Sacred In The City

There’s a certain elegance in living quietly counter to the culture: a kind of quiet rebellion, if you like. I’m in my twenties, a stage of life often marked by experimentation, excess, and the ever-looming fear of falling behind. But rather than feeling swept along by all of that, I’ve found an anchoring, not in ambition or aesthetics, but in faith. Christianity, for me, isn’t a cultural label or a set of prohibitions. It’s the very structure that gives shape to my womanhood, my decisions, and the way I carry myself in a world increasingly allergic to conviction.

When you choose to follow Christ earnestly, it inevitably starts to touch everything, not just what you do on Sunday, but how you date, speak, drink (or don’t), dress, choose friends, make career decisions, and think about your future. It’s a total renovation, not a weekend project. And while it might look restrictive from the outside, what it offers is depth, clarity, and freedom from the exhausting pressure to perform or conform.

Take, for instance, the decision to wait until marriage. It’s one of those topics that tends to either confuse or amuse people my age. But for me, it’s less about “saving myself” in the abstract, and more about honouring something sacred. My body isn’t a bargaining chip or an afterthought, it’s part of my worship. And frankly, I’ve never been interested in giving something eternal to someone who’s offering me something temporary. It’s not about shame, it’s about value. And value, as any economist will tell you, increases with scarcity and discernment.

Similarly, I don’t drink, not because I think alcohol is inherently evil, but because I value presence. I want to be sharp, engaged, and in control of myself, not numbed or dulled or disconnected. It’s a small decision that has, over time, had a quiet but transformative effect. At parties, I’m often the anomaly, the girl who turns down the Prosecco and still manages to enjoy herself. At first, I used to feel self-conscious. Now, it feels like a quiet form of integrity. I don’t need to escape myself to have a good time. That, I think, is a form of maturity the world doesn’t teach but faith gently insists upon.

Then there’s language, a topic that seems trivial until you realise how revealing it is. I don’t swear. Not out of prudishness, but because I believe words have weight. How we speak shapes how we think, and how we think determines who we become. Crude speech often masks shallow thinking, or worse, a lack of self-control. As a woman trying to cultivate a life of dignity and purpose, I don’t have the luxury of careless words.

But beyond these surface-level lifestyle choices is the far deeper reality of living as a Christian woman in a culture that tells women to be everything, everywhere, all at once. We’re told to hustle, to seduce, to self-promote, to compete, to curate. And it’s exhausting. What my faith offers is not an escape from ambition or achievement, quite the opposite. But it does reframe them. I don’t chase attention. I don’t market myself like a product. I pursue excellence not to prove something, but because I’m working for Someone. That changes everything.

I often think of the phrase “high value woman,” which social media has all but destroyed with its obsession with aesthetics and transactional relationships. A high value woman, in my view, is not defined by her looks, her salary, or the calibre of man she can attract. She is defined by her character, by her ability to choose what is difficult over what is popular, to cultivate wisdom over image, and to live with integrity even when no one is watching.

Waiting, in every sense, has become something of a theme in my twenties. Waiting for the right relationship, waiting for prayers to be answered, waiting for doors to open. And yet, I’ve come to believe that this season, this waiting room of womanhood, is not a pause, but a preparation. Faith doesn’t guarantee immediate gratification; it teaches you how to walk with grace through the space between promise and fulfilment. It strengthens your discernment. It sharpens your vision. And it keeps you grounded when everything around you feels uncertain.

What surprises me most, perhaps, is how faith has not made me less of myself, but more. More thoughtful. More anchored. More discerning. I’m not less free because I live with boundaries, I’m more free because I know they’re built from love, not fear.There are days when this path feels lonely. When the temptation to blend in whispers louder than usual. But then I remember why I started: not for approval, but for alignment. Not to be liked, but to be faithful. And ultimately, the approval I seek isn’t from people who change their minds every five minutes. It’s from a God who never has.

In a world that often tells young women that freedom means doing whatever you want, I’ve found my freedom in doing what’s right. In choosing stillness over spectacle, discernment over desire, truth over trend.

And honestly? I wouldn’t trade it for anything.