I grew up believing my body was a problem. Not in those words. In the language of purity rings and modesty pledges and sermons that compared girls who’d had sex to chewed gum and wilted flowers. I was told to guard my heart – which really meant guard my hymen. By the time I was 16, I had internalised a simple equation: sex before marriage = damaged goods. I’m 30 now. Married. Consensually, enthusiastically sexual. And that equation? It’s still in there. Buried deep, mostly dormant – but on certain nights, after certain acts, it rises up like an old ghost. Dirty. Wrong. Too much. Here’s how I’m exorcising it.
What purity culture takes from you
Purity culture doesn’t just tell you not to have sex. It teaches you that your body is not yours. It belongs to your father until he gives it to your husband. You are the gatekeeper of male desire – responsible for not provoking it, not encouraging it, not acting on it. Your sexuality is a threat to be neutralised, not a gift to be explored. When you internalise this, you lose more than your virginity when you finally have sex. You lose your sense of ownership over your own body. You don’t know what you want because you were never allowed to ask. You don’t know what feels good because you were trained to monitor your body rather than inhabit it. You were a security guard, not a resident. Even now, years after leaving the church, I catch myself monitoring. Am I being too much? Am I being too sexual? Should I tone it down? The surveillance state moves from the congregation to inside your own head. The guards are gone. The patrols remain.
What’s actually working – the practical unlearning
I see a therapist who specialises in religious trauma. This is not a luxury. It’s an essential. Purity culture trauma is real trauma – and it needs professional support to heal. I bought myself something beautiful and intimate – a body chain. Not for my husband. For me. Putting it on in front of the mirror, alone, was an act of reclamation. My body. My adornment. My gaze. Not his. Not the church’s. Mine. I have started saying what I want out loud – even when my voice shakes. In bed, I’ll say: I want this. I like that. Not tonight. Yes please. Each sentence is a brick in a new foundation. The old foundation was built by people who never asked me what I wanted. The new one is mine. I’m still building it. The work is slow. But for the first time, the house feels like home.
If purity culture stole your body from you – you’re allowed to take it back. Not by rebelling against everything. By listening to yourself. One desire at a time. One yes at a time. One no at a time. This is not sin. This is sovereignty.
More stories like this.
Real talk about desire, intimacy, and figuring yourself out. No spam. Just honest writing.