Being Good Almost Broke Me: How Purity Culture Shaped My Latina Identity

Taught to Be Good, Not Free

There are lessons we inherit before we even realize we’re learning them. Passed down in glances, rules, dichos—in what’s said and what’s not. For many of us, they began with warnings dressed as wisdom. And they sounded something like this:

“Si andas ahí de loca y calenturienta, enseñando las piernas y toda maquillada, van a decir que eres una piruja.

I grew up with these words, and unfortunately, many Latinas I know did too.These words were spoken like law.

Echoed by tías, mamás, abuelitas, sometimes in whispers, sometimes in warnings.They weren’t just opinions. They were expectations wrapped in fear, religion, and respeto.

From a young age, I was taught that protecting my “reputation” meant staying quiet, dressing modestly, and saving sex for marriage. Anything else made me a piruja—a word thrown around too casually, but carrying deep shame.

With shame stitched into the seams of our femininity, we were taught that:

• Respect meant shrinking ourselves.

• Desire was something to fear.

• Virginity was currency.

• And being “too much” could cost us everything.

Our femininity wasn’t something we were encouraged to explore—it was something we were taught to fear. Desire, pleasure, even confidence in our bodies were seen as dangerous. Not because they were bad, but because they might attract “the wrong kind of man.”

We were told to save ourselves—our bodies, our voices, our boundaries—as if we were a prize waiting to be claimed by a future husband. Only then would we be worthy.

As if we were the ones who needed to be controlled.

They thought they were keeping us safe. But what they handed down wasn’t just caution—it was fear. Wrapped in love, maybe. But shaped by silence, guilt, and shame.

That’s where purity culture begins.

 

What Is Purity Culture, Really?

When I hear the words purity culture, I don’t think of church pamphlets or formal rules.

I think of quiet shame. Of being watched. Of being warned.

Purity culture is a belief system rooted in conservative Christian teachings that links a woman’s moral worth to her sexual purity—particularly her virginity. It promotes abstinence until marriage, modesty, and the idea that any sexual thought, action, or expression outside those bounds is sinful or shameful.

At its core, purity culture says:

• A woman’s value lies in her virginity.

• Modesty equals morality.

• Sexuality is dangerous unless it’s in marriage.

• And if you step outside these lines—you’re used, broken, or less than.

But the rules don’t stop at behavior. They extend to how we dress, speak, sit, and smile. To how much makeup we wear. How much skin we show. Even how much confidence we’re allowed to carry.

And while it may have started in church, it didn’t stay there. Because it’s not just about religion, it’s a system of control—one that teaches us that femininity is dangerous, that desire is shameful, and that our bodies are not ours but someone else’s to claim.

This belief is deeply harmful. In this system, purity becomes a currency. And chastity? The price we’re expected to pay.

I remember a girl from high school who grew up in a very strict household. She wasn’t allowed to date and was constantly pressured by her parents to follow the rules of their evangelical Christian church. Like many girls her age, she was curious about boys. Despite her parents’ expectations, she secretly started dating.

One day, she showed up to school with a hickey—and out of fear, she ran away from home to avoid facing her parents’ wrath. What began as a moment of teenage curiosity spiraled into a full-blown crisis because of the shame and fear purity culture instilled in her.

And stories like hers aren’t rare.

Speaking from experience, I was brought up in a similar way. My physical appearance was policed just as much as my behavior. I wasn’t allowed to wear makeup or perfume. My skirts had to be long, my tops modest, and any sign of “trying to look pretty” was seen as suspicious. I had to be careful not to draw attention, not to be “too much.”

It was ingrained in me that I had to wait until marriage to engage in anything sexual.

And when I did lose my virginity—to the person I would later marry—I didn’t feel empowered. I felt horrible. The belief that I was no longer holy, that I had been “used,” washed over me. That shame stayed with me.

Meanwhile, when a boy lost his virginity, he “became a man.” He was celebrated. But us? We were warned, judged, or quietly shamed. It was that belief—that I was now less worthy—that made me endure years of abuse in that marriage. I stayed because I thought no one else would want me. I confused shame for loyalty. I thought suffering quietly was proof of my worth. Because I believed I had already given away the only thing that made me valuable.

Eventually, I began to question where those beliefs came from—and who they were really serving. It took years to realize that these rules were never really about protection. They were about control. And unlearning them—that’s been its own kind of healing.

A Tool of Control

Purity culture isn’t just about waiting until marriage. It’s about power—who gets to define “purity,” and who’s excluded from it altogether.

Scholar Amari Pearson-Fields explains that purity culture in evangelical spaces doesn’t just regulate sexuality—it centers white, middle-class femininity as the ideal, marginalizing women of color through racialized and gendered control.

This exclusion runs deep. 

A 2022 study titled Decolonizing Purity Culture found that for women of color, these teachings are especially harmful, not only because they deny bodily autonomy, but because they uphold colonial values and idealize whiteness as the “standard” for femininity and virtue. This creates a system where girls of color are doubly scrutinized—judged not just by gendered expectations, but by racialized ones too.

Scholars like Linda Kay Klein (Pure) describe how purity culture turns “modesty” into a tool of control—especially for girls—while excusing or overlooking boys’ behaviors.

In this system, a girl’s body becomes everyone’s business. Her clothes, her choices, her silence—all policed as markers of “purity.”

And when you grow up brown, curvy, or outspoken, you’re already seen as too much. Too visible. Too “tempting.”

For many of us, it wasn’t just about saving ourselves—it was about shrinking ourselves to fit someone else’s definition of worth. We were taught to fear our own bodies instead of trusting them. But naming the control is the first step to reclaiming our power.

Impact on Body and Mind

Before we can reclaim our power, we have to understand how deeply purity culture impacts not just what we believe, but how we feel in our skin.

It doesn’t just shape our thoughts.It disconnects us from our own bodies.

So many of us grew up feeling distant from ourselves, like we had to monitor every movement, every curve, every urge. Touch became shameful. Desire became sinful. And for some of us, that disconnection didn’t end with marriage—it deepened.

This isn’t just anecdotal—it’s psychological. Researchers studying purity frameworks in moral psychology have shown that the idea of “purity” isn’t clearly defined at all. Instead, it’s a vague mix of cultural fears, especially around sex, bodies, and control. These fears don’t come from instinct. They’re taught. Internalized. And often enforced in ways that leave lasting harm.

For first-gen Latinas, this is compounded. We’re often raised as cultural bridges—walking the line between American norms and our Mexican roots. In many of our families, purity was taught as protection. For our madres and abuelas, it was survival. Teaching us to be “good” girls—quiet, modest, untouched—was how they tried to keep us safe in a world that’s been anything but safe for women of color.

But what was once survival can also become generational trauma. Recent studies have shown that strong purity beliefs can distort our understanding of consent and bodily autonomy, especially in religious spaces. People raised in these systems were more likely to misunderstand sexual violence, minimize harm, and internalize shame.

That doesn’t excuse the harm . But it does help us understand where it came from.

And now that we know better, we get to do better. We get to shed the shame, reclaim our power, and embrace our bodies—not with fear, but with pride.

Shedding Shame, Reclaiming Voice

I didn’t wake up one day and decide to let go of purity culture.It happened in layers—In dressing how I wanted. In saying yes to myself.In saying no without guilt.In naming what hurt and giving myself permission to unlearn it.

For me, healing has looked like rewriting the script I was handed. One rooted in control, fear, and silence. It looked like realizing that covering my body didn’t make me more worthy, and uncovering it didn’t make me less. It looked like reclaiming my body, not for someone else’s approval, but for my own joy, autonomy, and peace.

Through my lens as a first-gen Latina, shedding shame has also meant confronting the cultural double standards I was raised with. How our families often silence conversations about sex or desire… yet judge girls more harshly than boys.How we were taught to be modest, quiet, obedient—while boys were allowed to explore, experiment, and still be celebrated.

I carried the belief that being “good” meant being selfless. That if I didn’t sacrifice my needs, I wasn’t honorable. But I’ve learned:

🌻 You can honor your culture and still reject what no longer serves you.

🌻 You can love your family and still say no.

🌻 You can be rooted in tradition and still choose yourself.

And this isn’t just personal—it’s collective. Shame is a tool often used to keep women small. Studies have shown that shame—especially sexual shame—can lead to long-term psychological distress, lower self-esteem, and difficulty forming healthy relationships with oneself and others. But when we start to speak out, to own our stories, to name the systems that shaped us—healing begins.

This is my healing era.No longer hidden.No longer silent.No longer shrinking to fit into someone else’s definition of good.

This voice—this body—it’s mine now. And I will choose it, con cariño, every time.

Journal With Us

Take a moment to reflect: Write about a time you felt shame about your body, your voice, or your choices. Then, write a note to that younger version of yourself—con cariño. What would you say to her now that you know better?

🌻 You don’t have to heal alone. This space was created for your growth, your truth, and your voice.

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Sources & Further Reading

I believe in blending lived experience with research. Below are the sources that informed parts of this post and deepened my understanding of purity culture and its impact, especially on first-gen Latinas, women of color, and those navigating layered cultural expectations.

·  Ayoola, A. B., Zorn, T. E., & Higgins, P. A. (2021). Sexual shame and mental health among young adult women in the United States: The role of cultural and familial messages. Journal of Sex Research, 58(8), 920–931. https://doi.org/10.1080/00224499.2021.1977445

·  Gray, K., Schein, C., & Ward, A. (2022). The Problem of Purity in Moral Psychology. Open Access Article

·  Hall, M. E. L., Owens, G. P., & Anderson, T. L. (2021). The Relationship Between Purity Culture and Rape Myth Acceptance. Journal of Psychology and Theology. Full Text

·  Klein, L. K. (2018). Pure: Inside the Evangelical Movement That Shamed a Generation of Young Women and How I Broke Free. Touchstone.