Why Chastity Didn’t Work for Me

In my late teens and early twenties, I felt like I was living a double life. On the outside, I was the picture of moral uprightness, a good girl who was saving herself for marriage. But on the inside, I was a swirling mess of longing and frustration, like a dam trying to hold back a flood. My desires were real, undeniable, and far stronger than I was ready to admit, even to myself. Instead, I convinced myself that chastity wasn’t just the right path—it was the only path.

I grew up in small-town Australia, where sex was a topic to be avoided at all costs. My father, bless him, once attempted to explain how babies were made by referring to a mysterious “special mechanism” men possess. That was it. Conversation over. Mum wasn’t much better—she would clam up entirely when anything even remotely anatomical came up. Their awkward silence communicated volumes: sex was off-limits, a taboo to be navigated alone, preferably in complete ignorance.

So, like many kids, I turned to my peers and the media for answers. Movies, whispered gossip, and the occasional scandalous magazine pilfered from my brother provided a cobbled-together education. By the time I hit university, I had a vague understanding of sex and a boatload of curiosity, but I had also internalised one crystal-clear message: good girls waited.

Enter my pious best friend. She was devout, idealistic, and determined to save herself for marriage, and I admired her resolve. Somehow, I allowed myself to be swept up in her puritanical worldview. Together, we made a pact: we would kiss boys—lots of boys, if we wanted—but nothing more. Not until we found our future husbands, who would, of course, be just as morally pure as we were pretending to be.

And so began my years of “wholesome promiscuity,” where I kissed my way through university but refused to go beyond first base. At first, it felt empowering, like I was taking control of my sexuality. But over time, it began to feel hollow. My desires were growing stronger, and the boundaries I’d set felt less like a moral high ground and more like a prison I’d built for myself.

Each kiss would spark something deeper in me—an ache, a longing—but the guilt I carried was heavier than the thrill. I was desperate to experience something real, but I’d convinced myself that anything more than a chaste kiss would somehow unravel my worth.

This internal conflict made dating a nightmare. One boyfriend, who was sweet but shy, sent his friends to convince me to sleep with him because he couldn’t muster the courage to ask me directly. When I refused, the relationship fizzled. Others barely lasted a few weeks before it became clear that my chastity promise wasn’t compatible with their expectations.

I wish I could tell you I had a grand epiphany, a moment when I realised that chastity wasn’t serving me and decided to claim my sexuality. But the truth is less poetic. At 21, I was simply tired—tired of holding myself back, tired of feeling disconnected from the person I knew I wanted to be. And, frankly, tired of being a virgin when most of my friends had long since moved on from that phase.

Read more about losing my virginity on my Substack Newsletter