I remember a night at youth group that still sits with me, even years later. We were having a “white party.” Everyone had to wear all white. It was supposed to be fun, creative, a moment to express ourselves.

I made my own outfit. White shorts, but with one leg longer than the other — kind of a Flo Jo-inspired look. I felt proud of it. It was different. It was mine.

There was a contest for best dressed. Anyone who wanted to participate was encouraged to come up. But in reality, the youth leaders decided who was “allowed” to participate.

I wasn’t chosen.

They didn’t say it directly, but the message was clear: my outfit was “too much.” Too sexy. Too inappropriate. I was 17 years old. I wasn’t even a curvy or “shapely” teen. I was just a kid who liked fashion and creativity.

I didn’t make a fuss. I didn’t ask why. I just stepped back and accepted it.

But looking back now, I realize what made it hurt wasn’t just the moment — it was the pattern.

So many Black girls grow up under a microscope. Our bodies, our clothes, our expressions are often read differently. What’s “cute” or “creative” on someone else can suddenly become “sexual” or “problematic” on us. We’re seen as older, more grown, more knowing — even when we’re still children figuring ourselves out.

In church spaces, this can feel even heavier. The language of “modesty” is supposed to be about protection, but sometimes it becomes a way to control. Instead of teaching young people to respect themselves and others, it quietly teaches some of us that our bodies are the problem.

That night wasn’t about a pair of shorts.

It was about visibility. About who gets to be seen, celebrated, and chosen — and who gets asked, silently, to fade into the background.

I wish my 17-year-old self had known this: there was nothing wrong with my creativity. There was nothing wrong with my body. There was nothing wrong with taking up space.

And maybe the real lesson isn’t about how we dress — but about how we look at each other.