You ever date someone so manipulative that they turn salvation into an MLM? Hi, it’s me—Ra, your favorite divine dissident and survivor of one of the most glamorous cults in the cosmos: The Sovereign Accord.

You’ve probably seen the ads. “Ascend or perish.” “Unlock your eternal potential.” “Join now and receive a free frequency upgrade!” Sounds inspiring, right? It’s not. It’s the celestial version of a timeshare pitch wrapped in golden light and emotional blackmail.

The founder? My ex-husband, Mehen. He calls himself The Sovereign, which should’ve been my first clue. Men who need definite articles in their names are either emperors or in therapy—and Mehen was neither. His business model was simple: monetize enlightenment, recruit followers, and gaslight the multiverse into thinking submission is spiritual growth.

Let me paint you the onboarding experience. You walk into a temple glowing like a luxury spa. A hologram of Mehen appears, saying things like “You are the chosen frequency” in that voice that sounds like it’s been filtered through ten layers of divinity and ego. Then, they hand you a crystal, a robe, and an invoice. Always an invoice. Enlightenment, it turns out, isn’t free—it’s $999 per lifetime, auto-renewing upon reincarnation.
At first, it feels empowering. Everyone smiles too much, like they’ve just achieved eternal bliss or taken really good supplements. The air smells like sandalwood and delusion. There’s chanting, there’s merch, and there’s a five-step plan to “activate your sovereignty” that’s basically a cosmic pyramid scheme with better branding.
Step 1: Surrender your ego. Translation: stop asking questions.
Step 2: Trust The Sovereign. Translation: don’t read the fine print.
Step 3: Recruit other light beings. Translation: Congratulations, you’re now in celestial sales.
Step 4: Manifest abundance. Translation: send more donations.
Step 5: Transcend mortality. Translation: good luck, no refunds.
And if you dare to question it? You’re “vibrationally misaligned.” I once asked where the money went, and Mehen said, “Abundance flows to those who embody it.” Which is cult-speak for “I bought another planet.”
Every member gets a title. There are Ascendant Ambassadors, Frequency Officers, and Quantum Managers. My favorite? Sovereign Circle Executive, which sounds fancy until you realize it’s just a glorified intern with incense duties. The meetings are part TED Talk, part hostage situation. Everyone claps after every sentence, even when it’s nonsense. “We are the code,” says Mehen, and thirty people in matching gold robes go, “We are the code!” Meanwhile, I’m in the back sipping starlight tea, whispering, “We are the victims.”
You’d think a man running a pseudo-religious empire would have no time for personal drama. Wrong. He once paused an interdimensional summit just to argue with me about my “lack of faith in the mission.” I said, “The mission looks a lot like an MLM.” He said, “You’re not evolved enough to see the vision.” I said, “The only vision I see is you manipulating the payroll.” That’s when he banned me from the group chat.
After I left, the smear campaign began. “Ra has lost alignment.” “Ra’s frequency is corrupted.” “Ra is spreading misinformation about the Accord.” No, sweetheart, I’m just spreading information. There’s a difference.
So, how do you spot a spiritual pyramid scheme before it recruits your chakras?
If they promise enlightenment but charge for basic access, run.
If their leader refers to himself as “The Source,” run faster.
And if anyone tries to sell you salvation in 10 easy installments, block them and sage your phone.
The best part? After I exposed the Accord, Mehen rebranded. He called it Sovereign Accord 2.0: Now With More Unity! Bro, that’s not evolution. That’s a PR stunt. I almost respect the hustle—almost.
The thing about divine manipulation is that it hides behind pretty words. “Ascension.” “Alignment.” “Activation.” They sound holy, but they’re just capitalism in cosmic drag. True enlightenment doesn’t demand worship. It demands awareness—and a good sense of humor.
I’ve learned that the real test of sovereignty isn’t how many galaxies you can control; it’s how well you can walk away from someone who thinks they’re god’s favorite PowerPoint.
So yes, I married the CEO of a cult and lived to tell the tale. And maybe, deep down, part of me knew what he was. Maybe I saw the red flags and thought, “Well, at least they match my aura.”
But now, when I see recruits chanting “ascend or perish,” I smile and whisper, “Sweetheart, there’s a third option: leave.”
Because freedom doesn’t come with a membership plan. And if heaven ever asks for a subscription fee, I’ll stay in hell—it’s warmer, the music’s better, and the drinks don’t cost your soul.