One time, I joined a cult.

Okay, let me back up. It wasn’t technically a cult—at least not in the drinks-the-Kool-Aid sense—but it did involve chanting, candlelight rituals, and something called a “sacred circle of truth.” All in the name of research, of course. Because when an editor assigns you a story on “How modern rituals influence relationships,” you don’t just Google it. You dive in. Head first. Maybe without fully checking how deep the waters are. Rookie move, I know.

But here’s the thing about saying yes to the weirdness—you learn a lot, not just about the story you’re chasing, but about yourself. And trust me, gathering intel inside a so-called spirituality group to better understand intimacy and connection? Yeah, I’ve got some thoughts.

The Invitation That Started It All

The adventure began innocently enough. A colleague tipped me off about a “relationship enlightenment workshop” hosted at a sprawling estate on the outskirts of town. Think: upscale hippie vibes, where the meditation cushions are organic, and the kombucha flows like wine. I emailed the organizer and got an invite—well, more like an enthusiastic summons. “Come with an open heart and no expectations,” the RSVP read. If that’s not ominous foreshadowing, I don’t know what is.

Walking in, I remember thinking, This is fine. These are just people who probably sage their Wi-Fi routers and compost religiously. But then came the chanting, the disrobing (yep, we’ll get to that), and the one activity so cringeworthy it still haunts me to this day.

When “Vulnerability” Escalates Quickly

The evening started with a classic icebreaker: staring into a stranger’s eyes for a solid 60 seconds. No blinking, no looking away—just raw, unfiltered soul-staring. It sounds harmless, right? Wrong. It’s one thing to “make eye contact” with someone across a bar. It’s an entirely different beast to eyeball a software engineer named Todd while you both resist the urge to nervously laugh in each other’s faces. This, I learned, is step one to fostering “instant connection.”

By the second activity, things got weirder. The group split into pairs, and we were asked to mirror each other’s movements in complete silence—essentially mimicking the other person without speaking. As a habitual overanalyzer, this was a nightmare. Was Todd flapping his arms like a bird because he thought it was funny, or because he was symbolizing freedom? Did my interpretive twirling come off as whimsical or try-hard? The jury’s still out.

Then came the pièce de résistance: a communal exercise called “The Vulnerability Circle,” which sounded like a TED Talk theme gone off the rails. Here, we were encouraged to reveal a personal fear—followed by making physical contact with our partners to “break down barriers.” For the record, nobody warns you that “physical contact” might include linking pinkies with Todd while 15 other people hum affirmations in the background. Words can’t describe what it’s like to mutter, “I fear that I’ll never feel lovable,” only to have Todd whisper, “Same,” like it’s the lyrics to a really depressing duet.

Was it intimate? Sort of. Uncomfortable? Absolutely.

The Moment I Almost Bolted

Every investigative pursuit has its breaking point, and for me, it came during a late-night activity dubbed “Return to Nature.” The instructions: strip down to your underwear, blindfold yourself, and trust your “guides” (aka people you met three hours ago) to lead you barefoot through the moonlit forest. At this point, I had two options:

  1. Run screaming into the darkness, never to return.
  2. Accept that my dignity was already on life support and try to channel my inner Diane Sawyer.

For reasons I still don’t fully understand, I chose the second option. There I was, stumbling through the woods in mismatched socks, clutching my guide's sweaty hand, and hoping to God my college anthropology professor would somehow find this all professionally commendable.

Surprisingly, the whole ordeal did have its fleeting moments of clarity. There’s something about walking barefoot in nature—albeit in comically bizarre circumstances—that reminds you of life’s immediacy. But mostly, I was just hoping nobody had a smartphone camera.

What I Learned About Relationships (and Myself)

Was the experience ridiculous? Yes. Did it somehow teach me valuable lessons about love and connection? Shockingly, also yes. Here are a few takeaways I’ll keep with me long after this bizarre escapade:

  • Vulnerability is awkward, but it’s also magnetic. When Todd and I fumbled through our “truth-sharing,” I realized that the act of being open didn’t have to be perfectly polished to make an impact. Whether it’s revealing fears or fumbling pick-up lines, sincerity wins.

  • Comfort zones are overrated. Agreeing to join a group of eclectic strangers in the woods wasn’t exactly my idea of a good Tuesday night, but it pushed me to engage in ways I never would have otherwise. Turns out, growth sneaks in when you let your guard down. Just maybe keep your clothes on next time.

  • Connection thrives on shared experience. Sure, the sacred circle of truth felt a little hokey—but standing in a room full of people equally out of their depth reminded me that connection isn’t about grand gestures. It’s about the small, shared experiences that make us feel seen.

Would I Do It Again?

Hard pass. I mean, you couldn’t pay me to reenact the moonlit forest walk. But would I recommend saying yes to an offbeat opportunity in the name of self-discovery? 100%. Sometimes, to better understand how humans connect, you have to embrace the unexpected—even if it involves chanting awkward affirmations, hugging strangers, or wondering if kombucha is an acceptable form of dinner.

So here’s to chasing the weird, the uncomfortable, and the sometimes hilarious messiness of life. As far as relationship advice goes, chasing vulnerability might just be as revolutionary as it is ridiculous.

And Todd? If you’re reading this: Thanks for not judging my twirls.