The story of how I lost my virginity — a tale I long held onto — was a lie. A fiction as false as the construct itself, I fabricated the narrative to please my boyfriend. Before we got together, he expressed that my chastity was one of the most appealing qualities I possessed. His previous girlfriend had not been a virgin, and he resented not having been her first. Sloppy seconds, the boys called it. Although I became sexually active with him, I’d done it once before, a fact that I clearly needed to keep secret if I wanted him to pick me.
This double standard barely registered to me as a teen. Though premarital sex was not allowed, it was normal for men to have sex before marriage. Raised as a Jehovah’s Witness, a sect of US evangelical Christianity, my mother hoped the religion would safeguard her daughters against the violence she’d endured — a common response to abuse and gender discrimination. In reality, however, organized religion often uses fear to control our bodies, corrupting natural rites of passage through an anti-pleasure philosophy.
Over a decade of affiliation, I watched as the church judged and punished dozens of women for acting upon their desires. The men who did the same didn’t face any humiliation or consequences. Sequestered behind closed doors for hours, girls had no choice but to answer to a tribunal of elders — three or four self-appointed, middle-aged white men — who, through an intimately inappropriate line of questioning and based on the rumors they had heard about each girl’s behavior, assessed her level of repentance. From what I saw, the tribunal never believed any of the women or girls were contrite.
“Raised as a Jehovah’s Witness, a sect of US evangelical Christianity, my mother hoped the religion would safeguard her daughters against the violence she’d endured — a common response to abuse and gender discrimination. In reality, however, organized religion often uses fear to control our bodies, corrupting natural rites of passage through an anti-pleasure philosophy.”
jessica hoppe
When the elders deemed the victims guilty, everyone would find out. An appointed elder read their names aloud at the following service, publicly declaring their status to the congregation as disfellowshipped, which initiated a period of banishment. No one could speak to or acknowledge her for months — some for years — until the elders decided she was repentant and approved her reinstatement.
Through this indoctrination and the gravity of our family history, I began to think of my sexuality as separate from my body, aligning myself with the dictates of purity culture in order to be chosen. So I could feel safe. I had no idea I’d fallen prey to a favorite instrument of white supremacy.
Evangelists contextualize sex exclusively within a heteronormative framework and uphold the image of a thin, able-bodied, cis, straight, white woman as the epitome of purity, perpetuating colonial and Eurocentric values that systemically oppress women of color. The promise to wait for marriage seems universal, but what is the result when that aspiration is unattainable no matter your actions because it’s at odds with your identity?
As it turns out, it can wreak havoc on your mental health and familial relationships. A study conducted at University of Massachusetts Boston found that while the normalization of oppression — the restriction of sexual agency, the teaching of shame as a response to pleasure, and the perpetuation of rape culture — harms all, women of color were uniquely injured by the alienation of the rhetoric, expressing symptoms that “mimic that of posttraumatic stress disorder.”
“Specifically within the Latinx community, purity culture comes from marianismo, a deep devotion toward the Virgin Mary and a set of beliefs that encourage women to be pure, wait until marriage, respect patriarchal values, and self-sacrifice for the sake of the family.”
Adriana Alejandre
“Specifically within the Latinx community, purity culture comes from marianismo, a deep devotion toward the Virgin Mary and a set of beliefs that encourage women to be pure, wait until marriage, respect patriarchal values, and self-sacrifice for the sake of the family, ” Adriana Alejandre, a Licensed Marriage and Family Therapist and founder of Latinx Therapy tells Refinery29 Somos. “Whereas, the opposite is allowed for men. There is more forgiveness when men do not respect purity culture than for girls or women. When individuals outgrow this controlling perspective, it often creates estrangement among family members.”
Alejandre further explains that the effects from childhood are lifelong and require that we “unlearn harmful messages around sexuality and gender, such as virginity being a woman’s only worth and gift to husband upon marriage, being ashamed of sexual desires, [dressing] modestly, among many others.”
It is in regaining self-trust that healing can begin. Alejandre advises her clients to pay attention to the feeling of control and imposition. When is the message not coming from within you? “We can reject purity culture by embracing liberation, having open and developmentally appropriate conversations about sex to children, refraining from making statements such as, ‘sex is for marriage,’ and teaching all generations about body autonomy and consent,” she explains. “Lastly, I would recommend journaling about messages you received around sex, sexual education, consent, and sexual expression. Some questions to ask can include: How do these topics make me feel when I talk about them out loud to someone else? What are messages I grew up with? What are some beliefs I still carry even though I may not want to? How has my sexual expression changed over time?”
“It is my choice now to rebuke it and reclaim my own: Pleasure is holy; it is freedom, and it is my birthright.”
JESSICA HOPPE
While I do not turn to scripture often in my recovery from religious and sexual trauma, I do take delight in knowing that the Bible muses erotically through the entire Book of Solomon: A sensual collection of poems depicting lustful, consensual encounters ripe with juicy metaphors for arousal, genitalia, oral sex, and a woman who is not cast to fall on her back and receive; she is the pursuant. It is the story of her sexual awakening, and she never suffers for her passion. The sex is triumphant.
In rereading these ancient texts, I am reminded that it is the church’s calculated interpretations that have perverted sex with shame, a toxic message perpetuated from pulpits all over the world and across generations. It is my choice now to rebuke it and reclaim my own: Pleasure is holy; it is freedom, and it is my birthright. Here, three Latinas from different religious backgrounds discuss how they liberated themselves from purity culture and what they found on the other side.
Joy Valerie Carrera
I grew up evangelical Christian. To me, purity culture was something that was about remaining pure for God, and how it manifested in my life was through unrealistic standards of perfectionism in my relationships, in my behavior, and in my ways of being to ensure that I would one day enter heaven and could not afford to mess up because of one tiny thing. It fed into this anxiety. As a neurodivergent child, it made me feel like I was constantly messing up and not fitting this mold of “perfect.” It contributed to masking so much of who I truly was.
As a teenager, I remember signing a pact with God that I would remain pure until marriage. I was given a key to symbolize my virginity, the key to my heart that on my wedding night I would give to my husband. When I was 16, I thought I was in love with my high school boyfriend. I was waiting for marriage, and we had been dating for a year. My hormonal teenage brain figured a “loophole” would be that it was fine if we had sex because we would eventually get married. I ended up leaving religion at 18, but the conditioning was there and something I would keep learning to rewire. I had been raised to believe that once you had sex, you were tied and bonded to the person for a lifetime, so I ended up staying in this relationship longer than I should have, even though it was unhealthy. I had this guilt and shame that I could not break my pact with God.
“Purity culture was something that was about remaining pure for God, and how it manifested in my life was through unrealistic standards of perfectionism in my relationships, in my behavior, and in my ways of being to ensure that I would one day enter heaven.”
Joy Valerie Carrera
I was assaulted at 21, and that was a huge turning point for me because I logically knew it was not my fault, but I had that deep ingrained belief that because I had betrayed God and left the church I was being punished. I transitioned into the complete opposite, exploring my sexuality fully and doing everything that I was told I was not supposed to, but still had this underlying guilt and shame.
It has taken me 10 years of therapy, coaching, deep reflection, so much exploration, and embracing self-love to unlearn the deep, old religious conditioning. I now feel more confident in who I am and realize when the shame pops up, those aren’t my beliefs. They are beliefs that are ready to be liberated. This next phase of my journey, I hope to keep letting go of those to enter into conscious, intimate, and healthy relationships free from the pressure that my religious upbringing put on me.
Margot Spindola
As a cis Latina woman who went to Catholic K-12 school in a small rural town, purity culture was communicated to me through a series of insidious signals and messages that brought about immense introspection, shame, and insecurity about my own body — something I still struggle with unlearning to this day.
I learned about purity in Catholic school. While in seventh grade, I took a sexual education course taught by one of the moms of the community who was also a registered nurse. Despite her background, I distinctly remember her standing at the front of the class, waving her hands in the air, and telling us, “Condoms are of the devil.”
When I was 14 or 15 years old, my immigrant mami slipped a “God’s Plan” brochure underneath my bedroom door.I was already on my way to having sex by then, so it’s maddening that other people felt like they had control over my body when I was barely even wrapping my head around my own relationship with it.
In my junior year of high school, I attended what they called a “Morality” class, where philosophical debate and scripture overlapped and we would spend hours listening to my teacher drone on about natural family planning and how having premarital sex would send me straight on the path to purgatory. Because I was already feeling the asphyxiating grasp of organized religion’s hands around my neck, I knew that this talk of being a virgin was likely to be a scam. I didn’t yet realize or understand the invisible script it had coded into my body as I grew older. For a short time, I wore a purity ring. At the time, I didn’t truly resonate with my body and felt numb. Following the scripts my community gave me felt like the only way forward.
“The most radical act of rejecting purity culture is acknowledging the harms it has perpetuated.”
Margot Spindola
Fast-forward to today, I’m 27 years old, and I embrace pleasure. But this didn’t happen overnight. It was a gradual process of self-reflection, critical thinking, and having conversations about sex. My body is no longer someone else’s to dictate. Instead, it is the “practice ground for transformation,” as adrianne maree brown so thoughtfully affirms in her book, Pleasure Activism. I’m thankful for the ways I was taught, regardless of the harm caused, because for better or for worse, it became a catalyst for my reckoning with my body. Instead of ignoring my body’s signals for pleasure (sexual or not), I embrace the ups and downs of where it takes me.
It has taken, and will take me, a long time to get to a place of crafting my own pleasure practice. It’s not to say that shame doesn’t sneak up on me, or that sometimes sex with a man can feel pressuring or the need to serve comes up. But the most radical act of rejecting purity culture is acknowledging the harms it has perpetuated.
Cindy Luquin
From my earliest memories, the concept of purity culture was ingrained in me through my family’s religious beliefs, particularly within the context of Pentecostalism. As the first child born in my family, I witnessed how religious congregations often served as a sanctuary for immigrant families from Latin America when they first arrived in the US, providing a sense of belonging and practical support.
The strong influence of Pentecostalism, combined with my Guatemalan heritage, created a subtle denial of our Maya Indigenous roots within our religious practice. I vividly recall an incident when I was just 4 years old, dressing up in traditional Indigenous clothing for a church event, which stirred conflicting emotions of pride and unease.
These early encounters with purity culture and the erasure of our Maya heritage left a lasting impression, highlighting the complex interplay between religious teachings, cultural identity, and the need for acceptance within the community. As I grew older, the effects of purity culture manifested in a profound internal struggle. I felt wrong for questioning the belief system and witnessed a disturbing double standard regarding gender roles and abusive behaviors.
“Although remnants of my religious upbringing occasionally resurface, I have done the necessary work in therapy and through personal healing to reclaim my bodily autonomy and liberate myself from judgment.”
Cindy Luquin
The impact of purity culture led me to suppress my true identity and creative expression as a queer bisexual person. It burdened me with shame and guilt, leading to physical manifestations and a strategy of “faking” illness to avoid attending church. Only later did I realize that these feelings were genuine, rooted in the anxiety I felt about the constraints imposed on me.
In my early 20s, the pivotal experience of moving away to college granted me the freedom to explore my true identity and embark on a journey of self-discovery. Today, I proudly identify as a spiritual queer person, reconnecting with my Maya heritage and embracing the wisdom of Maya cosmology, which values earth, medicine, and nature.
Although remnants of my religious upbringing occasionally resurface, I have done the necessary work in therapy and through personal healing to reclaim my bodily autonomy and liberate myself from judgment. This process has instilled in me a sense of responsibility to support and guide others as a queer elder and educator, free from judgment.
Interviews have been edited for clarity and brevity.
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