a manifesto of sorts

thoughts from beneath a peach tree

I was standing under a peach tree this past weekend, the wind laced with sweetness and blowing softy, the sun reaching down through the branches. The peaches were so pretty you wanted to reach up and pick them, bite into their soft skin while the juice dripped down your lips and your fingers. It felt a bit religious, maybe revelatory as well, though I’m not sure of what. All I know is that these days, I cling to such moments.

Since my last post, the first post, I’ve been trying to figure out what to say next. I have so many things I’ve wanted to say for so long, piles upon piles of notes, journals littered with thoughts and half-hearted essays. Yet I’ve remained quiet for fear of what others might think—an unfortunate trait I learned as a child. I wish opinions didn’t matter to me, but they do. I’ve also feared disappointing others— the people who once knew me, who loved me well and helped raise me. The people who likely won’t understand why I must write about this topic.

And this topic is hard. For many of us who lived through purity culture, we still suffer silently, even decades later. Maybe not every day, but occasionally, when caused by a trigger. Our bodies freeze up, or a wave of shame envelops us, even when our mind now thinks differently. We remain in the shadows because the shadows are where we’ve been taught to stay, and we sit alone with our stories. Because how do you talk to others about this? The silence, I have found, makes the healing journey more arduous. And definitely more lonely.

So many writers will tell you not to write until your wounds are fully healed; they will say to wait until you have more clarity so that you can gain perspective. I mostly agree with this advice. But I also believe that art is an avenue, and raw writing has its own sort of magical powers. And I wonder if “waiting for healing” implies that healing is linear, a destination we will eventually arrive at. In my experience, this is not the case with purity culture.

I made myself a promise this past spring when dreaming up this little newsletter, before that peach tree was bearing its fruit. And I want to share that promise with you. Perhaps I need accountability, or maybe I just need to speak the promise into existence so that I know it’s there, existing outside of me. The promise is this:

I will write to you from the trenches, sharing as much as I can about my ongoing experience with purity culture teachings and how they continue to impact my life and marriage today, decades later. I will be as honest and open, speaking to both the struggles and the moments of triumph—of which there are many.

There is so much joy and healing on the journey towards body reclamation after growing up with purity culture teachings. This story isn’t all bad. Far from it, actually. I have learned so much about myself and my partner; I’ve discovered what it means to love someone deeply and cling to them when you have nowhere else to go. I’ve lost and rediscovered spirituality too; I’ve learned it’s larger than four church walls yet small and sacred enough to live inside this body. And this body I’ve learned is holy and perfect, as it is, not as an enemy that needs to be repressed and controlled.

I’m ready to let go, to release these stories, to sort through all of the narratives right here, alongside you. I’ve realized that after 30 years of trying to perfect myself and say the right thing and keep my writing polite and tidy, I am—in a way—protecting the very system I wish to disrupt. And it’s a system that very much needs to be disrupted.

I hope this place can be something like a peach tree, a refuge where we can talk about the secrets we share, the ones we’ve kept and carried for too long. Also, a place where we can rest and be honest and let the sun do its healing work, whether that’s just me writing as much and as often as I can, or you all chiming in and sharing your own stories. I hope it’s both.

For now, I leave you with this manifesto of sorts. If you’re willing, I’d love to hear your stories too—below or you can respond privately via email. There are about 100 of you here already. And so I hope you know, wherever you are in your feelings and experiences, you’re not alone. Why are you here? What can this space off you? Where should we start?