How I Healed From 16 Years of Sex Shame

I played the “virgin,” became a “whore,” then finally liberated myself.

Walking through Walmart with my mom, we searched for my first bra. At 11 years old, I felt horrified; she laughed about it. I skirted awkwardly through the aisles, checking for anyone I might know; I wanted to hide.

Thus began my unwilling journey, morphing into a woman’s body. Though I couldn’t have explained myself, I felt humiliated by my physical expression of femininity.

I grew up surrounded by loyal Christians. My social exposure shrank further when my parents decided to homeschool my brother and me. Our modest social schedule consisted mainly of religious events, dinners with pastors, and hangouts with church-goers. As a child, I was endlessly curious, energetic, and determined. Yet, these misogynistic, hierarchical environments primed me for many years of confusion, emotional damage, and abuse.

Through repeated religious messaging and other male-told histories, I understood early-on that others would evaluate me by my sexual “purity.” Women who saved sex for marriage earned a high social status, while sexually-open women lost respectability. These rigid principles caused me to feel embarrassed, inadequate, and ashamed of my body’s desires.

As a devout young Christian woman, I carefully played the “virgin” until, inch by inch, I failed. After years of feeling traumatized, something snapped: I became the “whore.” Men and women slut-shamed me, older men sexually abused me multiple times, and maybe worst of all, I had consensual sex with people who saw me as interchangeable.

These restrictive patriarchal archetypes hurt everyone, especially women, and it’s not okay. Before normalized patriarchy, women were honored and revered for their sexuality and intuitive wisdom. Now we are made to feel shame when we enjoy sex. Before we can experience a safe, emotionally-whole culture, we have to stop accepting that it’s okay to judge a woman by her sexual “purity.” When you reduce someone’s humanity, everyone loses.

What if we collectively agreed that sexuality is a blessing, not a curse? Can we stop critiquing women’s every wardrobe choice and start encouraging them to flourish authentically? Why can’t we teach young girls that a woman’s value has absolutely nothing to do with her sexual expression?

When I played the “virgin”

A determined child raised in a misogynist culture, I strived to meet others’ expectations.

Religious leaders repeatedly urged women to dress modestly and plainly. At home, my dad lectured me too: “Shoulders to knees, nobody touches, nobody sees” as a clothing mantra or “Don’t look! They’re sinning! They’re not married,” when couples kissed on screen.

Sealing in the message, I read Bible stories about whole communities legally stoning women to death for sexual impurity (either consensual or forced).

“Evangelical purity culture had convinced me that if I did choose to have sex outside of marriage, I would ruin any chance I had at a life,” — Rebecca Renner summed it up effectively.

Though I now felt terrified of ever having sex, hormones surged as my woman’s body formed.

My teen years felt confusing, filled with mixed messages.

Boys and men treated me oddly. My brother labeled me a “whore” when I first started wearing makeup. But I was just having fun. My male childhood best friend informed me I had a nice butt, then tried to sexually “educate” me. I just wanted to hang out like we always did. Our male pastor criticized my revealing clothes, saying I was enjoying the attention too much.

Without awareness of the ego insecurities at play, I internalized that something must be wrong with me.

Then, I experienced romantic love for another high school senior — let’s call him Jeremiah. He took advanced medical courses, studying to be a doctor, volunteered as a firefighter after school, and charmed everyone he met, including the adults.

Jeremiah and I began dating, saying “I love you” and touching each other. When our conversations included marriage, I gave in; we made love. If we were going to marry anyway, I’d technically still be a “good girl.”

My body came alive. Finally, I understood the feeling behind secular singers’ passionate love songs. I experienced glorious, breath-taking, sexual bliss. As we held each other afterward, I glowed with a new knowing. Is this how heaven feels?

After that, Jeremiah and I had sex every chance we could. Our peers said we were adorable; we had “puppy love.”

But a few months later, the fighting started. Through the heated disagreements, I clung tightly to our relationship. More than loving Jeremiah or our fiery sex, I had to be a “good Christian.”

We broke up on senior prom night. I uncontrollably sobbed as I walked home at 3 am carrying my red prom dress. I felt traumatized, shattered, ashamed. I didn’t just lose my partner, best friend, and humble high school status; I failed at the most crucial expectation my community gave me: save sex for marriage.

I took the breakup pretty hard. I cried for a year straight and didn’t have sex again for three years. If a flirtation (and there were many) came anywhere near sex, I would either say “we’re not married yet” or burst into tears. I’m a sinner. How could anyone love me? I can’t keep failing.

Then I met another “Mr. Right,” let’s call him Liam. He was several years older, doted on me endlessly, and seemed enchanted by my every move. Liam became my best friend. A few months later, he talked about marrying me. Maybe I could redeem my “virgin” status.

Then slowly, gently, we started having sex. But the more I pictured the white-picket-fence, small-town lifestyle Liam imagined for us, I couldn’t do it. After another painful, drawn-out breakup, something snapped inside me.

Why I became the “whore”

Once convinced I could no longer fulfill the “virgin” role expected of me, my repressed sexuality broke free. Though I had also abstained from substance use, that form of “good girl” ended as well. As I was finishing college, I began to embrace my failure. I became the “whore.”

There’s likely nothing as powerful as a “good girl” obsession to cause a woman to rebel. I was unconsciously desperate for balance.

A few more factors influenced the hedonism that followed: I didn’t receive enough attention as a child, craved external validation, felt cripplingly insecure, and experienced decades of narcissistic abuse. Like a rubber band pulled too tightly, I snapped.

“It’s better to be whole than good,” — John Purkiss. I wish I understood wholeness back then.

Going “wild” can be empowering, assuming you have safeguards in place. But in my rebellious spirit, I let go of most boundaries. I repeatedly got into dangerous situations, i.e., showing up to house parties alone, drinking way too much for my small body, smoking weed with people I recently met or getting intimate with many people for the wrong reasons.

I needed to live up to my new “whore” status.

The truth is, I had a good time exploring sensations more freely. I felt enticed by this sexy, edgy, spontaneous persona I saw in myself. I look back fondly on some of my erotic, fantasy-fulfilling, mind-altering sexual experiences. Getting drunk or high felt silly, freeing, and seemed to foster exciting new connections. For the first time in my life, I felt like a cool kid.

But beneath this “cool girl” exterior, I felt terrible about myself. When men (and women) criticized my sexuality, I felt the blow deeply. He’s right. I’m horrible, an evil temptress. I accepted misogyny as normal; that’s how I grew up. I barely recognized the blatant sexism that surrounded me.

When older men sexually abused me on multiple occasions, I didn’t even consider sharing what happened. I must have deserved that. They’re treating me how I feel: worthless. I’m lucky to have survived with few life-changing scars; many women aren’t as fortunate.

“Self-hatred is only ever a seed planted from the outside in. When you soak a child in shame, they cannot develop the neurological pathways that carry thoughts of self-worth,” — Hannah Gadsby in her “Nanette” show. I felt the crippling shame of sexual “impurity.” You can’t “flip a switch” to turn it off.

Unraveling these insidious layers of shame takes years of work. What a tragedy! How horrible! Our most prominent national religion (~70%) devalues, disempowers, and silences women. The people I loved and trusted believed these lies; I accepted them too. We can do better.

How I liberated myself

“There is nothing stronger than a broken woman who has rebuilt herself,” — Hannah Gadsby. I’ll keep sharing this quote because she summed up how I feel so well. After feeling worthless to the point of nearly killing myself, some things became crystal clear.

After an incredibly toxic monogamous relationship (another narcissist), I made significant life changes to free myself. I moved to California, started a new career, explored physical hobbies, and met more open-minded people. I also began exploring ethical polyamory; without confining marital expectations, I grew more authentic.

Over the past year, I prioritized inner work. I sit with my shadows, heal with somatic trauma therapy, express my creativity, and explore my femininity with openness. I study books like “Circle of Stones,” “Addiction to Perfection,” and “Cassandra Speaks” (affiliate links) to understand how male-told stories distort our culture.

Piece by piece, I practice asking for what I want, living by my values, and accepting myself more.

Though I still work to heal the remnants of shame, I’ve learned a few lessons:

• My sexual nature is a beautiful gift.
• I am much more than the body that houses me.
• Being “wild” is glorious; I set safe boundaries.
• “No” is always an option; being “nice” is not a good reason to have sex.
• Instead of chastising my body, I listen to its wisdom.
• If something doesn’t feel right, it probably isn’t.
• There’s nothing wrong with me, and so many things right.
• The people who shamed me are hurting; it was never my fault.
• Judgment separates us; empathy connects us.
• Shame needs silence, judgment, and secrecy to grow; I won’t be silent.

Closing thoughts

“When we deny our stories, they define us. When we own our stories, we get to write a brave new ending,” — Brene Brown.

As I write this article, I feel intense anger about the shame I’ve carried, shame most women understand intimately. No one can heal these wounds with a simple “sorry.” My healing journey is an ongoing process. I constantly show up and remind myself I don’t have to be “perfect,” I don’t need to work for the approval I never received. I am enough.

Though patriarchal distortions won’t shift quickly, I can use my vulnerability to reduce sex shame. Sharing my story is an act of compassion and validation for me and the many women who have suffered.

When we empower women to flourish naturally, we collectively benefit. Now, I see I am far more glorious, fascinating, and expansive than these repressive archetypal boxes could ever contain.

If you remember one thing from my story, I hope it’s this: a woman’s value has absolutely nothing to do with her sexual expression.

Thank you for reading! If you aren’t already a Medium member, join with my referral link — Alice Crady. A portion of your fee goes to writers you read. Subscribe to my account if you’d enjoy regular inspiration and empowerment along your self-actualization journey.

More on feminism: