Eighty thousand views. Four hours.
The comments are a shrine at his altar.
I finally feel alive again, thank you!
Doctors gave up on me, but you didn’t. I’m healing because of you.
Every word you say hits different. My body feels better after every session. You helped me remember I’m not broken.
Been following you for months. Nothing has ever felt this real.
I almost choke on my own spit.
The part that I truly hate? He’s not entirely wrong. His stupid juice cleanses, his fasting, his wild diet restrictions, his mind-over-matter thinking—theydowork. At first. For some people. Sometimes. People feel better. Their bodies reset, their symptoms ease. He sprinkles just enough truth into his poison to make it believable. That’s what makes him dangerous. He’s not a flat-out scam. He’s a half-truth with a perfect jawline, profiting off people’s pain and sickness.
But what it always comes down to is the fact that he thinks in the end,heis the cure.
My fingers twitch with the need to type out the truth, to claw through the delusion and scream in their faces:He’s a predator. A fraud. He isn’t saving you—he’s preying on you.
But I’ve already had three cease-and-desist letters shoved in my mailbox. His lawyers are like vultures, circling, just waiting for me to slip. Slander, they call it. Defamation. Funny how a man who claims he has the answers to the universe still runs crying to his attorneys when one woman on the internet comments with the truth.
I scroll further, masochist that I am. Women with shaky voices tell their stories, tears streaming down their cheeks as they thank him for his life-changing methods.
My best friend thought her life was changed, too.
Jules. Loud, bright Jules, who once dared me to skinny dip in the Bellagio fountains. Jules, who dragged me out dancing when I didn’t want to, who always ordered extra fries but never was able to eat them. Jules, who should still be here.
Instead, she’s dust in a jar on her mother’s mantle because she believedhim. She believed him until it was too late.
I remember the first time I met Phoenix. And I’ll admit: he had a presence. He carried himself like the sun bent toward him. But the second his eyes locked on me, every hair on the back of my neck stood up. Something in my gut screamedpredator.
And I was right.
The kind of healing he offered her wasn’t just fasting, meditation, and overpriced supplements. It came in the form of late nights, his own special methods, and tears after coercion and pressure.
Thankfully, one time was all it took for her to see the truth. After that night, she cracked. She told me everything.
And then, three months later, she was gone.
My nails dig crescents into my palms, leaving deep impressions. The rage burns hotter than fire.
Phoenix Marrow needs to die.
I should stop doom searching his name. I should slam my phone face down on my nightstand and go to sleep early. Maybe a little extra sleep would be healing forme.
But then a discussion board story catches me: RecoveringFromPhoenix.
My thumb betrays me. I tap.
A year ago, I was diagnosed with endometriosis. Doctors said it was bad. Surgery, hormones, maybe infertility. I was scared, desperate. Then I found Phoenix. His voice, his confidence—it made me believe healing was possible. He said my body could fix itself if I just listened to it. I started his cleanse, his meditations, his supplements. The pain got better. I thought he was saving me.
I press my tongue to the back of my teeth so hard it hurts. This is how it starts. Always with hope. Always with his “miracle stories.”
Then he invited me to a private retreat. He said I’d reached a threshold. That the next step required total trust. That my pain was my body “holding trauma.” He said that healing meant surrender. He said I needed tolet go.
I told him this didn’t seem right. He kept pushing.You need to let go.
My skin crawls. I already know what’s coming, but I keep reading anyway.
