Growing up in the ’80s and ’90s as a Black girl in the Midwest, I knew early on that my church was different—maybe even “weird”—compared to my peers'. But it wasn’t until years later that I connected my experiences to the word cult, which sent me on a journey to unpack the shame and embarrassment I didn’t even realize I was carrying.

Like many Black households, the church was a cornerstone of my upbringing. However, most of my school friends were Baptist, AME, or Pentecostal. I didn’t really understand what we were, but I knew we were Sabbath keepers. From Friday sundown to Saturday sundown: no work, no parties, no Saturday morning cartoons. (Though my siblings and I did manage to sneak in episodes of He-Man and She-Ra.)

I remember being six and pulled from the class Halloween party because I wasn’t allowed to participate. Heartbroken, I sat alone watching my classmates gobble down candy corn and M&M’s, wondering what was so sinful about dressing up like Barbie.

And while other kids settled into the school year each fall, I was collecting homework assignments ahead of our annual two-week spiritual pilgrimage out of state. Sure, it was a little unorthodox. But I didn’t start questioning the church’s doctrines and ideologies until college. I was taking an intro to theology course and decided to use this new thing called Google to look up my old church. What I found shook me: article after article labeling it a cult.

That couldn’t be right. I had fun in church! We went roller skating and had potlucks that even brought my non-member mom into the fold. Plus, we’re Black. We don’t do cults. Outside of “those Jonestown people,” cults were something that happened to white folks in documentaries. Sure, we might deal with “church hurt,” but cults? Nah. Not us.

Still, I kept digging—reading, researching, and talking to former members. At first, I defined a cult by what I could see. Then I began to understand, through experts, that cults aren’t about optics. You don’t have to live in Waco, wear matching Nikes, or drink the Kool-Aid to be under control. Fear-based obedience, punishment for questioning authority, strict hierarchies, and man-made rules disguised as biblical truths? That’s culty too.

That’s when I finally said out loud: “Oh shit. We were in a cult.”

I grew up in the Worldwide Church of God (WCG), founded by Herbert W. Armstrong—a white man from Iowa. It was a high-control, apocalyptic sect with 1,200 congregations and millions of dollars in annual revenue at its peak in the 1980s. With tithing requirements of up to 30%, the financial abuse was real—and the money was flowing.

Armstrong loudly preached doomsday prophecies, and when those didn’t come true, he pivoted to “just be ready.” That kept people obedient and on edge, but also relieved to be part of his “one true church,” the only group that would be spared in the end. Gender roles were “biblically aligned.” Women weren’t allowed to hold leadership roles (thanks, Eve) or wear makeup. I remember my congregation once covering mirrors with newspaper to remove the temptation of Maybelline.

But the most outrageous belief that made WCG not only culty, but blatantly bigoted, was a doctrine called British Israelism. British Israelism is a racist theology that claims white people from the UK are the true Israelites. I saw this spiritual caste system play out in subtle and overt ways. Interracial marriage, for example, was a sin—not just discouraged, but forbidden. You could ask for permission, but mixing races would “taint” European blood. Older congregants recalled that, back in the day, Black members had to sit at the back of the church.

So how—and why—did Black people (about 10% of the church’s population), including my college-educated family, end up there?

That was one of the last real conversations I had with my dad before he died. I was a broke college student and called him AT&T collect (#IYKYK), heated. “How could you put us in such a church?” I asked. “Didn’t you know what was happening behind the scenes?”

He listened patiently. Then he said, “I made a mistake. I thought I was doing the best thing for my family.” His decision to join came from a sincere desire to understand God’s word, to find our place in a chaotic world, and to be part of a community. And in understanding his intentions, I realized he, too, had been misled. There was no malicious intent in him—or in the other Black families—just people trying to provide their kids with a solid spiritual foundation.

His perfectly human response helped me release the shame and embarrassment I’d been holding.

Shame that my family “got got.” Embarrassment that we didn’t see it sooner.

For Black Americans, systemic and generational racism has deeply shaped our relationship with shame, often trapping us in unhealed cycles. Whether spiritual, financial, or sexual abuse—we’re taught not to air our dirty laundry. Don’t go to therapy. Definitely don’t tell white folks our business. Our humanity has been weaponized for centuries, so we perfected the art of silence to stay safe and protect the family.

But silence didn’t serve me. I discovered power in saying, “I’m Black, and I was in a cult.” It was a step toward growth and healing—one that started with therapy, a lot of uncomfortable conversations, and even criticism for speaking out.

Sharing complex truths is messy. But if one of us dares to name “the thing,” maybe someone else can finally let go of the shame they’ve been carrying, too.

LaNisa Renee Frederick is an actor, writer, and host of the new comedy podcast Black and CULTivated, where she interviews fellow Black and brown survivors like herself about #cultlife.