While in Mexico, I once encountered a particularly striking example. A man calling himself Swami Rajneesh had built a retreat center in the jungle called Ozen. Thousands of spiritual tourists passed through, searching for something. On the surface, there was music, yoga, festivals, and creative energy. Yet as I walked around the place, something felt off. White marble floors and chandeliers stood in the middle of the jungle. There were Japanese restaurants and star-shaped glass houses that felt strangely disconnected from their surroundings. The atmosphere carried a sense of excess and artificiality that was hard to ignore.
Then I met the “master.” Within minutes, he introduced himself to my husband and me as an enlightened being and made it clear he did not feel the need to explain himself. The conversation quickly became a monologue about his achievements and experiences. Around him, young devotees listened with total devotion, hanging on every word. The contrast between the claims and the palpable tension in the space was unsettling.
He spoke at length about his path, his years of silence, and his exceptional status. Yet there was no quietness around him, no ease. We later offered a meditation light we had brought, thinking it might interest the community. Before even understanding what it was, he dismissed it as dangerous. After trying it, he admitted it was impressive—but still showed no real openness or curiosity.
What stood out most was not the disagreement, but the atmosphere. Everything in the center required his approval. His presence dominated the space. It was clear that the structure revolved around him, and that unquestioned authority had taken root.
History is full of examples where strong personalities attract seekers. When someone repeatedly declares themselves enlightened, there will always be people willing to believe it. Many are genuinely longing for clarity, belonging, or relief from suffering. Over time, the most dangerous part can happen quietly: the teacher begins to believe their own story completely. That belief becomes harmful—not only to others, but to the person holding it.
There is a long and painful history of cults built around inflated spiritual identities. Some have ended in extreme tragedy. Even when they don’t, the cost can be high. People lose autonomy, discernment, and trust in their own experience. They pay dearly for becoming part of someone else’s unexamined sense of specialness.
I once had a close friend with whom I spent a lot of time talking online. Over the years, I witnessed her struggles, her patterns, and the ways unresolved childhood pain shaped her behavior. There was sincerity in her seeking, and also a deep confusion that had not yet been met.
Later, she began writing books and positioning herself as a spiritual authority, offering guidance on enlightenment. When we finally met in person, the contrast between the image she was trying to uphold and what was actually present became impossible to ignore. She wanted to teach, urgently, yet could not turn toward her own shadow. The tension between wanting to be someone important and feeling profoundly lost was overwhelming for her.
That meeting ended our friendship.
She has followers now, people who admire her and reflect back the identity she is trying to maintain. This is not kindness. Supporting an inflated spiritual persona may feel generous, but it often deepens the very split that needs healing. When pain is bypassed through spiritual authority, it does not disappear — it waits.
Where there is a need for followers, humility quietly slips away. With that comes the pressure to maintain an image, to be consistent, to be admired. Underneath, there is often exhaustion and fear, held at a distance. Peace cannot grow there.
I no longer carry anger about this. I see how easy it is to confuse insight with embodiment, and recognition with completion. When the identity eventually collapses — as identities do — what remains may finally be free to meet what was avoided. Until then, distance is a form of care.
