Unlearning Purity Culture: Reclaiming My Voice, My Body, My Worth

This is my truth—my experiences, my journey. I share them not to condemn, but to shed light. To offer a hand to those who, like me, have felt the weight of toxic standards disguised as faith. The kind that silences your voice, shames your doubts, and twists devotion into control. If my story encourages even one person to question what they’ve been taught to endure, to seek a faith rooted in freedom rather than fear, then sharing it is worth it.

When It Began.

I didn’t grow up in purity culture. I wasn’t raised with the idea that my body was something to be policed, or that my interactions with men needed to be monitored like a dangerous game of temptation. That came later, when I was a young adult searching for faith, searching for community.

And it found me.

At first, I believed I was stepping into something holy—something that would make me better, purer, closer to God. But what I actually walked into was a system designed to control, to shame, and to strip away my ability to think for myself.

When Modesty Became My Measure of Worth

Purity culture made me feel like my worth and even my salvation were deeply tied to what I wore, how I carried myself, and how I interacted with the opposite sex. It was no longer enough to pursue a relationship with God—I also had to abide by a set of unspoken (and spoken) rules that dictated what it meant to be a “godly woman.”

My confidence? It was slowly chipped away, boxed into the narrow standards of what was deemed "appropriate." I didn’t realize it at first, but my identity was no longer my own—it was molded by the words of church leaders, not the gospel itself. Like many others, I valued their opinions more than my own. More than my lived experiences. More than the truth of who I knew I was in Christ.

And when I started stepping away from that environment, the hardest realization I had was just how little I had been thinking for myself.

…and to this day, I see many others not thinking for themselves, but instead being led by their idolization of church leadership.

The Bikini That Shouldn’t Have Been a Big Deal

'“ I was a danger to others just by existing in my own body.”

I didn’t wear a bikini for years—not because I didn’t feel confident in my body, but because I was made to feel like I shouldn’t. That the simple act of revealing too much skin was a moral failure on my part. That it was my responsibility to keep men from “stumbling.”

A past friend once told me she wouldn’t want me wearing a bikini around her husband.

It wasn’t just her. The obsession with women’s clothing—how much was covered, how much was showing, what was “acceptable” and what wasn’t—was constant. One-pieces were fine. Cleavage was not. Your butt had to be mostly covered, as if these rules could somehow erase the shape of my body.

And as someone with a larger chest, I felt like I was the problem.

No matter what I wore, I felt inappropriate. I felt like my body was inherently too much, like I had to shrink myself, hide myself, diminish myself to be seen as worthy. The term “stumbling block” still makes me cringe as I write this, because that’s what I felt like—a danger to others just by existing in my own body.

The Rules Went Beyond Clothing

When I joined a local church near my hometown, the rules of purity culture didn’t stop at my clothing.

The control didn’t stop at what I wore. It spilled over into how I spoke, how I interacted, and even how I existed around men.

The women at the church I joined saw me as reckless and the “new girl the guys were attracted to.”

I’ve always carried myself with social confidence. I’ve never had a problem speaking to men or women, whether in casual conversation or deeper discussion. But in this environment, that confidence was a problem. I started feeling afraid to casually interact with men in a public setting. It turns out, being friendly wasn’t acceptable unless I had an intention—unless I was looking at a man as a potential husband. I was told, “You can’t be friends with the opposite sex; that never works.” The implication? That friendship with a man, without the intention of dating him, is misleading—as if my presence alone must come with an agenda.

"If this man isn’t going to be your husband, you shouldn’t entertain him."

That was the underlying rule.

The idea that men and women could simply coexist, that relationships and interactions could be casual, natural, human, was frowned upon. At 27 years old, I found myself being treated like a child—like a 13-year-old who didn’t know any better.

During an internship I was part of, it was forbidden to be in a room with a closed door with a man. Casual conversations with men needed to be done with caution, cause any casual conversation could always turn into sexual sin, right?. * I laughed as I wrote that* There was this underlying fear around men and women interacting unless there was some kind of predetermined, marriage-oriented purpose.

I still remember when my pastor looked at me and said:

"Be careful, you have a personality that men like."

Was he calling me a flirt? Was he implying I shouldn’t speak to men unless I was pursuing marriage? Why did a pastor think he had any authority over how I interacted with men at all?

Why did so many people, who I never invited into that part of my life, feel like they had a say in how I spoke, how I dressed, how I lived?

The Journey of Unlearning

I still believe modesty is a beautiful value—one that I cherish and live by. But now, it’s defined by my prayerful convictions, not the expectations of others. It’s no longer rooted in fear, shame, or a desire to be deemed “acceptable” by flawed human standards. I know there will be people who read this and think I’m rebelling. And they’re right. I am rebelling—not against faith, not against God, but against the self-righteous rules and misplaced shame that were never meant to define my worth…or yours.

There’s so much more to unpack. And I will—piece by piece, in future writings.

But as I stand in the present, I’m unlearning.

I’m unlearning the shame.
I’m unlearning the control.
I’m unlearning the idea that my body, my voice, my confidence are things to be feared.

I’ve found healing in talking to others who have been through the same thing. I’ve found healing in writing, because writing is a form of wellness, a way to release what was never meant to be mine to carry. And most importantly, I’ve found healing in sharing my truths, because the truth sets you free.

And I intend to be free.