Abstinence is not empowerment

The 4B movement exploded into the public consciousness online. But is women's abstinence a way of reclaiming “girl power” after losing our rights, or a distraction from it?

In the ancient Greek comedy Lysistrata, the protagonist unites the women of two warring cities by convincing them to withhold sex from men as a means of forcing them to negotiate peace. In the days since Trump’s election, we’ve witnessed American women make similar pleas on social media, urging each other to join the 4B movement. Its central tenets? No sex with men, no dating men, no marriage with men, no childrearing with men.

From a harm-reduction standpoint, this makes sense—especially in red states, where avoiding unplanned pregnancy is a matter of survival. But I’m skeptical of the vague sense of “girl power” that accompanies the 4B movement in the U.S., because abstaining from sex with men doesn’t actually grant us any greater political, societal, or economic power. As I witness social media flooded with posts from women swearing off sex, I can't help but wonder: Is not letting men stick it in you really sticking it to the man, or does it provide us with an illusion of control at a time when it’s been stripped from us?

An ancient Greek comedy by Aristophanes, Lysistrata tells the story of a woman's attempt to end the Peloponnesian War by denying all the men of the land any sex.

The 4B movement originated in South Korea, where women had a clear political aim to accomplish through abstinence: lowering the birth rate and pushing back on pro-natalist, patriarchal policies that position women’s bodies as tools for the state. In America, the movement is less organized, and its goals more muddled. Here, younger generations are already having less sex and reporting more sex-negative views—as evidenced by trends like the Boysober movement, which has been called “this year’s hottest mental health craze” by The New York Times, and similarly rebrands celibacy as self-care.

Set against a backdrop of religious conservatism—which has long enforced celibacy to keep women “pure” and in the property of men—it’s unclear what radical aim can be accomplished by swearing off sex. After all, what system are women upending by individually abstaining from sex out of wedlock—which, if you squint, is the very same course of action conservatives have been prescribing for decades?

In South Korea, women adopted the 4B movement with the aim of changing society. In America, women seem to be suggesting it as a way of changing men—or at least signaling their dissatisfaction with them. But sex isn’t a relational bargaining chip, to be withheld as punishment or doled out to men as a reward for their good behavior. The fact that not having sex with men who don’t respect your rights seems like a radical act—instead of common sense—only underscores the sorry state of gender relations in America.

In South Korea, women adopted the 4B movement with the aim of changing society. In America, women seem to be suggesting it as a way of changing men.

Heterosexuals are (forgive me) in dire straits. The ideological gap between men and women is widening, and in the U.S., as many as 30 percent of people are in relationships with partners who hold opposing political views. The idea of sharing a bed—much less a life—with someone who would vote against your rights is tragic, yet in the weeks leading up to the election, we’ve witnessed the ways people rationalize such political paradoxes, with numerous women posting on social media about “canceling out” their Trump-supporting partner’s vote. I don’t think these women should be having sex with conservative losers. But I also don’t think they’re likely to upend their lives and become practitioners of the 4B movement because of a viral TikTok.

Rather, the movement has two sensible applications in the U.S.: protecting women from pregnancy in states where abortion rights have been repealed or serving as a reminder to refrain from casual sex with men whose political views are unknown or known to be bad. Ironically, the first time I encountered the 4B movement was on a girl’s Feeld profile, where she requested male suitors research the movement and share their thoughts before matching—effectively using the movement’s radical message as a litmus test to gauge her male suitors’ personal politics.

Severed from its original context, the 4B movement exploded into the public consciousness, offering a feel-good narrative about American women reclaiming control of their bodies in the wake of the election. But while the trend gained traction on TikTok and has been widely covered by mainstream outlets, the number of actual adherents is vanishingly low, even in South Korea. And in the differing cultural context of the U.S., it’s unclear exactly how the movement differs from the political lesbianism of the ’80s—or the Boysober movement of today.

The 4B movement protests the loss of our reproductive rights, while the Boysober movement protests the psychic impact of hookup culture. But in both cases, giving up sex with men seems freeing only because the conditions that surround it are so dire that pursuing sexual pleasure is no longer worth the emotional and physical risks.

Giving up sex with men seems freeing only because the conditions that surround it are so dire that pursuing sexual pleasure is no longer worth the emotional and physical risks.

Within this cultural context, abstinence may be the best choice for many U.S. women. But I don’t think we should feel empowered by it—because the fact that so many women are resorting to celibacy isn’t a sign of our collective agency, but a symptom of the fact that we’re being progressively disincentivized from making other choices. And if the only way to preserve our autonomy is by giving something up, that is not evidence of our empowerment, but its opposite.

The discourse surrounding this movement, and its algorithmic amplification on social media, reminds me of other “girl trends” that have taken over TikTok this year—many of which rebrand everyday activities by encouraging women to adopt a different emotional relationship to a behavior they were already engaging in.

Take, for instance, the Hot Girl Walk—which, on its surface, looks no different than a normal walk. But as with Hot Girl Summer—which reframed hotness not as a physical trait, but as a vibe—what sets a Hot Girl Walk apart is not in the eye of the beholder, but in the mindset of the individual: a person ruminating on their goals, what they’re grateful for, and just how hot they are while engaging in the age-old activity of putting one foot in front of the other.

The fact that so many women are resorting to celibacy isn’t a sign of our collective agency, but a symptom of the fact that we’re being progressively disincentivized from making other choices.

Girl Dinner, similarly, is functionally no different from a “depression meal”: a snack that doesn’t take much assembly and is thrown together from whatever ingredients one has in their kitchen, lacking the fanfare (and often, nutritional value) of a more traditional meal. This behavior is common, and arguably universal—so relatable, in fact, that when women began labeling their thrown-together snack plates as “Girl Dinner” on social media, audiences felt a burst of recognition. “There was this feeling of, ‘Oh my God, I’m not the only one,’” said food content creator Alana Laverty of the trend. “I love anything that celebrates something women are all doing, but we don’t all know that we’re doing it.”

On TikTok, many commenters say the 4B movement is a more formal application of what they were already doing: giving up on men. And just as Girl Dinner rebranded the thrown-together snack plate as a fun, communal experience, the 4B movement rebrands an individual behavior like voluntary celibacy—and our collective disillusionment with dating—as a political statement. But a collective feeling isn’t the same as collective action.

The 4B movement rebrands an individual behavior like voluntary celibacy—and our collective disillusionment with dating—as a political statement.

Without a coherent political goal and real organizing attached, I worry that abstaining—or simply talking about abstaining—under the label of 4B gives women the illusion of participating in a radical feminist movement, when all it really amounts to in the U.S. is an individual lifestyle choice. After all, do the strangers you’re not sleeping with know that it’s for political reasons? What would be achieved if they did?

Just as online activism produces a false sense of participation, labeling individual choices as political allows people to feel engaged in a collective cause without actually taking the actions to advance it. As writer Jessica DeFino observed in our recent interview on beauty culture, the problem with trying to message every choice you make as “feminist” is that it allows you to identify with the movement without actually furthering its goals—and this can serve as an emotional substitute for the real work, essentially alleviating the pressure people feel to actually get out there and organize. “If you feel that you’re engaging in feminist work, even if you’re not actually contributing to the cause,” Jessica said, “then who’s actually taking up the work in society that needs to be done?”

Just as online activism produces a false sense of participation, labeling individual choices as political allows people to feel engaged in a collective cause without actually taking the actions to advance it.

Social media incentivizes us to politicize our desires, advertising our individual lifestyle choices as an extension of our personal brand. And while the 4B and Boysober movement both position abstinence as empowering, the eagerness of American women to give up on men speaks to increasing gender animosity and our collective ennui around dating—not any actual power we stand to gain from doing so.

The 4B movement has radical roots. But in the U.S., the conversation that surrounds it is largely taking shape on TikTok, where women express their rage by speaking animatedly into their screens. Instead of being used as a political tool, it appears to have transformed into something else: an emotional outlet. I’m all for venting our collective fears and frustrations—they are real. But absent a clear political proposal, it feels less like a rallying cry and more like screaming into the void.

Scene from Midsommar / the vibe this past week.