For five years of my life, I was a devoted student of a spiritual teacher. He seemed like the perfect embodiment of divine love, radiating kindness, compassion, gentleness, and wisdom. Strong transformations and healing took place in his presence, and he helped many people with his teachings.
Yet, with growing fame, the very thing he had always warned us against began to happen to him. The constant admiration – actually, fawning – of people who believed he could do no wrong, that he was a God-like saviour, or in fact, God incarnate, started to corrupt him. As anyone who has ever lived in an ashram knows, the politics and dynamics surrounding spiritual (or otherwise celebrated) figures can be anything but enlightened, especially when it comes to sex, power and money.
At the height of the teacher’s fame, a bomb suddenly dropped. It emerged that for several years he had been entertaining a secret sexual relationship with one of his closest students and patients (he was also a psychotherapist). Not only that, she was also the wife of his oldest and most loyal supporter and personal assistant – a man who had practically given his life to the teacher. Apparently, the teacher had told her that he would “sexually heal” her through the affair, and that this would ultimately improve her marriage.
I know. This is the oldest story in the book, right? Yet it’s not the story itself that is interesting, but what followed. A couple of other discrepancies emerged, among them the fact that he – who had claimed to be celibate because he had transcended human desires – had actually had a secret girlfriend all along.
His closest students called a meeting to confront him. They gave him a choice. They asked that he step down from his position as Guru, take responsibility, and make amends. In exchange, they would keep the matter private. Otherwise, the transgression would be made public. It was a fair deal that did, of course, require some humility and accountability from the teacher.
He refused and immediately began what he believed to be damage limitation. He called an online meeting with about two hundred students and told them his version of the story. The meeting was secretly recorded and later uploaded to YouTube for all to see.
What it revealed was not the “enlightened Guru” we thought we knew, but a panicked, flustered man trying to save his skin. It was all deflection, justification and defence. The woman had “exclusion issues”, her husband was “jealous”, and none of it was, of course, his fault.
Worse still, he began sending a series of emails to all students in which he claimed he wanted to “share more about himself” in order to be “transparent”. These messages were essentially self-indulgent, poetic rants in which he cast himself as the victim. It was all about him. There was not a trace of accountability for betraying his most loyal student and friend, or for the psychological and emotional harm he had caused the woman, who eventually confided in a therapist after feeling suicidal.
What I found most fascinating in this scenario was what happened next. Most students, even his most devoted, long-term supporters, disengaged immediately. The entire spiritual community it had taken years to build collapsed within days. And it wasn’t because of the transgression. It was for one simple reason: the teacher’s lack of integrity.
The resounding feeling at the time was this: even a spiritual teacher is human. Humans are imperfect and make mistakes. But what nobody could bear was his lack of accountability, his sheer inability to practise what he had drummed into us for years: self-responsibility. One of the key things we had learned from him was to step out of the victim mentality and be accountable for our actions – and yet he himself was unable to do the same.
It was a powerful lesson in understanding that where there is light, there are always shadows, too. Because the teacher was attached to his status, fame, and the livelihood connected to it – again, worldly affairs he had claimed to transcend – he could not bring himself to admit that he had been wrong. Instead, the woman was gaslit and the entire incident reframed as a “spiritual test”.
What was equally interesting was that some students stayed with him. And this is something I have seen repeatedly across spiritual communities. In psychological terms, it is known as the “sunk cost”. People have invested so much – time, money, identity – that it becomes almost impossible for them to leave. Who are they when they are no longer part of this particular community? What will they do, and where will they go?
Conversely, the woman involved actually took responsibility for her part in the dynamic. She did not frame herself as a victim, even though one could arguably say that she was, given the power imbalance. She said honestly that she had felt flattered by the teacher’s attention when the affair first unfolded, and that part of her had even liked being so close to him and thus feeling “special”.
It was only years later, when her mental health began to suffer, that she realised with the support of a therapist that the teacher’s behaviour had been unethical and abusive. As both a patient and a student, she had placed her trust in him and did not expect him to use it for his own personal gratification.
And this brings me to the subject of integrity. Everyone loves integrity, right? We like to think of ourselves as people who act according to our beliefs, our convictions, our morals. And often we do.
Until it comes to our “holy cows”, which include things like image, status, approval, comfort, attachments, money. The small compromises we make with our integrity because of our personal desires, or because we fear the consequences if we don’t.
In the case of the spiritual teacher, I believe that if he had taken responsibility and shown humility, he would have kept most of his students. In time, he would likely have been forgiven and grown into a very different, more grounded and relatable teacher as a result. Instead, he seemed so attached to his Guru status that admitting fault was a sacrifice his ego simply would not allow him to make.
Of course, these issues happen in everyday life, too. I am thinking of the many married people who have secret affairs that all too often end in tears. People fall in love and lust all the time, married or not. Again, this is human and not really the problem. It becomes problematic when there’s deceit involved because the married party believes that it will disrupt his or her existing life. Integrity, by contrast, would simply mean an honest conversation between all parties involved in order to find a solution together.
Integrity is not an easy path. It takes courage and the ability to face discomfort. It demands that we ask honest questions of ourselves. It may involve making decisions that interrupt the status quo. It may require us to stand up for what we believe in, or to leave a situation that does not align with our values. It asks us to have a certain amount of self-discipline and to look closely at where we may be lying to ourselves in order to belong, succeed, or be loved.
Sometimes, having integrity can even be dangerous – just think of people like Alexei Navalny, whose fight against corruption and the hypocrisy of the Russian government ultimately cost him his life.
And it can be lonely. When everyone around you pretends that the emperor is wearing clothes, even when he is clearly naked. When you lose your spiritual community because you no longer want to be part of a corrupt, sycophantic system. When your reputation is tarnished because you have the courage to follow your heart. When you get divorced because your marriage no longer fulfils you, and you suddenly face uncertainty. When you change careers in midlife because your true passion lies elsewhere. When you move to a different country because that’s where your soul calls you to be.
There are countless examples of how following your inner guidance can lead you into unknown territory – territory that can, quite frankly, feel terrifying at first.
Personally, I see integrity as a conscious choice. That is where meditation can be so useful. When I sit in silence, it usually becomes clear very quickly when something is out of alignment. I may strongly desire something and at the same time realise what acting on it would cost me in terms of integrity. It is a continuous path, something I can return to again and again.
And it also asks me to be patient with myself, precisely because it is not easy. We all fail from time to time. But what matters more than ideas of perfection is the moment of recognition, and the willingness to repair when we realise that our actions may have hurt another person.
Integrity, then, is less about moral righteousness and more about responsibility toward truth and relationship.
What are your thoughts on integrity? I would love to hear your reflections and experiences.
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