Chaste but Not Numb

Every so often, someone says, “You must not have a very high sex drive,” and I smile, politely, whilst mentally evaluating how many heavy objects are within reach. I've been celibate for seven years. Not because I've taken a vow or lost interest. I'm waiting. Not because I have no options, but because I have no interest in being disposable.

People tend to think chastity makes you less sexual. It doesn't. It makes you extremely aware of how much you want to be touched, seen, known. It turns ordinary moments into unexpected minefields. An actor taking off his shirt in a film, someone brushing your hand by accident, a scent you can't place but remember viscerally. It all stays with you. Not as a torment, but as a reminder. Your body hasn't forgotten what it wants.

What I miss most isn't sex in the physical sense, although I do miss that. It's intimacy I crave. To be wanted and known and safe in someone’s arms. Not for a night. For a life.

I used to mistake connection for commitment. Like many women, I tolerated the in-between. Long-distance phone calls that turned explicit. Messages that lit up my screen late at night and disappeared by morning. I told myself it was enough. That phone sex meant something. Sometimes it did. Often it didn’t.

Phone sex is oddly intimate. You have only your voice, your words, your imagination. It demands honesty. It also demands the pretence that this is building something. And when it isn’t, the silence afterwards is loud. The absence is sharp. No amount of clever phrasing or whispered affection can fill the space left when someone wants you in the moment but not in the morning.

I don't carry shame for those years. But I do carry memory. The memory of giving too much too soon. The memory of mistaking attention for tenderness. And most of all, the memory of hoping that performance would somehow earn permanence.

I'm not a stranger to longing. I live with it every day. It doesn't scare me. I don't try to suppress it. I try to understand it. Some days, I pray. Other days, I put on music and clean the kitchen a bit too aggressively. Occasionally, I cry. I don't make it into a crisis. It's simply there, like hunger. Natural, persistent, and bearable with the right kind of care.

Yes, I masturbate. I used to feel conflicted about it. Sometimes I still do. There are nights it feels like grounding, a return to my body. Other times, it feels hollow. I try to notice the difference. I don't believe in rigid purity. I believe in honesty. If it leaves me feeling calm and whole, I accept it. If it leaves me feeling diminished, I step back.

I don't watch pornography. I find it joyless. It doesn’t appeal to me. Not because I'm prudish, but because I'm not impressed by performance. I don't want to consume desire. I want to live it. Porn flattens intimacy into spectacle. I've no interest in that. I want someone’s mouth on mine not because they're being paid, but because they mean it.

My faith shapes this, of course. I'm Catholic, and I take that seriously. My body isn't incidental. It's part of my dignity. I believe in what the Church calls the theology of the body. At its core, it means our physical selves matter. Our bodies aren't just flesh, but meaning. Touch, sex, longing, and union aren't separate from holiness. They're expressions of it.

Sometimes I bring this to confession. Not the acts, but the ache. The fact that I want so much, and sometimes feel furious about how long it takes. I tell the priest, gently, that I'm tired of longing. That I don’t always know what to do with the tension in my body. That being chaste doesn’t mean being numb. And almost always, he reminds me that desire isn’t a sin. That God made me as I am, body and all. That waiting isn’t passive, it’s active. And that this too, this tension, can be holy.

This belief changed everything for me. I don't see my body as something to manage or police. I see it as a kind of language. How I use it says something about what I value. My body isn't a test. It's not a liability. It's part of my calling. Part of my joy.

When I wait, I'm not just saying no to sex. I'm saying yes to meaning. Yes to covenant. Yes to someone who sees me and stays. That’s not idealism. It’s integrity. I've lived without it. I'm not interested in going back.

What I'm learning now is how to let go of shame. Guilt never made me better. It made me smaller. It made me scared. It told me I was only worthy if I got it right the first time. That’s a lie.

There’s no such thing as a perfect woman. Only women who are trying. Trying to be brave. Trying to be kind. Trying to hold out for something real in a world that tells them to settle. I'm not interested in being impressive. I'm interested in being whole.

There’s, increasingly, a sense that I'm not alone. More people are choosing chastity. Some come from faith. Others come from disappointment. Some are simply tired. Tired of ghosting. Tired of detachment. Tired of pretending sex is casual when it never feels that way after.

The chastity movement isn’t about rules. It’s about realism. It’s about choosing not to give away your body when your heart isn’t safe. It’s about recognising that sex, like everything sacred, demands respect. Not because it's dangerous, but because it's powerful.

I don't see chastity as absence. I see it as presence. It means I'm not escaping into sensation. I'm staying here, in the longing, in the ache, in the slow, hard work of waiting. It's not glamorous. It's not marketable. But it's true.

And in the quiet, I've found myself again. Not as an idea, not as a projection, but as a woman who knows what she wants and won't shrink to be more acceptable.

Yes, I want sex. I want it deeply. But I want more than that. I want to be seen in daylight. I want to laugh until my stomach aches. I want to read next to someone in silence. I want a life, not just a moment.

Until then, I'm here. Still full of longing. Still full of life. Still trying. That, for now, is more than enough.