What We Can Learn From Lesbian Nuns

In 1985, the small feminist press Naiad published a compilation of testimonies by 51 women who were, or had been, brides of Christ — and who were also really gay.

Lesbian Nuns: Breaking Silence has largely been forgotten. Today, it is available in print, with a cover that looks like it was designed by a well-meaning Mother Superior using 1990s Microsoft Paint. But in its day, it was a shattering event. It sold an astonishing 200,000 copies in 11 countries. And it was flamed in scandal from every direction.

But we shouldn’t read it today just to gawk at the scandal (or for the hot convent stories). We should read it because these Boomer nuns have the exact wisdom we 2026 queers are starving for.

In peak second-wave form, the initial idea for the book emerged when former lesbian nuns convened at the 1981 Michigan Womyn’s Festival (the now-defunct annual event that was widely and rightfully criticize for its trans-exclusionary policies) for what I imagine as heady, musky, guitar-sountracked collective catharsis in an oak grove. The editors (Nancy Manahan and Rosemary Keefe Curb, names I swear I did not pull out of a random-nun-name-generator) had pure intentions in putting together the volume. They wanted to reach other sapphics with shared convent experiences, let them know they were not alone, and provide a space for “personal healing” from the straightjacket of homophobia they had spent years locked in.

Despite these wholesome goals, yet unsurprisingly, the book went 1980s viral.

The  editors were on the Phil Donahue show (bigger than Oprah at the time) and were featured in everything from Newsweek to the New York Times. In Dublin, their book tour hotel reservations were canceled the moment the receptionist recognized their names. Seeking attention and circulation, the somewhat Machiavellian publisher sold the rights to the mass-circulation porn magazine Forum, generating a storm of righteous second-wave feminist anger. And what is there to say about the Italian cover of the book, depicting a libidinous, full-lipped nun lifting her habit to reveal her chest against a flaming red border?

The book does contain glimpses of salacious material. One nun was caught in an endless loop of masturbating, confessing her sin, receiving orders to self-flagellate, only to find that self-flagellation also turned her on. Another nun would sneak around to hook up with fellow postulant Jackie while simultaneously sliding into Jackie’s bestie’s DMs via messages on holy cards, later avoiding expulsion by — you guessed it — also making a move on the older nun in charge.

This titillating sample is not representative, though. In fact, the book is mostly made up of variations of the same tame tale, told in endearingly purple prose:

1. The vocation: A teenage girl interprets her consuming admiration for the nuns at school and her lack of interest  in boys as signs of a religious calling. (Fair enough: when the options are marry Joe or “marry” Jesus and live in a literal fortress of women, Jesus starts looking like a wise choice.)
2. The particular friendship: In the convent, she experiences the rapture of  intoxicating closeness with a fellow postulant or novice, violating the strict edict against “particular friendships”.
3. The exodus: After guilt, confusion, and many ordeals she faces with bravery, our heroine eventually claims a proud lesbian identity, and trades her rosary for a picket sign. (Former nuns, it turns out, were the backbone of second-wave feminism.)

Mistaking infatuation for friendship or admiration, bravely carving one’s path in the face of homophobic oppression, and finding freedom in claiming a queer identity… This is the standard fodder of queer coming-of-age stories. But reading this in the year of our lord 2026  feels like traveling to another planet — surprisingly, one that I found myself yearning for.

Between dating apps, queer influencers, and the marketization of queer identities as expensive lifestyles, 2026 brings its own discipline to queer life. It is hard not to feel that we need to play by the queer rulebook, fit into an easily recognizable queer prototype, and impress others before we can expect love or affection (or, on the other side of the equation, before we are willing to dole it out). Many of us end up trapped in a rat race of striving to build a distinctive hot, cool self as a pre-condition for love — and even for making friends.

These lesbian nuns show us a radical alternative. Their loose-fitting habits made it impossible to curate a cool queer self. (Also, presumably, they lacked that concept.) If their earnest reminiscences are accurate, they instead wanted to be virtuous, to love the world, and to care for it.

As a result, their “particular friendships” look nothing like 2026 situationships. They were not based on a fast first date spark or an even faster app swipe. Not only were these nuns unconcerned about their own looks, they rarely describe at all what their crushes looked like. Instead, they talk of months of folding laundry, studying, and kneeling (to pray!) side-by-side. Eventually, this simmering tension would lead to a stolen kiss, a “sisterly backrub”, or just impassioned exchanges of letters and endless pining — queer love in its multifarious manifestations.

The point is: They didn’t love each other because they scored high on the sexual marketplace. Instead, they loved each other because they lived with each other — in the most boring, routine sense.

In doing so, lesbian nuns show us that lesbian sexuality can be revolutionary. It can rip apart straight, capitalist scripts that see love as something to be earned by curating the self.

But we can’t rip these scripts by sheer individual force of will. We need spaces where we can share our routines, projects, and a sense of meaning with one another, every day, until community bubbles up. We need the material scaffold that convents provided.

Don’t get me wrong: Convents have (tragically) never been set up to be lesbian utopias. Many former nuns recount being scarred for life by religious homophobia and by the church’s violent emphasis on unquestioning obedience.

Convents were not meant to teach a radical orientation to sexuality, love, and community. But, in at least some cases, they did.

While we struggle to schedule a catch-up coffee with friends weeks in advance, nuns spent every day together. They talked for hours in groups about hope, faith, and growth. They studied psychology, philosophy, and theology together. They cleaned and peeled potatoes side-by-side in silence, learning to attend to one another’s bodily expression and gaze. They sang and prayed together in a single voice. They lived together in a way that we rarely do outside of romantic partnerships. Years later, many of these former nuns continued to miss the enmeshed network of intimacy and closeness of the convent, one that both went beyond and made possible particular friendships.

Likes, swipes, and the pressure to cure identities are clearly not making us any less alone. Instead, they trap us in a rat race. We inadvertently end up running in the very opposite direction of community. What lesbian nuns show us is that we can’t build community without routine, repetition, and boring togetherness. We need to cook and fold laundry together, read quietly next to each other, and stick around even when there is drama. We need new lesbian convents: built by us, for us, and ideally with matching coveralls instead of itchy habits.