The house looks like any other on a residential street in Stamford Hill.

Yet a sticker pasted in the window by the front door hints at the quiet revolution behind this unassuming entrance.

"I can and I will. Watch me," it states, in bold white lettering against a black background.

"It's my motto," says Esther Davis, who greets me in a low-cut vest top, as her teenage son leaves the house.

Donning skinny jeans, glittery eyeshadow, tattoos and plenty of bling, Ms Davis could not look more out of place in this shtetl-like neighbourhood.

But there are hints of her past life everywhere: outsized mezuzot, wall-to-wall religious texts and a photograph album packed with barmitzvah shots, taken just four years ago

In the images stands the unremarkable teenager who opened the door to me just moments before - but without his wide-brimmed hat and long dark peyot, he is totally unrecognisable now. As is the proud woman beside him, in a sheitel and conservative navy dress - I almost do a double-take.

Eighteen months ago, Ms Davis separated from her husband - and her faith.

Now, the mother-of-three has invited me into her home to talk about the "cult-like" community she walked away from.

"I live a 100 per cent secular life and don't even consider myself Jewish any more," she says candidly.

So what of the huge mezuzah on the front door, and the books that dominate the walls of the otherwise rather bare lounge? Ms Davis explains that she has tried to remove the mezuzah, while the books belong to her two sons.

My level of religious observance is on the opposite end of the spectrum to the one outside these four walls but still I feel myself doubting her story and questioning her motives. So imagine how her words are received by those from within her inner circle.

Leaving the fold, or stepping "off the derech" (OTD) as it is often referred to, has come at a high price.

"I've lost everyone, my family, friends and former colleagues," says Ms Davis, who used to work with children with special needs. "But to compensate for that, I've gained my freedom, which was definitely worth it."

The 37-year-old is the second of 10 children who, by her own admission, has always been headstrong. This goes some way to explaining why she agreed to feature in a BBC documentary about the Stamford Hill community which airs soon.

"At school, the headteacher said I shouldn't ask questions and called me a non-believer," she recalls. "I got excluded from seminary for asking questions. I never got any answers."

Ms Davis can see her older sister's house from where she lives, yet the two women have not spoken in months.

"At first, I just thought she was very busy," says Ms Davis. "But people were telling me her rabbi advised her to distance herself. She denied it but I haven't heard from her since."

At the age of 19, she entered into an arranged marriage with a man eight years older. She had grown up within the Lubavitch movement, while her husband was a convert, having been born to a Jewish father and churchgoing mother.

Soon after they wed, Ms Davis's husband hinted that he wished to adopt a more hard-line Chasidic Judaism. He suggested she shave her head and give up driving, both of which she refused to do.

"He changed drastically - from being pretty sane and normal to this ultra-Orthodox guy. There's a very big difference between Lubavitch and Chasidic, particularly in the way women are treated."

"Years later, I found out that, while we were engaged, he told his rabbi he was seeing this girl who was not interested in becoming Chasidic. His rabbi told him to 'play the game - once you are married, you can do whatever you want'. "

Clearly emotional, Ms Davis continues: "How can someone do that to a 19-year-old girl? It's barbaric."

I recall my rebellious self at that age, adorned with piercings and make-up and off to university for three years of freedom. That same sense of independence, I realise, has finally struck Ms Davis.

In particular, she is angry at a community that, she says, enslaves women by encouraging extremely large families and denies women the right to earn their own money.

Still awaiting her civil divorce, Ms Davis has her get and has reverted to using her maiden name. The marriage, she says, was "rocky from day one", but she stayed, "because it's what you're meant to do".

Nevertheless, years of unhappiness left Ms Davis with extremely low self-esteem, which led her to have weight-loss surgery. Unfortunately, there were major complications, which she believes almost cost her her life. Spending close to two years on and off in hospital, her faith began to ebb away.

"I would read my newspaper with my iPad behind it on Shabbat. I hadn't fasted on Yom Kippur for years," she explains. "Those things went on behind closed doors and nobody really knew about it. I kind of got away with it because I was ill."

But when the marriage broke down, so did her façade.

"I finally got my ex out of my life last year and that's when I decided to be true to myself and drop the faith."

Since then, she has been shunned by the community, including her parents and eight of her siblings - the ninth has also lost her faith.

"They helped me initially but, when I started making changes that's when I quickly stopped hearing from them."

Her children, however, gave her the strength to continue. As Ms Davis battled with her own identity, she discovered that her elder son was facing similar turmoil.

"He came to me and said he was living a secret life," she recalls. "He was having issues at school and, after a lot of really difficult arguments between him and his father, he started leading a secular life. Unfortunately, he got excluded from school because of his choice and so left with no real qualifications."

The religious school system is at the heart of the problem, she believes.

"The community is very segregated and there is no education in school," she claims. "Lessons are mostly taught in Yiddish or Hebrew with just one hour in English at the end of the day.

Of her own son, she says: "He's paying the price for having been brought up in the Hassidic world. If he ever has to write a CV, he will have no qualifications to put on it."

Due to financial constraints, Ms Davis remains in her marital home - unable to leave the community that she says has treated her so coldly.

"There is no humanity," she says. "Once you leave, they no longer care about you. There were a lot of nasty rumours going round about me, my son and our family. It made me really angry that the presumption was that I was a bad person.

"I recently joined a support group for ex-cult members. I knew the word cult before, but had never put it together with my experience. Then I realised that what I'd been through was the same.

"The whole thing of withholding education from people and the awful treatment of women. They are not physically holding you down - it's a prison of the mind. The community relies on intimidation, fear and control. If you step a foot wrong, you lose everything."

"It's unbelievable how many ex-Chasidic guys turn up at this group," she continues. "If you listen to everybody else's story, it's exactly the same. In some ways, the ultra-Orthodox Jewish community is even more extreme."

So why speak now?

"It's not about revenge. There are so many people who are desperate to leave but they're trapped. A lot of people crumble. Countless people have committed suicide because they feel they can't cope with it. It's an absolute tragedy."

Unafraid to air her views, Ms Davis regularly does so online to the thousands of people who follow her on social media and read a blog which she writes.

"I honestly feel I'm speaking out for people who have no voice," she says. "People contact me and say 'that's me'. It gives me the incentive to carry on."

But this openness has also led to threats and unwanted attention.

"There's not many single people around here so when I first separated I could have slept with a different guy every night," she says. "That's how many men contacted me - mostly through fake accounts on Facebook.

"These married men often have two phones: a kosher one with a hechsher, and a secret smartphone. They have been repressed and have no sexual education. They don't know about women or understand that I'm a person and not a sexual object."

Her reputation has far reaching implications. After a recent flooding emergency, Ms Davis tried - but failed - to hire a local plumber.

"Am I such a bad person that they won't even come to my house to fix my bathroom in an emergency?" she asks.

In August, the JC reported that Charedim in Stamford Hill had raised £1 million to fight legal cases involving children they deem to be at risk of removal from the community by a parent. Ms Davis strongly suspects this fund may have benefited her relatives, who did not want her to keep her three children.

"I was made out to be really awful. According to their allegations, I was living a hedonistic lifestyle, drinking and taking drugs," says Ms Davis, who hopes to retrain as a paramedic.

Like others in her situation, Ms Davis has relied upon support groups like Mavar, which describes itself as a "confidential service that helps people from the Charedi community explore new paths in life".

A spokeswoman for the charity says its aim is not to encourage people or "proselytise", but "to make sure people can make personal choices by having someone they can turn to". Mavar assists with a range of issues, providing contact with anyone from lawyers to therapists.

Social psychologist Dr Alexandra Stein is one of the founders of a support group for former cult member (www.alexandrastein.com), which Ms Davis attends. She says the 37-year-old is far from the only ex-Charedi to join the group.

"The mainstream Jewish community doesn't really understand the lived experience of people who are growing up in these communities," Dr Stein explains.

"They are in a kind of limbo. It's a very frightening thing to do, like stepping into the void. People cope however they can, but some need to tell their story."

Clare Kirby, a solicitor who specialises in helping victims of cults and religious movements, adds: "Sadly, Esther's story is not an isolated case.

"The Jewish community should be aware of what is happening in their midst. Esther is incredibly brave and her story illustrates just how badly someone can be treated when they reject a brand of Orthodoxy."

Representatives of the Stamford Hill Charedi community were approached for their response to this this article but did not wish to comment.