Writer. speaker.
incorrigible observer.

Welcome, and congrats on finding my corner on the internet.

I’m kristen h. mcleod—writer, creative writing instructor, communications strategist, spoken word performer, and —depending who you ask—a minor connoisseur of QUESTIONABLE communities.

If you want credentials, here’s the short version:


  • MFA, Creative Nonfiction, University of King’s College

  • Kenyon Review Writers Workshop, nonfiction

  • Finalist, Annie Dillard Award for Creative Nonfiction

  • PR Certificate & Hon. BA, University of Regina

i’ve performed spoken word and comedy everywhere from New York to Joshua Tree, halifax, and regina. The glam circuit, obviously.

bylines? Find my work in juxtaprose literary Magazine, motherwell, CBC, The globe and mail, leader post, and when the stars align, NYT opinion.

member of the saskatchewan writers guild.

selected projects reside here. if you’re wild for a full credentials deck, message me. it’s visually impressive and mostly typo-free.


CULTIVATED is my ongoing Substack experiment. A collection of essays, stories, and (infrequent) poetry exploring life after a particularly boring cult. If you’re picturing charismatic swindlers and all white attire, adjust your expectations. Think regulation grey with the occasional cameo by a handmade sack dress.

I won’t promise a redemptive arc or recovery meetings with Leah Remini. What I offer is honest storytelling, the odd laugh, and a running attempt to make sense of rule-heavy origins and their aftermath—with, I hope, a cool hand a a dry martini’s worth of wit.

You can subscribe or just lurk—I welcome both.

about cultivated

Prefer performance to page? Find spoken word, poetic confessions, and the occasional unscripted truth. Curious? Start with the essays, wander into the performances.

Stay for the aftermath of observation and stubborn, stubborn hope.

my story in one breath

I was raised in a high-control group that called itself The Truth.

I thought freedom would feel like running. Thought it would feel like joy.

Instead, It felt like an absence. Like being unmade. It tasted like air I didn’t know how to breathe.

I write for the ones who know leaving isn’t the end of the story.

It’s the beginning of the real one.

You don’t have to be fully healed to start telling it.

You just have to be here.

A MEDITATION FROM INSIDE—AND BEYOND—ONE OF THE WORLD’S MOST SECRETIVE CHRISTIAN RELIGIOUS MOVEMENTS.