Holy Girlhood

There is a sanctity to certain friendships that defies articulation. A quiet, unassuming beauty that is neither performative nor easily replicated. It is the kind of bond forged not by shared vices or proximity, but by shared virtue. Anchored in faith, preserved through purity, and matured through mutual reverence.

We do not speak enough about these friendships, perhaps because they are rare. Or perhaps because, in a culture increasingly saturated with superficiality, their quiet brilliance goes unnoticed. But if you’ve experienced this type of connection, even once, you will know exactly what I mean.

I call it Holy Girlhood.

It is the friendship that doesn’t dilute its values for the sake of relatability. The friendship that is not built on convenience or common interest alone, but on common conviction. Where faith is not merely acknowledged, but deeply embedded in the rhythm of the relationship. Where modesty is not a point of shame, but of strength. Where chastity is not a burden, but a badge of honour. And where loyalty does not need to be earned, because it is simply offered, freely, and without agenda.

I am fortunate to have one such friend.

We met in a season where I wasn’t actively seeking connection. Yet something about her spirit felt immediately familiar, like encountering a hymn from childhood or the comforting cadence of a well-worn prayer. There was no preamble, no awkward dance of boundaries. Just an unspoken understanding: I see you. I walk the same road.

Together, we have built a friendship that is both deeply rooted and delightfully light. We laugh until we ache, send one another voice notes laced with both theological musings and absurd inside jokes, and dream about futures that haven’t yet arrived. There’s a sacred rhythm to it. A freedom in knowing I never have to explain why I live the way I do. She already knows. She lives the same way.

We both dress with intentionality, not out of shame, but because we view our bodies as sacred and worthy of honour. We both choose chastity, not as a remnant of antiquated thinking, but as an active, defiant pursuit of spiritual integrity. And yes, in a less spiritual but equally binding agreement, we both abhor fish.

There is no rivalry here. No quiet competition disguised as concern. No masked envy cloaked in faux encouragement. When one of us wins, the other rejoices, genuinely, audibly, and without hesitation. We do not merely clap for one another, we intercede for one another. We fast, we pray, we advocate before God in secret when the other is too weary to stand.

Our friendship is not transactional. It is covenantal. It is not loud, but it is resolute. It is the kind of friendship that sharpens, sanctifies, and sustains. And perhaps most importantly, it is fun. Holy Girlhood, while reverent, is far from dour. It is full of wit, warmth, and delight. We dance in kitchens, overthink texts, and write extravagant wedding speeches years in advance. It is the fusion of laughter and liturgy. Of spiritual depth and childlike joy.

There is something radical about choosing this path in a world obsessed with instant gratification and aesthetic virtue. To delay gratification. To pursue purity. To live modestly. To love deeply, without possession. It is not weakness, it is discipline. It is not repression, it is devotion.

And it is profoundly liberating to walk alongside someone who understands this. Who doesn’t make you feel like your standards are a burden, but a blessing. Who doesn’t diminish your values, but dignifies them.

So here’s to the women who live set apart.

Who do not apologise for their discernment.

Who do not dilute their doctrine for likes.

Who live slowly, intentionally, righteously, and who find others on that same path.

Holy Girlhood is not a trend. It is a testament.

A quiet rebellion against the chaos of modern womanhood.

A sanctuary of shared truth, seasoned with grace, and laced with holy laughter.

If you have found even one such friend, cherish her. Pray for her. Thank God for her. Because in a world that constantly tells us to compete, compare, and conform, this kind of friendship is nothing short of sacred.

And no, we still won’t eat the fish.