How Purity Culture Hurts LGBTQ People — and What Healing Really Looks Like
For years, I thought purity culture was just about sex — saving yourself for marriage, staying “pure,” and not tempting anyone to sin. But as I got older, I realized it wasn’t just about behavior. It was about control. It was about teaching people — especially women and queer folks — that their bodies were dangerous, their desires were shameful, and their worth depended on how well they could suppress both.
As a queer therapist who works with survivors of religious trauma, I’ve seen firsthand how purity culture leaves deep scars — especially for LGBTQ people who were told from day one that their very identity was impure. Healing from that requires more than just unlearning bad messages about sex. It means learning how to trust yourself again, to come home to your body, and to believe that love — your love — was never wrong in the first place.
What Purity Culture Really Taught Us
Purity culture is a belief system that emerged within conservative Christianity in the 1990s and 2000s, emphasizing sexual abstinence before marriage and rigid gender roles. It was often framed as a path to holiness and protection — but in practice, it taught millions of people that their worth was tied to their virginity, their ability to control their desires, and their willingness to conform.
In purity culture, the rules were simple:
No sex before marriage.
No sexual thoughts or fantasies.
No “tempting” others with your body.
No questioning the authority that told you all this was God’s plan.
Linda Kay Klein, author of Pure: Inside the Evangelical Movement That Shamed a Generation of Young Women and How I Broke Free, writes that “everyone is expected to maintain absolute sexlessness before marriage — that means no sexual thoughts, feelings, or actions. And upon marriage, they are expected to flip their sexuality on like a light switch.”
If you grew up in that world, you probably remember the metaphors:
A used piece of tape that no longer sticks.
A chewed-up piece of gum that’s lost its flavor.
A rose with no petals left to give.
The message was clear: if you “messed up,” you lost your value.
(And if I may step out of my therapist voice for just a moment — WTAF were we being taught?!)
Beyond the absurd metaphors, these teachings planted a core belief that “purity” equals worthiness, and that your body — especially if it caused anyone else to “stumble” — was something to be feared and controlled. For women and girls, that meant covering up, policing their movements, and feeling responsible for the thoughts and behaviors of men. For queer people, the damage ran even deeper.
The Double Shame for Queer People
Most purity culture messaging assumed a heterosexual world — one man, one woman, one marriage. But if you were queer, you learned early on that your desires didn’t fit the script.
If sex before marriage between a man and woman was a sin, what did that make you for desiring someone of the same gender?
For LGBTQ people, purity culture didn’t just say “don’t have sex.” It said your kind of love is inherently sinful. The result? Double the shame.
If a queer person in a faith community had any kind of sexual experience, they didn’t just “fail” the purity test — they were breaking two unspoken rules:
The rule against pre-marital sex.
The rule against queerness itself.
And even if they remained celibate, many still internalized the belief that they were broken, unholy, or “living outside of God’s design.”
Churches often softened this with phrases like “hate the sin, love the sinner” or “same-sex relationships aren’t God’s best for you.” But the message was the same — you could belong, just not fully. You could be welcomed, but never affirmed. You could serve, but not lead.
That conditional belonging — being “tolerated” but not celebrated — created what I often call spiritual second-class citizenship. It taught queer people that love was something they had to earn by suppressing who they were.
The Long-Term Impact: Shame, Disconnection, and Distrust of the Body
The harm of purity culture isn’t just in what was said. It’s in what was implied:
That desire is dangerous.
That bodies can’t be trusted.
That goodness means disconnection.
These messages create lifelong patterns of shame, self-doubt, and body disconnection. Survivors of purity culture often tell me that they feel detached from their bodies, unsure of what they want, or even afraid to experience pleasure.
Dr. Hillary McBride, author of The Wisdom of Our Bodies, writes that when we’re taught our bodies are bad or that our desires cause harm, the natural defense mechanism is disembodiment — a kind of separation from the body’s wisdom. For queer survivors, this can show up as chronic self-monitoring, anxiety about intimacy, and a deep mistrust of one’s own instincts.
And all of this is reinforced by one of the most destructive beliefs of all: the doctrine of original sin. The idea that we are born inherently bad — broken, corrupt, and in need of saving — primes people to accept the shame purity culture hands them. Feeling guilty, small, and unworthy becomes familiar, even spiritual. But that kind of discomfort doesn’t grow you — it traps you. It keeps you from healing, connecting, and thriving.
Reclaiming the Body and Healing from Purity Culture
Healing from purity culture as a queer person isn’t about replacing one set of rules with another. It’s about reclaiming your right to exist — fully, freely, and in your body.
That healing might begin with questions like:
What would it mean to trust my body again?
What if my desires aren’t sinful, but sacred?
What if freedom looks like belonging to myself, not to a belief system that told me I was wrong?
You deserve a relationship with yourself that isn’t built on shame.
If you’re looking for places to start, here are a few resources that I often recommend:
Pure by Linda Kay Klein — A compassionate look at how purity culture shaped a generation, told through personal stories and collective healing.
Beyond Shame by Matthias Roberts — Written by a queer therapist and theologian, this book explores how to define healthy sexuality on your own terms.
The Wisdom of Our Bodies by Hillary McBride — A powerful guide to reconnecting with your body after years of disconnection or shame.
These are wonderful companions on the journey — but remember, the most important part of healing is giving yourself permission to stop living by someone else’s blueprint.
A Final Word
If you’ve been harmed by purity culture or told that your love makes you less worthy, please know this: you were never the problem. You don’t need to purify yourself to be lovable. You were already whole — even in the moments that high control religion told you you were broken.
Healing from religious trauma is messy and sacred work. It’s about finding your way back to trust — trust in your body, your voice, your desires, and your right to belong.
If you’re ready to begin that process, I’d be honored to walk with you. Reach out today to request a free consultation.