On the surface, messages about purity can seem well-meaning.

When a publicly known individual spoke publicly about remaining a virgin and even presented a “virginity certificate,” many applauded her boldness. Her book No Ring, No Ting promotes abstinence and waiting for marriage. For many young women, especially young Black Christian women, she represents discipline, standards, and faith.

But we have to be honest.

Context matters. When purity messaging is consistently directed toward Black girls and women, it doesn’t land in a neutral space. It lands on top of history.

Black women have long been stereotyped as hypersexual. We’ve been portrayed as irresponsible, fast, overly fertile, doomed to become “baby mamas.” Our bodies have been scrutinized, policed, and moralized for generations. So when the loudest messages in our communities revolve around avoiding unplanned pregnancy, securing a ring before intimacy, or proving purity publicly — it’s worth asking why.

At one point, she expressed a desire to see more bridal showers, instead of proposals at baby showers.

Again, on the surface, that sounds like promoting marriage.

But underneath, it can quietly suggest that baby showers are the expected norm for Black women. That unplanned pregnancy is our default. That marriage is something we must earn by meeting certain conditions.

Why is that assumption always hovering in the background?

Why are Black women so often warned:
Don’t get pregnant.
Don’t mess up your future.
Don’t ruin your life.

Instead of being told:
You are worthy of love.
Your body is not shameful.
If life doesn’t go according to plan, you are still whole.
Marriage is not a reward for sexual restraint.

And what about the women sitting in those audiences who:
– Struggle with infertility and would gladly welcome a pregnancy, planned or not.
– Were assaulted and had their choice taken from them.
– Are single mothers doing their best.
– Are over 40 and may never marry or have children.

Where do they fit in this narrative?

When messages focus heavily on purity and prevention, especially in predominantly Black spaces, it can begin to feel less like empowerment and more like control. Control of image. Control of reputation. Control of respectability.

And historically, respectability politics have weighed heaviest on Black women.

This isn’t about attacking someone’s personal conviction. Everyone has the right to live by their beliefs. If abstinence before marriage is someone’s standard, that’s their choice.

But we can hold two truths at once:
A woman can share her testimony.
And we can question the broader impact of how that testimony is framed — and who it’s primarily aimed at.

Black women are more than cautionary tales.
More than statistics to avoid.
More than wombs to regulate.
More than rings to secure.

We are complex, intelligent, capable human beings whose worth is not determined by our sexual history, marital status, or reproductive timeline.

And maybe the deeper conversation isn’t about purity at all.

Maybe it’s about why Black women’s bodies are still treated like public projects that need constant supervision.