A Woman Named 'God'

Reaching Los Angeles by car feels unreal—especially from the East. For hours, it’s nothing but desert. Endless, dry, almost hostile. You start to believe it will never end.

Then suddenly… it does.

And just like that, you’re in the middle of something that feels like an oasis. The Pacific breathing somewhere nearby, the air warmer, softer. Alive. Los Angeles. The City of Angels. I always liked that one best. It fits.

All I have with me is a suitcase and the clothes I’m wearing. I was told I wouldn’t need much. For some reason, I believe it.

The truth is, I didn’t come here for the city.

I came for her.

I’ve been reading everything I can find about Amy Carlson—or at least trying to. Not because it’s boring. It’s overwhelming. The kind of story that pulls you in so deep you forget to breathe. I kept falling asleep mid-page, exhaustion catching up with me before curiosity could.

Still, one thing stayed clear:

I couldn’t wait to meet her.

The van rolls into the city, and someone up front pulls down the window.

“Welcome to L.A., sleepyheads! Welcome to my town!”

A wave of warm air floods in, replacing hours of artificial cold. People react instinctively—little sighs, small laughs. It feels good. Real.

Outside, the postcard version of California unfolds: palm trees everywhere, stretching, bending, glowing under the sun like they’ve always known they were being watched.

I realise I’m out of water just as a voice calls from the front:

“Next stop, bathroom break and refreshments!”

A chorus of approval follows. Immediate and desperate.

I’ve done more trips than I can count in a Volkswagen van. Lived in one, too. Those things don’t die. They just keep going.

Unlike people.

I should probably shower. Clean up. Make myself presentable.

But the truth is—I don’t care. Not today.

Every thought I’ve had since this trip began leads to one thing: standing face to face with a woman who calls herself God. Everything else can wait.

By the time we stop, the heat wraps around us like something physical. Dry, relentless. Even the air feels tired. I rush back to the van, unwilling to lose a second.

“Forty-five minutes,” the driver says. “Venice Pier.”

Forty-five minutes.

I open my notes again, trying to fill in the gaps. Her beginnings. Her rise. The moment everything changed.

Once upon a time...

She walked into rooms, and silence followed.

Not the comfortable kind. The kind that tightens your chest.

People watched her face carefully, searching for signs. Approval meant peace. Displeasure meant… anything but.

She denied being a cult leader. But denial doesn’t erase patterns.

Rules. Devotion. Punishment.

Control.

She built something that looked like faith from a distance. Up close, it was something else entirely.

She claimed she wasn’t from here. Said she came from the Pleiades. Said this body was temporary. That she was here on a mission.

People believed her and that’s the part that never gets easier to understand.

Somewhere along the way, the story stopped being about enlightenment.

And started becoming about survival.

I keep on reminding myself I never met her.

Not because I changed my mind. Not because I turned around.

But because fate got there first.

Amy Carlson died before I could.

Just like that.

Unexpected. Unfinished.

And somehow, that feels exactly like the kind of ending her story was always heading toward. Like a huge life irony, the biggest joke. And it was on me.

Further reading:

Rolling Stone covered the full story in detail:

ref; 'Love Has Won': Spiritual Sect From 'Mother God' to Mummified Corpse

https://www.rollingstone.com/culture/culture-features/love-has-won-amy-carlson-mother-god-1254916/