Ron had invited three members of the Rajneesh movement to move into our home. I didn’t want any part of it.

He said they were teaching him about life and wanted to include me in that journey; however, I was not interested in what they offered.

Their beliefs clashed with mine. They spoke to Ron about how society conditions us to live a certain way, but I had spent my whole life pushing back against those exact expectations.

I was raised by parents who tried to shape me into someone I was never meant to be—urging me to conceal the very gifts that made me unique.

Deep down, I had always embraced the unknown and moved through life with openness and flow.

Ron was now craving certainty—structure—and these people were feeding that desire.

It felt like a cult—rooted in unwavering devotion to Rajneesh and his belief system.

He was undeniably charismatic, and I began to see Ron slipping under their influence, swayed by their intensity and practice. It was as if he was being slowly pulled into something I couldn’t trust and follow. It felt like I was losing him, and the life we had built together was slipping away.

I knew I couldn’t stay in that house if they moved in. It no longer felt like my home.

It was New Year’s Day in 1976. Ron and I sat in the atrium of a charming farmhouse restaurant, surrounded by baskets overflowing with vibrant fruits, vegetables, and fresh-cut flowers.

Ron ordered an elaborate Mexican brunch—cold margaritas and fresh seafood—while I opted for a smoky Caesar salad with grilled chicken, ripe tomatoes, and a crunchy mix of toasted pecans, peanuts, and sunflower seeds.

He urged me to join him in drinking, but I claimed an upset stomach and stuck with sparkling water. The truth was, I was pregnant. And I didn’t know how to tell him. I wasn’t sure I was ready to be a mother, and deep down, I didn’t think Ron was prepared to be a father either. We were still so young, facing more questions than answers.

As I sat there, I wondered what had drawn me to Ron in the first place—his sharp wit, charm, and the way he moved on the soccer field with near-professional grace. He had this magnetic energy I couldn’t resist.

We were wild together, always chasing the next high, the next party—alcohol and drugs were just part of our rhythm.

So, I told him. And at that moment, everything shifted.

It felt like I’d stepped into the still center of a storm—the eye of a hurricane.

Time froze. The air thickened.

Then came the explosion: Ron erupted, shouting profanities, slamming his fists on the table, rage spilling out with a force I hadn’t seen before.

His anger was unmistakable, and I felt shame rise as the scene unfolded. A bartender quietly approached, removed the drinks from our table, and leaned in to ask if I was okay.

Moments later, we were asked to leave the restaurant.

We stood beside the car, Ron still shouting, his anger echoing in the cold air.

I hesitated—unsure if it was even safe to get in with him.

But we were an hour and a half from home, and I had nowhere else to turn. I stayed quiet the entire ride back, staring out the window while Ron ranted about how the others at the house wouldn’t take the news well. My mind raced, trying to figure out how to escape the situation. I started rehearsing excuses, planning any reason I could use to leave the moment we pulled into the driveway.

When we returned to the house, Ron told the others to leave.

His behavior felt off—almost paranoid.

I quietly went upstairs and began packing a few clothes, preparing to go. He made it clear he didn’t care that I was pregnant.

“Life is a mystery,” he said. “We live in uncertain times.”

Then he called me a bitch.

In my mind, I was already gone—running as far from him as I could.

But in reality, I moved carefully, knowing I needed to tread lightly. There was a sense of danger now, and I knew I had to be smart about how I left.

I grabbed my wallet, car keys, and a small bag stuffed with clothes. As I moved across the carpet, I realized I’d forgotten to pack shoes. I returned to the bed to grab a pair, Ron still hurling insults in the background.

Then he jabbed his finger toward the stairs and barked, “Go!”

What happened next was surreal and unsettling.

One moment, I was at the top of the stairs, and the next, I was tumbling down—everything moving in slow motion.

My mind scrambled to make sense of it, trying to piece together how it had happened in the brief seconds it took to hit the bottom.

Ron had pushed me down the stairs. There was no denying it.

In that moment, I found myself wondering—who was this man I once loved?

This cruel, cold version of him felt like a stranger.

“I know,” he said flatly, as if it meant nothing.

Dizzy and disoriented, I struggled to stand. The room spun around me, and I began to vomit.

“I need to go to the hospital. Now,” I said, barely able to form the words.

“Okay,” he replied, “but remember—you fell. It was an accident.”

And that’s precisely what I told them. I repeated his lie. Ron never admitted what happened that day. He never acknowledged the truth behind the miscarriage or the emergency D&C that followed. He blamed me. Always me.

I stayed with a friend in Aptos afterward but didn’t tell her what had happened. I needed time.

A few days later, while Ron was at work, I returned to the house, gathered the rest of my belongings—quietly, without confrontation—and left for good.

By then, the house was full again with seven or eight of his “guests.”

A few days later, Ron called me at my friend’s house. He said everyone was gone, that he was alone, and asked me to return.

But shortly after, a neighbor revealed the truth—his story had been a complete lie.

The house was more crowded than ever, with nearly a dozen followers now living there.

And though I was still reeling with grief and guilt over all that had happened, I knew one thing with certainty—I wasn’t going back.

Weeks later, I heard that a dozen or more followers had moved in, and Ron had left, this time relocating to San Jose.

I never saw or spoke to Ron again.

I often wondered what triggered his outburst that day, starting at the restaurant.

Was it the influence of the disciples?

The weight of something deeper?

Or simply the alcohol taking control?

Whatever it was, it unleashed something dark—something I couldn’t unsee.

Life has its share of painful chapters, and this was one of them. This wasn’t an accident.

I had once made a vow after leaving my family home: No one would ever lay a hand on me in anger again.

But life, it seems, tests the promises we make to ourselves—and I would be tested more than once.