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

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 expli…

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.

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.

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 silence

The difference between feeling moved and being watched

Follow + Subscribe:

Newsletter: kristenhmcleod.substack.com

YouTube: Cultivated with Kristen H. McLeod

Podcast: Cultivated on Spotify / Apple / Substack

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.

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.

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 moment

Enjoy the episode, and if you like what you hear, don’t forget to subscribe, share, and leave a review!

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 everything

Glossary + References for the curious (workers, conventions, and more)

How to subscribe and why sharing helps

Why this is not a retirement plan

However 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.

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.