Sincerely, a Distraction

A deeply unserious takedown of serious shame.

If the universe wanted me modest, it wouldn’t have given me thighs like this. It wouldn’t have put a heartbeat between them and let me walk into the world like I owned it. It wouldn’t have made sunlight hit my collarbone like a spotlight and left men to mistake it for a strip show. I used to think my body was the problem. Then I realised it wasn’t my skin that unsettled people. It was the fact I had the audacity to live inside it without apologising. Because when a woman dresses in a way that says I know what I look like, men call it dangerous. Women call it irresponsible. Everyone calls it something. As if fabric can sin.

Modesty was never a moral. It was a muzzle. A centuries-old invention designed to keep women at the volume men found comfortable. And they dressed it up as virtue. Told us that shorter skirts invite danger. That exposed shoulders create chaos. That confidence causes corruption. But what modesty really teaches girls is that if we’re violated, it was probably our fault. That flesh is flirtation. That safety means silence. It tells us to dress for the male gaze, then blames us for catching it. It’s like telling a flame to apologise for being warm.

I’ve been called a harlot, a distraction, a Jezebel, a slut, a tease, a warning sign. I’ve had my skirt tugged down mid-sentence by relatives. I’ve had strangers offer unsolicited sermons outside train stations. I once had a boyfriend say my dress was “unnecessary” and that my laughter was “a bit much.” What he meant was, I looked too happy for him to handle. Too unbothered. Too radiant to need his approval. Modesty culture doesn’t just tell women to cover up. It tells men they’re entitled to our restraint. It teaches them to see our joy as immodest too. A woman enjoying herself is somehow always showing too much.

And yet, we learn the choreography early. We learn to bend at the knees to pick something up. We learn to test the mirror with every angle before we go out. We learn to bring spare tights, longer coats, damage control. We learn to police ourselves before anyone else can. Because if we don't, we are blamed for what happens next. Our bodies are seen as open cases. Skirts become evidence. Necklines become motives. Femininity becomes a threat to be managed, not a power to be held. We’re not taught to feel safe. We’re taught to be less of a target.

Here’s what modesty culture actually does to girls:

• It convinces us our legs are public property

• It teaches us to fear summer

• It tells us to carry shame in our handbags, just in case

• It tricks us into thinking attention equals danger

• It lets men think their arousal is our responsibility

• It makes us pack backup outfits for family functions

• It rewards invisibility with false security

• It turns confidence into something that needs a cardigan

• It creates mothers who flinch at their daughters’ thighs

• It rewires joy into guilt and calls it maturity

• It tells girls to dress “classy” then ridicules what that means

• It makes fashion a war zone and femininity the weapon

Modesty isn’t protection. It’s performance. It’s the lie we’re sold in place of real safety. Because the truth is, bad men don’t care what you wear. And good ones don’t need you to dress like regret. I don’t dress modestly anymore. Not because I want attention. But because I’m done trying to shrink for people who never saw me clearly in the first place. My body was never the issue. Your discomfort was. My thighs are not political. My dress is not a threat. My skin is not the devil. And even if it was — it still wouldn’t be yours to fix.