After 24 years of being a nun, Juliette (name changed) left the convent. It was 1986. Juliette’s spiritual longing – unsatiated by the convent – was as strong as ever. So three years later, when she met Brendan, a charming, charismatic, striking man who ran spiritual workshops drawing on the wisdom of the world’s greatest traditions, she took notice. Brendan would weave the words of Buddha, St Francis, and Native American spiritual leaders (among others) capturing the attention of spiritual seekers including lay people and clergy. What Juliette could not have imagined was that this man would become the leader of a cult to which she would devote ten years of her life.

Born in 1943, Juliette grew up in country South Australia. Her father worked at the wineries, so they always lived in beautiful country towns. Juliette only spent the first six months of her life with her mother; after that, serious illness struck, and her mother was sent to the “Home for the Incurables.” Her mother died in 1947, four years after Juliette was born. On the day of the funeral, her mother’s body lay in a coffin at her aunt’s house. “I snuck into the room where the coffin was and saw my mother’s body dressed as a Dominican nun,” Juliette says, explaining that her mother chose this as a lay Dominican. “I wanted to be dead and buried with her. No wonder I later decided to become a nun.”

Juliette and her two older sisters were not allowed to attend their mother’s funeral. “After she was buried, Dad wouldn't let us talk about her,” Juliette says. “I was so distraught, I stopped speaking for years. I was a very lonely and sad kid.” A couple of years after her mother’s death, Juliette’s father remarried: “This woman, though generous, was a sergeant major who ran nursing homes and had little sense of how to bring up children lovingly. She would say to me and my sisters, ‘I brought you kids out of the gutter.’ I was scared shitless of her.” Juliette falls silent before adding: “It was only much later in adulthood that I appreciated it was my stepmother who taught me common sense and to stand up for my rights.”

At the age of 18, when Juliette announced to her father and stepmother that she wanted to join the convent, her father stopped speaking to her for three days. “My dad was very upset, he thought he was losing me,” Juliette says. At the time, Juliette was training to be a nurse at the Royal Adelaide Hospital, so she told her dad that she would finish her nursing qualifications before entering the convent. Juliette continued with her training, but after having the same dream three nights in a row, she took it as a sign and decided to join the convent straight away. Juliette joined the Dominican Order in Adelaide in 1962, a few months before the Second Vatican Council began in Rome. Juliette, who had no desire to be a teacher, was reassured by the order that she would not have to teach. “Bullshit!” Juliette laughs as she places her coffee cup next to Eckhart Tolle’s book, The Power of Now. “I taught for 17 years.”

As Juliette entered the convent, most of her friends were getting married and having children. While her friends adjusted to married life, Juliette found herself adjusting to the unrelenting strictness of convent life. The rules were to be followed, not questioned, even the ones that made little sense, for example, novices were not allowed to speak to the older sisters: “If we got caught doing so, we would be reported and have to do Penance,” Juliette explains. “This sometimes meant kissing the feet of each sister as they sat eating lunch.”

During her second year, Juliette spent time at a Dominican convent in New South Wales which was much stricter. “We were told that if the superior told us to plant plants upside down, we were to do it without question,” Juliette laughs. “How stupid is that?” The women were not allowed to have friends either outside of, or within, the convent. There was a fear, Juliette explains, that “particular friendships [between nuns] would lead to evil.” In other words, romantic relationships. When priests would visit the convent to say Mass, the bells would sound so the women knew the priests were approaching. “We had to turn our heads away so as not to look at them,” Juliette explains. “We were not allowed to refer to them as priests. Instead, we had to call them pianos.”

“Why pianos?” I ask bewildered.

Juliette laughs, as she often does throughout our conversation. “I don't know. The Dominican nuns were very rigid in New South Wales. And the person in charge was the most rigid!”

Juliette pauses and looks toward the garden. The white roses, all in full bloom, stand their ground amid the gusty sea breeze. “If we did anything wrong, we were made to publicly confess in front of all the nuns,” Juliette continues. “We also had to ask permission each week to have a bath, brush our teeth, wash our habits. Sometimes  the superiors would say ‘your habit looks clean, wear it unwashed for another six weeks.’ It was such bullshit.” Juliette found ways to ignore the rules and never worried about getting caught. But not everyone could cope. “Three women had nervous breakdowns and ended up in a psychiatric hospital in one year. It was the strictness and rigidity that drove people mad,” Juliette says. “I warned the superior that one of the women was not okay and needed help, but she told me it was none of my business.”

“After witnessing all this, did you question your decision to enter the convent?” I ask.

“No, but I knew I would be returning to Adelaide where the order was less rigid.”

After returning to Adelaide, Juliette, who had completed teacher training, started teaching in primary schools. A few years later, at the age of 26, Juliette’s father died. Juliette’s blue eyes filled with tears. “I was in a bad way as I was mourning my father’s death and my mother’s death all over again.” Juliette reaches towards the bookcase for a tissue. The salty tears make her blue eyes look turquoise.

Mired in grief, Juliette took refuge in speaking to a priest. For the first time, she spoke about everything: her mother, childhood, stepmother, father. The priest was young, gentle, a good listener. Juliette fell in love with him. When Juliette confessed to a nun that she had fallen in love with a priest, the nun roared with laughter and reassured her that it was perfectly normal   – a response which Juliette found comforting.

The priest, Juliette tells me, had a hard time understanding the pain of unrequited love. “When he found out about my feelings for him and my heartache, the priest was like a little boy who had heard a truth, and it had finally sunk in. He did not understand much about emotions. You see, when priests are in seminary, they need to receive proper training about sexuality…psychologists need to be brought in to take them through this process. At that time, they were not getting this type of training.  It is no wonder there was all this sexual abuse, which the Church has inadequately addressed,” Juliette says throwing her arms in the air in frustration.

When I ask her views on priests being allowed to marry, Juliette tells me that celibacy should not be forced upon those with a calling to religious life: “Most people cannot be real celibates or even want to be. Celibacy should be a choice…priests should absolutely be allowed to marry.”

Juliette fell in love a few more times while still a nun. Always with priests. Perhaps, Juliette reflects, because they were “unattainable.” But this would not be telling the full story. Juliette fell in love with men who had a strong connection with God, and this connection with God was part of the deep attraction.

“I want to show you something,” Juliette says walking towards a shelf where a large purple crystal sits. She passes me a black-and-white photo of her younger self, taken in 1960, before she became a nun. Juliette, with her short hair and full red lips, looks elegant, and gazes confidently yet unassumingly at the camera. She shows me another photo taken in 1963. Juliette is wearing a wedding dress and standing in the lush garden of a convent. Behind her, hundred-year-old gum trees reach towards the sky. Juliette looks happy though a little shy. “In those days, we wore wedding dresses when we took our initial vow as a nun,” Juliette explains. I wonder what she felt at that moment, as she stood in the manicured grounds of a convent as a young woman, her whole life stretched ahead of her. It is unlikely she imagined that more than two decades later, in a convent in South America, that she would make the decision to leave the convent.

After working in education for 17 years, Juliette had the opportunity to work in South America – for Juliette, this was a life-long dream. Juliette was met at the airport by a nun and priest who threw her luggage into a Volkswagen beetle and drove through dusty, empty roads until they reached the convent. “When I arrived, I was blown apart by what I saw,” Juliette says. “The nuns lived in a three-story house and across the road was a sea of tents where people lived who had very little. I believe the Church must be at the forefront of bringing about equality between rich and poor in both word and action. It shattered my dream of convent life.”

Juliette then made two decisions: to return to Australia and to leave the convent. “The convent no longer felt relevant as I no longer felt it was truthful to be a nun in that setting.” Upon returning to Australia, the process of disentangling her life from the convent began: “Letters were  written to Rome and all that.” Juliette was not allowed to speak to others at the convent about her departure as the superiors did not want to “upset” the other women. If anyone left the convent, it was always secretive and never spoken about openly. To help her start a new life, she was given $1000 though departing priests at that stage were given much more, “like $20, 000” Juliette tells me. Unwilling to tolerate the gender disparity, Juliette returned to the convent and asked for more money: “I told the superior that I had worked a lot, that I was the principal of a large primary school for many years. She was very angry and gave me an extra $4000 and told me never to come back and ask for more money.”

Though Juliette rejoined a radically changed world, adjusting to life after leaving the convent was not difficult: “After my childhood with my stepmother, nothing was hard.”

I ask Juliette whether she has any regrets about leaving the convent. She doesn't.  “Do you have any regrets about entering the convent?” I ask.

Juliette pauses until she finds the right words. “Yes, because I have not had children. But also no. Yes and no.”

Beside me on the sofa, Juliette’s small dog begins to snore. Her white paws dangle from the edge of the  sofa. A chewed toy, a sign that it is well loved, lies next to her. Juliette giggles at her dog, which has become her close companion. Juliette leaves the room to make us both another espresso. As the coffee brews, she places a plate of macaroons – purple, pink and yellow – onto a side table.  Juliette, who is passionate and warm, is a gracious and attentive host. When Juliette returns, she tells me how, three years after leaving the Church, with her spiritual yearning still burning strong, she met Brendan – a man who would later become a cult leader.

“Brendan was mesmerising,” Juliette says referring to the first time they met on the southern tip of Australia. “At the end of his [spiritual] workshop, I suggested he run sessions on the East Coast where I lived and even offered to organise them. This is how it all started….” Brendan, who perhaps already had designs to expand his audience, enthusiastically agreed.

Juliette looks toward her sleeping dog. After running several well-attended workshops on Australia’s East Coast, Brendan, who at the time was around 30 years old, together with his partner, decided to move to the East Coast. At first, they lived with Juliette. Brendan – who believed he had special powers – continued to facilitate workshops. It was the attendees who were “transformed” into his followers, Juliette explains – a process which took about three years.

“At the beginning, though, it was not a cult,” Juliette says adamantly. “I had this sense that what Brendan was doing was real and true. I don't deny that he may have had certain gifts but then his ego got in the way, and it went to his head.”

“What gifts do you think he possessed?” I ask.

“He had insight for sure,” Juliette says. “He could connect with people in a way that made you feel loved and like you belonged. It felt like being loved by a prophet. And he was kind and caring and we admired him for this. I loved him, but not sexually.”

But things began to change as the group – around 30 strong – became more firmly established. “He began to say he was second to God almost, a supreme being, that we were his students, and he would heal us physically, mentally, spiritually. We were convinced that he would change the world,” Juliette says. Members of the group all lived close by in separate houses and spent their days attending regular jobs; at the time, Juliette worked as a masseuse and cleaner. At night, Brendan would call them to his home so he could do “healing” sessions, for which he expected payment. “He would load us up with alcohol and then do his ‘healing work’ on us,” Juliette says. “One man was diabetic, but Brendan insisted that he drink. He ended up in a coma for several years before dying, the poor man.”

Things changed even more when Brendan spent the weekend away at a workshop on “something to do with wildlife.” He returned home with a woman – a researcher – announcing that she would be his second partner. Brendan needed the extra room, so he kicked Juliette out of her own home. Close to midnight, Juliette threw her belongings into her car and drove to the beach; she fell asleep to the sounds of the waves crashing against the rocks. I ask how Brendan’s other partner reacted. “Brendan convinced her to accept the situation,” Juliette says exasperated. “She was devoted to him, as was his second partner. They all lived together, and the two women shared him.”

Juliette quickly found a new place to live in the area and continued to be part of the group. As the years went on, Brendan’s behaviour became more erratic. “He was addicted to prescription drugs, he would take at least 12 Valium or other meds daily,” Juliette says. “Every night at least two of us would go to a doctor’s surgery so we could get the drugs for him. It was the 90s, and the doctor’s surgeries did not ask for ID or a Medicare card. I hated doing this. And we paid for the drugs. We allowed ourselves to be convinced by Brendan, to think he was always right.”

While each individual appeared to be devoted to Brendan, they were less supportive of other group members. “If he saw people becoming friends, he would break that up,” Juliette says, “so there was little trust. For example, we were all getting into debt as we paid him so much money, but you wouldn't dare tell anyone about it as they would bring it up when we all gathered together.” One evening as the group sat in a circle in Brendan’s home, listening to him speak and waiting for his healing, Juliette disappeared upstairs to his bedroom. The room, filled with lavish crystals and pictures of spiritual leaders from all traditions, made Juliette feel calm.

 As she came down the stairs, a woman looked directly at Juliette and asked, “What were you doing up there? Were you smelling Brendan’s underwear?”

Juliette looked at Brendan whose eyes were boring into hers before telling the woman that she had cleaned his room, after which she prayed. “I knew Brendan believed me, he could always tell when we were lying,” Juliette says. “He also put me on a kind of pedestal because I was once a nun.”

“Do you think Brendan’s spiritual quest was once genuine?” I ask.

“Oh yes,” Juliette responds without hesitation. “He talked about spiritual experiences he had as a small child. He spent his childhood growing up abroad as his mother and father had international careers. His parents were well-educated, wealthy but emotionally distant. His mother died when he was a child. He was raised by a wet nurse whom he loved very much.”

When the cult was featured on the television current affairs program 60 Minutes – after former group members spoke out about their experiences – “it was the beginning of the end,” Juliette tells me. “Thank God.” When I ask what made Brendan agree to the interview, Juliette responds: “He was nervous, but he wanted 60 Minutes to see his power. He thought he could convince them.” He was wrong; the report was scathing.

Not long after the 60 Minutes report aired nationally, Juliette was at Brendan’s home when she was struck by a headache. A bad one. The pain – shooting, stabbing, compressing – was overwhelming. Juliette had no idea what was going on. Everything was foggy. She needed an ambulance, to be rushed to hospital. But Brendan insisted he could heal her, that a hospital would not be of any use as they would not know how to treat her condition. As Brendan laid her down on the floor, the last thing she heard him say was: “I can heal you.” Juliette looks at me, her eyes swelling with emotion: “I could have died. I was there with Brendan for four hours.” In the early hours of the morning, she finally got to a hospital. When she arrived, the doctors told her she’d had an aneurism. “I was rushed to another hospital immediately, had two surgeries and remained in the hospital for a month,” Juliette says.

Once fully recovered, Juliette attended a group gathering at Brendan’s home. The first thing he did was ask Juliette for more money. “That night I made the decision to get out,” Juliette says. The next morning at 7 a.m., while everyone was still asleep, Juliette left a bunch of roses on Brendan’s doorstep with a note telling him she would not be returning.

Juliette plays with her amethyst pendant hanging delicately from a silver chain. “I could not see him alone as I knew he would manipulate me and work towards changing my mind.”

“Did you recognise at the time that he was manipulative or is this something that has become apparent in retrospect?” I ask.

“I saw it at the time. There were many times I wanted to leave, but I no longer trusted myself to see what was really happening. If there is one thing I learnt, it is to trust myself and to be aware of con artists,” Juliette responds. “The misuse of power can happen anywhere, including in the Church, when the ego becomes the all-powerful instead of the soul.”

Less than a year later, Brendan died. He was 42. “It was the drugs that killed him,” Juliette says. Both his partners remained loyal to him right to the very end. “They [the two women] were never able to see through him,” Juliette says with sadness. “Brendan was a complicated and deluded man.”

Juliette’s spiritual quest – her desire for communion with the Divine – has driven her decisions, leading her to unexpected paths where she has experienced heartbreak, disillusionment and pain. But none of this has diminished the generous curiosity she holds for life and the openness she brings to her search for the spiritual. That same desire that led Juliette to enter a convent  six decades ago is still present, though now it leads her to a  different place: a multi-faith contemplative prayer group free of crippling rigid rules, and where she can explore her rich inner world, perhaps the same world where she sought refuge in childhood.

Juliette’s dog has woken up and looks intently at Juliette. “She knows it’s time for our daily walk on the beach,” Juliette says laughing as we make our way towards the front door. I say goodbye and watch Juliette walk down the road towards the sea.