There are far too many women in the church who know too little about sex–more specifically, their own pleasure. Ask me how I know? I was one of them. Just a few years ago, I didn’t even feel comfortable attaching the word “sexy” to my name. By the world’s standards, I am what you call a “late bloomer”—late to dating, sex, but most important, self-confidence.
As a young woman raised by a religious matriarch, everything I learned about sex and relationships from friends, media, and culture was filtered through an ever-so-polarizing evangelical Christian lens that hyper-focused on the damning consequences of hellfire for such worldly offenses. It felt like you could be labeled “fast” for just about anything: red lipstick, your skirt being an inch too short, feeling the music a little too much. It often felt like walking on eggshells, suppressing any bit of curiosity before it settled on the heart and became a desire too severe to control. I lived this way for twenty years. But like many of us come to find out… nothing quite challenges your beliefs like four years away at college.
When I left for undergrad, I thought my headstrong morals and values could not be shaken and that they’d act as an unmovable fortress of protection. I remember being in college and sharing my desire to wait until marriage—a sentiment echoed by a vast majority of young believers I knew—when one of my friends chimed in and said, “You really think you’ll find a man that’s willing to wait?” I was offended. My entire life, that was the narrative pushed on me so the idea that I’d have to compromise was unacceptable. Surely, it couldn’t be that far out of bounds. Little did I know I was in store for a rude awakening when it came to the idea of dating in a digital world. Most of what I imagined dating to be came from 90’s sitcoms that made the worst part of dating look like a lover’s poignant yearning for an unrequited love that, in due time (cue season finale), would in fact come to fruition. And just like that, a hopeless romantic was born. I had so much hope that when it was my time, things would just work, right?
Growing up, I was not the girl who drew the attention of boys. Now, looking back on it, I see how that lack of attention drove so many of the toxic views about myself that I had to shake. Men not showing interest in you does not equate to the amount of love you deserve, but that was the correlation my young adolescent brain formed. So, I spent most of my life running with that narrative, that I wasn’t worthy of love.
When I moved to New York after college, it was like my “glow up” was activated. For the first time, I started to feel seen by men. This was it: “self-worth.” At the time, I was so naive to the games and non-committal realities surrounding dating, but I quickly learned–dating was ghetto. I lost so much of myself in those first few experiences in the “streets.” I so desperately wanted to succeed at my pursuit of love, and I thought men telling me how good I looked was somehow the stamp of approval I needed to be successful in solidifying a relationship. Desperation is never a place you want to be. It is when we feel that emptiness in the pit of our stomach, starvation—a longing too hungry—that we find ourselves constantly bending to the will of others.
I kept trying to appease men, keep their interest, or just so desperately wanting to be noticed, that I didn’t even realize my sense of self slipping away. Who was I? I went from pleasing my family and my church to pleasing men, and neither of these things felt very pleasurable to me. I felt like my entire life, I worked so hard to honor the ideals someone else placed in my mind, that I wasn’t even sure what I believed for myself. The truth of the matter is, anytime you tie your worth to anything outside of yourself—relationships, jobs, etc.—it becomes null and void. You have to start from scratch until you wake up to the reality that your value and worth are not contingent on anyone else but yourself.
There are no rules to navigating the complexities of love, sex, and relationships. Sure, you can lean on elderly wisdom or even make Bell Hooks’ “All About Love” your holy grail, but there will be some things you will have to figure out on your own. One day, while talking to my homegirl, we somehow got on the topic of “sex appeal.” I squirmed at the idea, letting it be known, “I would never use sexy to describe myself.” The utter shock and disapproval I received, followed by, “You don’t think you’re sexy?!” felt like she knew something about me that I myself was not privy to. In her eyes, such words regarding me were blasphemous, and before I knew it, I was being challenged with the task of finding something that made me feel sexy.
My religious background turned me off to anything that felt too close in proximity to sex because if I opened that door, even just a little, I’d never be able to close it. That’s what being sexy was to me: a promiscuity I had been forewarned about. This thought pattern resulted in years of sexual suppression, all in the name of “holiness.” The irony was the shame and depression it caused felt like nothing holy at all. At the time, I didn’t think finding my “sexy” would turn into a reconstruction of my faith, but that was the reality. For the very first time, I allowed myself to lean into curiosity. I started questioning everything: What was it that I actually believed for myself that wasn’t birthed out of fear-mongering? The door cracked open, and I didn’t want to close it.
The journey wasn’t always easy. Sure, the affirmations and sensual exploration were empowering, but it came with some deep inner work to heal a wounded child—the one who had her nail polish removed in the name of modesty, or the one made hyper-aware of her body and how it should NOT be used, but never taught her of its power. There is security in tribal thought. Following the teachings you were born into creates a false sense of security, but it is human nature to evaluate your beliefs and put distance between those that do not support your growth.
Thinking for yourself can induce much fear, but the reward for the growing pains is the establishment of self-worth, self-confidence that a man can’t give. For the first time, I trusted myself to make my own decisions regarding my heart and body. That meant I could no longer punish myself for stepping out of the parameters my family set for me. It meant men who used coercion tactics had the wrong one. When I set out on the journey, I thought liberation would look like utilizing my yes as freely as I willed, but I found the sound of “no” rang more like freedom to my ears. As our Queen stated in the anthem dedicated to many church girls like myself, “Nobody can judge me but me, I was born free.”
