.
With grace.
With truth.
She arrived before the first class of the day, just as the light was beginning to move across the stained glass windows.
The hallway smelled like eucalyptus and soft wood polish. Candles weren’t yet lit, and the silence held a kind of hush she remembered from opening shifts — a space that hadn’t yet decided what kind of day it would be.
She expected to find the wife adjusting cushions or blessing the altar like always.
But instead… it was him.
Elias.
A senior teacher.
The one who once offered to “align her energy” late after class — when no one was around.
The one who leaned in too close when he asked about her heart chakra.
The one who made her flinch — and then told her she was “projecting fear.”
Sera froze for half a second.
He didn’t.
“Didn’t realize you were still coming around,” he muttered, not even looking up from the salt lamp he was adjusting.
His tone was clipped.
Not surprised. Not curious.
Just… bruised.
She could feel it.
Not in the words, but in the space between them — the bitter charge of a man whose ego didn’t like being refused.
She almost responded.
Almost reminded him that she had told the truth, and no one listened.
Almost said, “I’m not afraid of you. I’m disgusted.”
But she didn’t.
Because some things didn’t need to be spoken — not when the rot had already set in.
She turned.
Not to leave.
To sit.
She still hoped the wife would appear.
Still hoped there might be one last pocket of truth to touch before she stepped out for good.
And so, Seraphina walked silently toward the circle.
One final time.
The Last Circle
Sera sat near the back of the room.
The circle had already begun, but no one noticed her slip in.
Not really.
The same lavender candles burned at the altar.
The same crystals hummed in their quiet stillness.
The same soft, celestial track played — looping like it always did.
She folded her legs on the cushion.
Spine tall. Hands resting, palms down.
Around her, the other women had already lifted their chins, closed their eyes, tilted toward the ritual like sunflowers.
She used to do the same.
It used to feel like trust.
Now it felt like choreography.
The teacher stood in the center — barefoot, shawl flowing behind him like smoke. His voice was warm and syrupy.
Commanding, but calm.
“What fear are you holding that’s no longer yours?”
“What pain are you ready to alchemize into power?”
“Let the part of you still clinging… breathe.”
Heads nodded. Shoulders slumped.
Someone sniffled. Another woman placed a hand over her heart.
Sera didn’t move.
She watched the candle flame nearest her flicker — tall, then low, then tall again.
He started moving around the circle, slowly.
Laying hands. Whispering affirmations.
Dropping little bits of “you’re ready” into trembling ears.
Until he got to her.
He paused. Looked directly at her — and didn’t look away.
Then he knelt.
His hands, slow and intentional, landed gently on her shoulders.
It felt like a performance.
Not healing.
He leaned in, his breath brushing the edge of her cheek.
“You’re still clinging, Sera,” he said softly. “You’re still afraid of surrender. Your mind wants control, but your soul is begging to be seen.”
His fingers squeezed, just a little.
Something inside her snapped.
Not in rage.
Not in drama.
In release.
She looked down at his hands, then lifted them off — calm, steady, and done.
“Thank you,” she said, her voice clearer than it had been in weeks. “But I’m done being worked on.”
She stood.
Silence rippled through the room.
Eyes opened. Someone gasped.
She didn’t bow her head.
She didn’t explain.
She walked to the door, barefoot.
Steady.
The hallway outside felt cooler than she remembered.
She reached the entry mat. Her shoes were there, right where she left them — tucked neatly under the bench.
She bent down, slipped them on.
The soles felt hard — grounding. Real.
Then a door creaked open behind her.
Sera glanced over her shoulder.
The wife.
She froze in the doorway. Her eyes widened — not shocked, but surprised in a way that was soft.
“Sera…” she started, stepping forward.
Sera stood.
“I came to talk to you. That’s why I was here this morning. To say goodbye, face to face.”
“You were the only one I trusted in that space. I thought I had a real sister in you.”
The wife’s face shifted, quiet with something between guilt and confusion.
“But I see it now,” Sera continued. “I wasn’t special. I was just selected.”
The wife opened her mouth. Nothing came out.
Sera took one step forward, voice steady, tone final.
“I left the ring on his desk. The one he said was made just for me. Handcrafted. Sacred.”
“Same one the new teacher’s wearing now.”
The wife blinked, eyes flicking — calculating.
“What ring?”
Sera didn’t answer.
She smiled — soft, but not sweet.
“Exactly.”
And with that, Seraphina turned, opened the door, and stepped into the morning light.
The Drive + The Journal
The moment the door clicked behind her, Seraphina didn’t cry.
She didn’t collapse.
She didn’t look over her shoulder.
She didn’t pause to ask if anyone was watching.
She walked straight to her car, opened the door, sat down, and turned the key.
The soft chime of the ignition was the only thing quiet that day.
Then—
BOOM.
The bass hit like thunder.
Her playlist roared to life — already queued, already divine.
Andra Day. Londrelle. Erica Mason. NF. Jhene Aiko. S.I.A.T.
They came through the speakers like backup singers for her breakthrough.
She wasn’t just driving.
She was releasing.
Left hand on the wheel, right hand in the air —
She sang like it was testimony.
She shouted lyrics like she wrote them herself.
She belted every soul-sentence like it was the exhale she’d been choking on for months.
“I’m not broken, I’m just breaking free…”
“No more shrinking to fit into someone else’s dream…”
“God didn’t hurt me. People did.”
Each mile took something from her — guilt, illusion, that stupid fake grin she used to wear after class.
She didn’t care who saw her.
Not the drivers next to her.
Not the clouds above her.
Not the part of her that used to ask, “What will they think?”
That voice was gone.
She sang over it.
By the time she pulled into her driveway, her throat was raw and her palms ached from gripping the wheel too tight.
She turned the car off — but the silence didn’t feel hollow.
It felt like pause.
Like preparation.
She went inside.
Kicked her shoes off by the door.
Lit her favorite candle — lavender, just like the ones she used to sit near.
Then she opened Spotify again.
Not loud this time.
Just enough to hold the room.
Londrelle’s voice floated into the air like smoke and sage.
Something about being your own sanctuary.
Seraphina sat on the floor — legs folded beneath her, shoulders loose for the first time in weeks.
She pulled out her journal.
And then?
She wrote.
“I don’t want to forget what happened.
I want to remember it correctly.
Because remembering is how I won’t repeat it.”
The pen moved on its own.
She wrote about the moment she first saw him live on her phone screen — the “safe space” he offered, the comfort of being seen.
She wrote about the private messages.
The classes.
The ring.
She wrote about the way her body started tensing before every session — and how she thought that was her fault.
“He called it surrender.
But it was silence.
And it wasn’t sacred.
It was rehearsed.”
The music behind her shifted tracks — now Moonlight Scorpio, whispering truth like a mantra.
Seraphina closed her eyes for a moment.
Not to meditate.
Not to ask for clarity.
Just to listen.
To herself.
To the music.
To the woman she was finally coming home to.
The Pattern
The journal lay open across Seraphina’s lap, ink smudged along the edge of her hand where the words had been pouring out without filter. The music still drifted softly in the background, some track by Londrelle she had played on repeat during her first month in the group. Back then, his voice had felt like a promise.
She adjusted the candle on her windowsill and stared down at the half-finished sentence. The next words felt heavier.
It started a year ago.
Or maybe longer. Depending on where you start counting.
She had just left a relationship. Her heart wasn’t broken, exactly, but it was raw. Her spirit was loud but directionless. Her faith felt like a closet she hadn’t opened in years.
One night, scrolling late through TikTok in her pajamas, she came across the guru’s live. There was incense curling behind him. A crystal grid. His voice? Velvet. Purposeful. Like he had the whole universe memorized.
She watched. Night after night. He spoke about surrender and energy and faith like they were one sacred thing. He quoted Scripture. He named chakras. He weaved her whole worldview into something that felt whole again.
She eventually messaged the group page—curious, unsure. She asked about a phrase he had used, something that struck her in a way she couldn’t explain. The response came quickly. Warm. Inviting. And then, the private messages came.
“You’re different.”
“You’re already vibrating higher than most.”
“We’re building something… and I think you’re meant to be part of it.”
She was invited into a private group. Zoom calls at first. Morning mantras. Group prayers. Then came the classes. And eventually, the invitations to in-person retreats.
That’s when the flattery deepened. He said she was the kind of teacher he would trust with his own students. The wife echoed it too. Always present, always affirming. They felt like a spiritual power couple—and she felt like she had been spiritually adopted.
For a while, it was beautiful. She grew. She learned. She felt seen in a way she hadn’t in years. They gave her books to read, practices to try. She led a meditation once that left half the room in tears. She taught a class on inner child healing that was shared by the group more than any other. Women DM’d her for guidance. Her inbox filled with hearts, gratitude, prayers.
That’s why when the first woman was removed, it didn’t feel wrong.
She just… stopped showing up. A message came through the group thread about “energetic misalignment” and “protecting the container.”
Seraphina had agreed. The woman had been distant anyway. Maybe even disrespectful. Her own spiritual ego puffed its chest a little. She was still here. Still chosen.
Time passed, and more blessings came. She was promoted to a leadership pod. Invited into a sacred planning circle. Given access to teachings others didn’t have.
And then came the second.
This woman had gently questioned the couple’s interpretations of divine feminine leadership. Not in anger. Just curiosity.
The next day, she was gone. Her name wiped from the class thread. Her face removed from the flyer.
This time, the message from the guru was firmer. Stricter.
“Those who resist the order of divine flow will always find themselves in chaos.”
That one hit wrong. It landed like control, not clarity.
That’s when Sera started pulling back. Quietly. She still showed up, still taught, but she watched now. Eyes open.
It wasn’t long before the shift came for her.
The invitations slowed. Some vanished altogether. Retreats she helped design happened without her. Women she mentored stopped replying to her messages. The guru had stopped liking her posts. The wife? Cold smiles. Distant tone.
But it wasn’t just the quiet removals or the silences that echoed louder than words. It was the moment she asked a question—just one. During a leadership circle, she raised her hand and asked, “What do we do when someone’s spirit doesn’t align with the method, but they’re still growing? Do we still remove them—or can we hold space for their process?”
The room went still.
The guru smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes. The wife redirected the conversation. And everything shifted after that.
She didn’t speak up again. But the shift had already begun.
And then came the night she stayed late to help clean up the studio. Just her and Elias.
She paused her pen. Her chest tightened. Her breath thinned.
She let the ink settle.
And when she felt steady again, she turned the page.
And wrote the night that changed everything.
The Touch + The Realization
Seraphina stayed late to help close the studio. She shouldn’t have. Her body had been buzzing with unease all day, and now the energy in the room was too still, too quiet. Everyone else had trickled out in twos and hushed laughter, but now it was just her and Elias.
She bent to stack folded blankets into the lower cabinet, hands working quickly, when she felt him behind her.
“You’re holding tension,” Elias murmured.
She didn’t even turn. “I’m fine,” she said, without much tone.
But he was already reaching.
His hands landed softly on her shoulders—from behind. Warm. Familiar. Too steady.
She stiffened.
His fingers began to move, slow strokes down the slope of her shoulders and along her upper arms. One of the thin straps of her tank top slipped, and as it did, she felt something press against her back. Something stiff. Not accidental. Not ignorable.
She stepped forward immediately, heart pounding, breath shallow. She turned and met his eyes with a glare so sharp it cut between them.
“I have to go,” she said.
No further explanation. No gratitude. She walked quickly, grabbed her bag and shoes, and slipped out into the night air.
A few days later, she pulled the wife aside after morning class.
“I need to talk to you,” Seraphina said, keeping her voice even. “Something happened with Elias. The other night.”
She explained what happened. Not with drama, just facts.
The wife’s face didn’t flicker.
“Elias is affectionate with everyone,” she said gently. “You know that. He’s tactile. Carries all kinds of sound tools—mallets, tuning forks. Maybe he had something in his pocket.”
It wasn’t quite gaslighting. But it was dismissal, packaged in serenity.
Seraphina nodded, said nothing more. But something inside her began to split—quietly.
Weeks passed. The group started shifting without explanation.
She stopped getting invites to planning circles. Her name disappeared from the promotional flyers. Zoom links arrived late—or not at all. Women she had once mentored barely returned her texts.
She still showed up. Still smiled. Still participated. But the ground had already begun shifting beneath her.
One morning, after class, three of the group sisters approached her separately:
Noor leaned in. “Everything okay with you and the Circle Leaders?”
Valeria texted:
“Seraphina, are you alright? I feel like something’s off.”
And Maya, unfiltered as ever, said flat-out:
“Are they pushing you out?”
Seraphina replied to each with a soft smile.
“I’m not sure. But I’m doing what I always have.”
But her body knew better.
That same afternoon, the wife approached her again.
“I wanted to speak with you about something,” she said gently. “When you asked my husband that question in front of the group last week…”
Seraphina tensed slightly.
“Those kinds of questions… they challenge his leadership. I know you didn’t mean harm. But if you ever need clarity, come to me. I’ll always tell you the truth. We just need to keep the group in alignment, that’s all.”
Seraphina nodded, but her silence was not agreement. It was a wall.
Moments later, as she stepped out of the hallway, the guru was waiting near the altar.
“There you are,” he said, smiling. “Could you cover Wednesday night’s class for me? My son has a doctor’s appointment.”
Still polite. Still warm.
She said yes.
Later in the day, Seraphina’s phone buzzed as she rinsed her teacup in the sink. She reached for it without urgency—until she saw the name.
Valeria:
“Wait… weren’t you teaching Wednesday night’s class?”
Seraphina frowned, thumbs already moving.
Seraphina:
“Yes. I agreed to.”
A pause. Then another message.
Valeria:
“Well… Guru just introduced a new Wednesday teacher this afternoon.”
A photo followed.
In it, a young woman stood beside the guru. Her smile was effortless, one hand resting softly on his chest like she belonged there. And on her finger—
Seraphina blinked, leaned in.
The ring.
Her ring.
Or the one he’d said was hers. One of a kind. Chosen. Special.
Her stomach turned.
Not just similar—identical in every curve and shimmer.
Seraphina stared at the screen, her fingers heavy.
Seraphina:
“Don’t worry. I’ll figure it out. It must be a mix-up or something.”
She didn’t look away from the image, not even when she locked her phone. Her breath shallow. Her heart steady in the wrong way.
She sat in stillness for a moment, then reached for her journal—paused—and instead opened her messages.
That evening, Seraphina texted four names she hadn’t spoken to in months.
Camille. Tasha. Zuri. Aniyah.
“Hey, it’s Seraphina. I hope you’re doing well. I know it’s unexpected, but I’d really appreciate a few minutes of your time. Would you be open to meeting tonight at The Skylight Room? There’s something I need to ask you. It matters.”
They all said yes.
The Skylight Room sat tucked above a corner bookstore downtown. Gold light spilled from its tall windows, brushing each table in warmth. Linen napkins. Crystal water glasses. Tiny succulents perched like whispers in ceramic bowls.
Seraphina arrived first.
Heart pacing. Thoughts threading faster than breath.
Zuri came next. Then Camille. Then Tasha and Aniyah, nearly together.
Soft hugs. Kisses to the cheek. The weight of not having to explain the silence between them.
A waiter arrived to take their drink orders—water with lemon, hibiscus tea, one glass of red wine. It steadied them.
Seraphina smiled faintly, glancing around the table.
“Thank you all for coming. I know it’s last-minute. But before we dive in… I’d love to hear what you’ve been up to. Something that’s been lighting you up lately.”
Zuri brightened. “I’ve been teaching trauma-informed yoga. My first class had five women crying by the end. It was holy.”
Camille beamed. “I’ve been prepping for a Costa Rica retreat. Finally stepping into my own name.”
Aniyah nodded. “Started a sisterhood circle. Just a few women, but it’s deep. Real.”
Tasha added, “I’m writing my book. The one I used to whisper about. Now I’m living it.”
They turned to Seraphina.
She exhaled softly.
“I’ve been studying again. Learning to trust myself outside of someone else’s guidance. Quietly. For the first time, it feels like the right path.”
A silence passed. Not awkward. Sacred.
Then she continued.
“The reason I asked you here… is because I’m trying to understand something. Something I think we all share. Why were each of you removed from the group? Or why did you leave?”
The women exchanged glances. A few sighed. The weight of the question sat in the space between them—finally spoken out loud.
Zuri tucked a lock of hair behind her ear, voice steady.
“I’m not afraid anymore,” she said. “So I’ll go first.”
“I asked a question that challenged the teaching. Just one. By the next day, I was told my energy disrupted the container.”
Camille’s jaw tightened. “I voiced concern over how a new woman was treated in ceremony. The next flyer came out—my name was gone.”
Aniyah leaned forward. “I disagreed with his wife once. With kindness. That was all it took.”
Tasha lowered her eyes. “I missed one video call. I was told I lacked devotion.”
Seraphina inhaled sharply and sat back.
She looked at each of them, her voice quiet but full.
“I’m so sorry you had to go through that. None of you deserved it. Any of it.”
Her gaze lingered, steady.
“Thank you for trusting me enough to share it.”
She paused, the truth settling in her chest like something final.
“I see now it wasn’t just me—and it wasn’t you all either. It was never about us.”
“For a while, I thought maybe I was imagining it. But we were all part of his game too.”
The silence that followed was louder than anything they’d said.
Seraphina reached for her tea, then lowered her hand.
“It’s been happening to me too. The exclusions. The silences. The tension wrapped in smiles. I spoke up once—after Elias made me deeply uncomfortable—and it was dismissed. Then I asked a question in class. A question I thought was spiritual. And now I’m replaced. I found out from a photo. Not a word from them.”
Zuri reached across the table and gently touched her hand.
“You’re not alone,” she said. “I was assaulted too. Not physically—but verbally. I tried to return something he gave me, and both he and Elias came for me. Called me names I wouldn’t repeat in front of a stranger, let alone a sister. That’s when I knew—no real guru speaks that way.”
Camille blinked. “What did you try to return?”
Zuri reached into her purse and pulled out a small velvet pouch. She laid it in the center of the table, opened it, and said quietly:
“This.”
The ring caught the low light, glinting with soft betrayal.
A moment passed—then Aniyah reached into her bag. Then Tasha. Then Camille.
One by one, they laid identical rings beside Zuri’s.
Clink.
Clink.
Clink.
Each sound landed like a truth cracking open.
Their waiter returned just then with drinks, briefly interrupting the moment. No one moved.
Later, after entrees were shared and warmth had returned, Seraphina looked at the velvet boxes now lined like altar stones between their glasses.
She drew in a slow breath, then offered a small smile to the women around her.
“Now that we’ve laid it all down… I hope you know none of this was ever your fault. You weren’t weak. You weren’t wrong. You were just caught in something built to make you doubt yourselves.”
“And that’s not who we are.”
Around the table, hands reached for glasses. A soft clinking followed—quiet, but certain.
“To truth,” Zuri said, lifting hers.
“To us,” Camille echoed.
They set their glasses down slowly, the energy between them softer now—like something heavy had finally been shared.
Seraphina placed a hand on her own ring pouch.
“I’ve decided to return mine—not with bitterness, but with clarity. And if you’d like to return yours too, I’d be honored to do it in your name.”
Zuri met her eyes. “Please do.”
Tasha nodded. “We don’t need reminders of that version of ourselves.”
Aniyah lifted her glass. “Let him know we’re not blind anymore.”
Camille added, “And let the next woman know—we were here. We saw it. We walked away.”
Seraphina slowly gathered the rings. Velvet wrapped truth.
Not heavy.
Holy.
The Quiet Goodbye
Wednesday night arrived quietly, cloaked in the kind of calm that always comes before something final. Seraphina walked into the studio just as she always had—early, steady, composed. If anyone noticed the shift in her energy, they didn’t say a word. She lit the candles, adjusted the altar stones, and arranged the mats with the same reverence she had always carried. Everything looked the same. But she already knew—this would be her last class.
Students trickled in. Among them was the new teacher—the woman from the photo. She gave Seraphina a soft smile and sat cross-legged on one of the cushions like any other student. No announcements. No objections. Leadership was absent. The room simply waited.
Seraphina led with the same grace she always had. Her voice was calm, grounded, clear. She moved them through breathwork, meditation, gentle guidance. The silence was thick with something unspoken, but she didn’t let it enter her. Her peace was her own.
As the class neared its end, she placed her palms together and bowed slightly.
“Thank you for being here tonight. I won’t be teaching for a little while—I’m taking some time off. A small break to rest and reset.”
There were murmurs of understanding. A few women hugged her. One asked if she’d be back soon. She smiled softly.
“We’ll see.”
As the others began rolling up their mats and gathering their things, Seraphina turned to Valeria and touched her arm gently.
“Hey, can you wait for me by the front door? I just need to drop something off.”
Valeria nodded, curiosity flickering across her face but offering no questions. Seraphina moved down the familiar hallway alone.
The guru’s office was empty. Quiet. She stepped inside.
From her bag, she pulled the soft velvet pouch—the one holding not just her ring, but all five. She placed it in the center of the guru’s desk with a stillness that came from somewhere deep.
Then she unfolded a small handwritten note and placed it gently atop the pouch.
“For the next one.
From the ones who see clearly now.”
She stood for a moment in the silence. No rage. No sorrow. Just truth. Then she turned, closed the office door softly behind her, and walked back down the hall.
Elias hadn’t come to find her yet. She didn’t give him the chance.
Valeria was still waiting. Seraphina smiled and looped her arm through hers.
“Come on. I’m craving something ridiculous. Chocolate milkshake?”
Valeria grinned.
“With extra whipped cream.”
The two walked out together, their laughter soft and full of something new. No final posts. No mass texts. No announcement. Just Seraphina, leaving on her own terms.
Quietly.
Completely.
Free.
The Aftermath
The apartment smelled like cinnamon and sage.
Warm light spilled through gauzy curtains, and soft lo-fi beats floated in the air between trailing plants and shelves of well-loved books. Seraphina padded barefoot across the hardwood floor, her tea in one hand, a small stack of certificates in the other.
She had passed every course. With distinction.
Her name—Seraphina Marez—was printed in crisp serif font beneath each one: Energy Healing Mastery. Intuitive Counseling. Advanced Reiki Certification. Some came from respected online academies. Others were awarded by a metaphysical university she’d once bookmarked in secret and never thought she’d attend.
Now, her framed credentials lined the wall of a new studio.
A real studio.
One she leased herself. Painted herself. Blessed herself. Tucked on the corner of a peaceful street, beside a cozy little milkshake bar she visited almost every week, it felt like more than a business.
She had named it The Quiet Flame.
Clients didn’t come because she advertised. They came because her peace echoed.
And her circle? Zuri, Camila, Tasha, Anaya—the women who once sat across from her in that late-night restaurant booth, sharing stories with tears and trembling hands—were now more than friends. They were collaborators. Students. Co-facilitators. They hosted moon circles together. Co-led gentle retreats. They shared laughter, sacred texts, playlists, and snacks.
Brunch every other Sunday. Affirmations by text. Deep talks in between.
Seraphina moved, too. Out of the cramped one-bedroom where her plants refused to bloom. Into a sun-drenched loft with creaky old floors, wide windows, and enough space to stretch—body, breath, and belief.
Healing hadn’t been a straight line.
But it had been hers.
Some days still hurt. Triggers still knocked. But most days didn’t. And on the evenings when candles flickered for no reason and Londrelle played softly in the background, Seraphina would stand barefoot in her kitchen, sip tea, and smile.
The fire they tried to burn her with had only cleared the path.
Some lessons don’t shout. They whisper.
And when you finally hear them, they sound like freedom.
Reflection: The Pattern of Narcissistic Abuse
Inspired by “Holy Gaslight” — A Mini-Series Story from JBE Mindful Pathways
🧠 Why This Matters
Spiritual abuse doesn’t always scream.
Sometimes, it whispers—disguised as affirmation, cloaked in ritual, and delivered by someone calling it love.
This story was not just about Seraphina.
It was for anyone who has ever been told their intuition was ego.
Their questions were rebellion.
Their no was resistance.
“Holy Gaslight” is fiction, but the pain is real. And through this reflection, we expose the quiet patterns that often go unspoken in spiritual, coaching, and wellness circles.
🚩 Red Flags in Disguise
1. Love Bombing
“You’re different.” “You’re chosen.”
Rapid praise and access create dependence and blur boundaries. Seraphina was quickly promoted and drawn into intimacy. That wasn’t favor—it was strategy.
2. Spiritual Bypassing
“Your resistance is blocking your growth.”
Healthy doubts and emotions were dismissed as spiritual failure. The truth is: gaslighting often hides behind glittered language.
3. Groupthink & Isolation
“We have to protect the container.”
Anyone who challenged the flow or questioned the leadership was removed quietly. Women disappeared without discussion. Fear kept others silent.
4. Triangulation
Rumors about Seraphina began before she even realized she was being edged out. People were told to treat her coldly. She wasn’t just excluded—she was erased by narrative.
5. Public Praise, Private Harm
Elias was seen as a healer in the circle. But when he crossed a line in private, that contrast revealed the truth: image is not integrity.
6. Tokenization of “Chosen”
The ring. Seraphina was told she was the only one. So were Zuri, Tasha, Camila, Anaya. One lie. Five hearts. Ten patterns. A strategy disguised as sacredness.
7. The Narcissistic Collapse
When Seraphina asked one deep question, everything changed. Invitations vanished. Support turned to suspicion. Control masked as divine wisdom always collapses when seen clearly.
🌀 Spiritual Narcissism: The Hidden Epidemic
- Charisma is not character.
- Softness is not safety.
- Authority is not truth.
Spiritual narcissists build empires on emotional dependency. They speak the language of healing while inflicting harm. And they often wrap abuse in community.
You are not “less spiritual” for noticing red flags.
You are discerning. You are reclaiming your voice.
🌿 The Seraphina Path: Healing Forward
Seraphina didn’t seek revenge.
She sought her Self.
She pursued education rooted in transparency.
She built a healing space that didn’t require silence to belong.
She became what she was denied—a safe place to grow.
And most importantly?
She didn’t let pain define her voice.
She let it refine her purpose.
📚 Resources & Continued Support
If this story resonated, please explore these trauma-informed tools and communities:
Books
- The Body Keeps the Score – Bessel van der Kolk
- Psychopath Free – Jackson MacKenzie
- CPTSD: From Surviving to Thriving – Pete Walker
Podcasts & Educators
- Narcissist Apocalypse
- Dr. Ramani Durvasula (YouTube / Instagram)
Support Organizations
✨ Seek a licensed trauma-informed therapist or support group if you’ve experienced anything like this. Your story deserves to be heard—and healed.
You weren’t too sensitive. You were finally hearing what wasn’t being said.
🔗 Explore more powerful true-fiction stories like this in the Mini-Series Stories collection
With grace, grit, and a love that refuses to quit.
Keep showing up—even when it feels like no one’s watching.
Your presence is powerful. Your love is building something they’ll one day thank you for.
From one truth-teller to another—
With strength and softness,
~ Juju Divine Empress
Founder, JBE Mindful Pathways
Wellness Advocate | Writer | Still Learning, Always Loving
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