— But I Can’t Stop Thinking About Sex
By Hena Bryan
I came to the unsettling realisation that the Christian girls I grew up with were rarely taught about sex, sexuality, or even our own bodies. In fact, of all the Christian girls and women I’ve spoken with, none shared being spoken to about sex in a way that explained it; instead, sex was only shunned. As a result, we spent much of our religious journeys subduing our sexual urges that we overlooked said lack of guidance and education—coming to terms with this was difficult.
We were all once told to wait until marriage before engaging in any sexual activity, with almost no guidance on what to expect when puberty hits and sexual desire becomes overwhelming. When sex is finally discussed, it’s often framed as something we should endure rather than enjoy, and our sexuality is suppressed rather than explored. We’re taught that desire is sinful, and sex—unless within the confines of marriage—should be avoided. Even then, it’s often implied that it should be vanilla and restrained. This lack of education can create deep-seated issues that take years, sometimes decades, to unpack and overcome.
Growing up in a Pentecostal Church and Christian household, I spent most of my childhood and adolescence surrounded by adults who adhered strictly to biblical principles. As a result, I held onto my virginity until curiosity and hormones ultimately prevailed. I had sex for the first time at 18 and the experience was underwhelming, both physically and emotionally. By that age, I had seen enough media to know that a first sexual encounter is often awkward and uncomfortable. Yet surprisingly, the physical discomfort wasn’t the hardest part; it was the alien sensation of sexual feelings within my own body. For the first few years of being sexually active, I wrestled with the belief that I was doomed to eternal damnation, not only for having sex but for wanting it.
Sex eventually became more enjoyable, though I can’t pinpoint exactly when or how this shift occurred. I credit it largely to Christian women who bravely shared that they too struggled with similar feelings. Through countless stories of unwanted pregnancies, poor sexual health, sexual assault and the emotional toll of navigating sex without proper guidance, I discovered a common thread: a lack of sexual education.
Whilst this is not the case in all churches, many of us received ill-informed abstinence-only sex education from our religious leaders, and the consequences are striking when considered against research. In the American Journal of Sexuality Education, researchers Sharon E. Hoefer and Richard Hoefer suggest abstinence-only education is less effective at preventing pregnancy and sexually transmitted infections (STIs) than comprehensive sex education. Also, American sex-positive therapist and educator Ann R., in her essay “The Intersection of Faith and Sexuality: Focusing on Female Sexuality and Shame”, notes that “Christian teachings have framed sexuality, especially female sexuality, in terms of purity and sin, often leading to a culture of shame. This framework not only restricts women’s understanding of their own bodies and desires but also places a heavy burden of moral responsibility on them.” Sadly, many of us were left to navigate our sexual desires and bodies without understanding how they fit within our faith, leading to years of internal conflict as we grappled with the notion that sexuality and spirituality couldn’t coexist.
In my mid-20s, I rededicated myself to Jesus Christ. By then I had gained enough spiritual insight to understand why, within Christian teachings, God commanded that sex be reserved for marriage. Through my experiences, I realised that when defined solely by worldly or scientific standards, sex often felt devoid of deeper meaning — an understanding that ultimately conflicted with both my faith and my nature as a sexual being.
This realisation led me to a renewed commitment to my faith as well as to abstinence but the journey has not been without challenges — especially as a single woman who is open to dating and romantic connections. The most difficult times are around ovulation when, due to my biological makeup, my sexual desires become incredibly strong. During these periods, it’s almost as if my body and mind are working against my faith, making it hard to focus on anything other than the desire for sexual intimacy. When I’m dating someone I’m attracted to, it becomes even harder because those thoughts aren’t just abstract; they’re about someone real, someone who’s right there, making it easy to imagine actualising those desires.
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Every girl and woman deserves to be educated by their caregivers and their church in a way that affirms that our desires and our faith are not separate forces working against each other.
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Despite my strong faith, these moments feel like a test of my Christian walk and the struggle to remain abstinent can feel like a setup for failure. It’s during these times that I wrestle most with my beliefs, questioning not only my ability to stay true to them but also what this struggle means for my spiritual journey. The tension between my physical desires and spiritual conviction highlights a deeper internal conflict. On one hand, my faith teaches me that abstinence is a virtue, a testament to my dedication to God. On the other hand, my body’s natural urges are an inescapable part of who I am and denying them can sometimes feel like denying that I’m human.
This ongoing battle raises important questions about how we navigate faith, desire and identity in a world that often sees these aspects of our humanity as incompatible. I’ve come to understand that this tension isn’t just about sex or abstinence; it’s about the broader challenge of integrating faith with the reality of human experience. It’s about learning to live in the space between desire and devotion, where the two don’t have to be at odds. This understanding doesn’t necessarily make the struggle easier but it offers a framework for approaching it with compassion.
I’ve often found myself scouring the internet, searching for literature that makes me feel less alone in this battle, but I often come up short, typically encountering women using aliases to ask similar questions or men of faith offering half-baked answers. I wish more people contributed to this conversation because a lack of sexual education can lead women to believe that sex is a matter of servitude, where our needs are secondary or even irrelevant and the maintenance of purity — real or assumed — is paramount. The more I’ve reflected on my own journey, the more I’ve realised that we have to do the work collectively to reconcile the fact that God created us as sexual beings. Every girl and woman deserves to be educated by their caregivers and their church in a way that affirms that our desires and our faith are not separate forces working against each other but integral parts of our human experience and God’s design for us.
As I continue on this journey, I realise that the questions and conflicts I face are not unique to me. Many Christian women grapple with similar issues, caught between the teachings of their faith and the realities of their bodies. What’s important is that we create spaces where these struggles can be discussed openly and without shame, acknowledging that our desires don’t make us less faithful or less worthy of God’s love.
Ultimately, my journey has taught me that faith isn’t about having all the answers or living without doubt — it’s about the constant effort to seek understanding and reconcile the parts of us that feel at odds with one another. For many Christian women, there’s a pervasive belief that our sexuality and our spirituality must be kept separate and, most importantly, secret. But my experience has shown me that this division isn’t necessary or even healthy. Our spiritual journey isn’t a straight path; it’s a complex, winding road that demands patience, self-compassion and a willingness to embrace all aspects of who we are, including our sexuality.
I’ve learned that true faith isn’t about following a set of rules — it’s about navigating the intricate balance between desire and devotion with a heart that is committed to love, both for God and for ourselves. This process has required me to challenge long-held beliefs, to seek out conversations that are often avoided and accept that my sexual desires are not separate from my spirituality but are a part of the beautiful, complex human experience God designed for me. All Christian women deserve to be educated and empowered in a way that honours this truth so that we can fully integrate our faith with our human nature and live lives that are whole, authentic and deeply connected to God’s purpose.
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Brad Warner, Zen monk, author of 
Damn, I got some might fine stuff to share with you today. This being the 
The Erotic Mind
Before you start in on the self-disclosure thing with your family, Pete, I suggest you first try to clear a path for that discussion. Begin by challenging those around you who shame or denigrate those who are different. Ask them why they make such ridiculously uninformed and hurtful statements. Ask them if degrading other people makes them feel superior. And if it does, what does that say about their inadequacies. You could suggest that their intolerance of gay and lesbian people proves they have some hidden, unresolved sexual issues that they need to address. I mean — “me thinks you doth protest too much” — and all that, right?
