Tiny Dating Pools And 'The Long Wait': Why Young UK Mormons Are Still Choosing Celibacy

I had my first one-night stand as a 19-year-old studying abroad in the United States. Well, almost.

I was at a college party, flirting with a guy all night. When it wound down, we walked back to the dorms together, stumbling down dark streets, making out. I could taste the cigarettes and cheap beer on his breath.

“Come back to my room,” he said.

I paused. Pulled back.

Maybe it was the startled look on my face, or that he sobered up just enough to remember an earlier conversation we’d had. “Oh, of course… you’re Mormon.”

“Yeah sorry,” I said. “I don’t really do that.”

He was quiet for a moment. Then: “What’s the most you can get away with?”

The phrase made me feel dirty — and not in the good way — like he was trying to work out how far he could push me. I could have stayed. I could have gone back to his room. But I knew then it wasn’t worth bargaining away the boundaries I’d set for myself.

I left, and with that ended my first one-night stand — though not quite the way you’d expect.

The reason was simple: as a member of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints (or Mormons), we promise not to have sex outside of marriage. Not just intercourse, but anything that would ‘arouse’ sexual feelings with our thoughts, words or actions. A now discontinued church pamphlet even discouraged “passionate kissing.” For believers, it’s about keeping sex sacred, reserved for the person you’ll commit to forever.

The church has roughly 17 million members worldwide, but in the UK and Europe the dating pool is tiny compared with Mormon hubs in the US. In places like Provo, Utah or Rexburg, Idaho, where church universities dominate entire towns, it’s common to go on several dates a week. In Europe, dates happen far less frequently — and, at a young adult conference in Norway last summer, we were told the average marriage age for church members in Europe is 32.8. In the US, it’s 22.

It’s easy to assume all church members marry young: settle down, flip the switch overnight from holding hands in the pews to doing whatever they want in the bedroom. Many do. But for a growing number of us, especially in Europe, waiting for marriage means waiting well into our twenties or thirties with no room to explore  desire at all. For some, the wait may never end.

I’m 29, still single, and keeping that promise. The tension I feel isn’t just physical — though that’s certainly part of it. It’s the persistent sense of being caught between two worlds, belonging fully to neither. Dating outside the church means navigating fundamentally different approaches to sex and relationships, and within it, the pool is just so small.

So I find myself wondering: How do I gain the experience I need to understand what I want in a partner when the opportunities to date are so limited? Am I being naive to keep waiting? Will any of this be worth it?

I surveyed 100 young Mormons aged 18-35 across the UK and Europe about what it’s really like to navigate desire, dating, and waiting for marriage. Most responses were anonymous, and while the sample was self-selecting, the patterns were strikingly consistent. I’ve also drawn on voices from the US where they speak to struggles that reach beyond Europe.

What it actually feels like

Respondents described desire differently, but all acknowledged the tension. 

The bluntest - and bleakest - response came from a single woman in her late twenties from the UK “I’m horny all the time. But I chose Jesus so I have to suffer.” 

Others were more measured about the push and pull. “I’ve come to learn that it’s okay to feel whatever I’m feeling,” said one man (25-30, single, UK). “What’s tough is to then act upon what the church teaches is right and not upon what my body wants.”

Another described it like this: “Our sex drive and feelings are of divine origin and attraction in itself is nothing bad, but rather very sacred. But like with many things in life it’s good to bridle ourselves. I love food, but it wouldn’t be very healthy for me to eat constantly.” (Male, 31-35, single, UK)

It’s difficult living in a body primed for sex when you’ve decided not to. We’re asking our bodies to wait indefinitely, through what’s supposed to be our sexual prime.

The tension isn’t just physical, it’s emotional too. “When you are in love with someone it can feel like you are holding back your ability to love them completely.” (Female, 18-24, in a relationship, USA)

What struck me most was the shame. One woman’s fiancé “accidentally” came while they were kissing. “He was immediately flooded with so much self-hate and shame,” she said. “All I could think was this is a good thing, it means your body is healthy and doing what it’s supposed to do!” (Female, 25-30, engaged, USA) 

For some, that shame runs deeper and longer: “I had a hard time understanding that I had sexual desires because I was taught to suppress them for a long time. I’m only just beginning to fully understand the depth of my sexuality,” one woman now in her thirties told me.

This is the cost of silence. The church teaches that sex before marriage is wrong but rarely talks about what to do with desire while you’re waiting. Research is clear that there is no recommended amount of sex people need to be healthy — abstinence itself isn’t the problem. But without open conversations about desire, healthy bodily responses become shameful. Normal feelings become something to suppress. You can choose to wait and still be sex positive. The two aren’t mutually exclusive

The silence makes it worse

I’ve sat through countless church discussions on marriage and families for young single adults. The pattern is always the same: sex is sacred, don’t have sex before you’re married, avoid pornography. Then we move on quickly, past the awkward giggles and embarrassed looks.

If you’re single and talk about sex, you’re labelled sex-crazed or desperate. I worry about the judgement, and I’ve often questioned whether my married friends see me as naive or whether I’m considered unqualified to join these conversations simply because I’m inexperienced.

I wasn’t the only one feeling this frustration. “I try to be as open and honest about it, but I rarely find others who are,” one married woman in her late-twenties observed (UK).

The older generation will gleefully share their love story and dating tips in church corridors. But they really have no idea what it’s like to be older and still waiting.

Many of them had their second or third child by our age. They married young, maybe to their first serious relationship. Sitting through another well-meaning pep talk about dating when you’re almost 30 feels embarrassing - like you’re one of the stragglers, still stuck on a milestone everyone else cleared years ago.

They never had to experience dating apps, ghosting, situationships, and the culture of non-commitment — all while trying to stay true to your faith.

The silence and superficial advice create shame where there shouldn’t be any. We’re figuring it out alone.

The dating equation that doesn’t add up

Figuring it out isn’t simple, because the dating pool in the UK and Europe isn’t just impossibly small — it’s microscopic. I discovered this firsthand when a well-meaning friend told me to download a Mormon dating app called Mutual. On there, I’d swipe through everyone I already knew before venturing over to France, Germany, Denmark, Sweden, Spain, and then the rest of the world. At least, it makes you feel well-travelled.

And even within that tiny pool, the sense of familiarity closes in quickly. “Everybody seems to know everybody, it’s like dating in a small village,” said one respondent (Female, 25-30, married, Europe)

And within that village, everyone has different standards. “I’ve had boys who were grossed out that I’d given previous partners hand jobs, and I’ve had other boys who get frustrated when I won’t take my top off anymore,” one woman told me (Female, 25-30, married, USA).

A lot can happen between making out and having sex. In my own relationships and hookups, there has always been the thought at the back of my mind: “Are we crossing a line here?” Who decides where the line even is?”

It turns out I’m not alone in my confusion. “As an adult you need to decide your own boundaries, which I think is what God would want us to do.” (Female, 25-30, in a relationship, UK)

Some approach it practically, setting the conversation early. “When dating, these powerful sexual feelings do arise. To navigate them, I felt it was important to talk about boundaries beforehand to ensure the wellbeing of both me and my partner.” (Male, 25-30, single, Europe)

It sounds reasonable. But for many women, the reality is more complicated — the responsibility of holding the line falls disproportionately on them.

“I once had to literally shove a boyfriend of six months off me because he wasn’t listening to my ‘no’,” one woman (25-30, engaged, USA) told me. “After he cooled off, he said he was grateful that I kept boundaries he also wanted to keep. I kicked him out of my apartment, and we broke up shortly after.” She was blunt about what she’d learned: “I can’t always trust that the men I’m with will keep their boundaries, even when they’ve set them.”

Part of the problem is that “avoiding sexual relations” before marriage means something different to everyone. The teaching is clear — but where people draw the line in practice varies. The spectrum is wider than you might think. “Some people do oral, while others barely kiss. There’s a lot of judgement from others who don’t agree with your boundaries, regardless of which extreme they are themselves.” (Female, 31-35, single, Europe)

So you’re navigating desire with little guidance, sometimes enforcing boundaries for yourself and for partners who can’t hold their own — all while trying to choose your only sexual partner for life from a pool where everyone understands chastity differently. 

You can explore compatibility intellectually, emotionally, spiritually. But the one area with the least room for exploration is the physical — and that’s the very area you’re told to choose wisely.

So why wait?

The answers surprised me. Nobody said “because the church tells me to,” or cited fear or blind obedience.

For many, the decision was framed as autonomy rather than restriction. “I tell myself that if I really want to, I can. I don’t want to hold myself back purely because it’s the right thing to do — it’s my choice to do this thing because it feels right for me.” (Female, 31-35, single, Europe)

For others, the choice was shaped by experience. After discovering a boyfriend had cheated on her, one woman began to reassess what intimacy meant to her. They had been physically close — groping until he came, she’d been topless with him. Looking back, she said: “I have regretted giving him that satisfaction every day since I discovered who he really was. I realised that for me, physical intimacy was tied too closely to my emotions to be casual about it. I promised I wouldn’t have sex with anyone I wasn’t going to date long-term.” (Female, 25-30, engaged, USA)

Others were more pragmatic. “I just don’t want too many penises in me, one good quality one is enough.” (Female, 25-30, single, UK)

It made me laugh, but there’s something honest there — a recognition that sex means something, whether you’re framing it spiritually or just being selective about intimacy.

The most striking response came from someone who had spent years wrestling with the tension. “I got to a place where I realised it was part of who I was, something that added to my life in a really positive way and it didn’t make me believe in God less. Realising I could have both of those parts of myself at the same time made a big difference,” (Female, 25-30, in a relationship, USA)

That’s the insight I wasn’t expecting: having sexual desire and having faith aren’t mutually exclusive.

The choice we’re making

What I’ve learned is that young Mormons are not naive. We’re not blindly following rules. We know what we’re giving up: exploration, experience, the years of our physical prime. But many of us have made a deliberate calculation: that sex means something more when it’s reserved for someone we’ve chosen forever.

I think back to that night when I was 19, to the drunk American asking what I could “get away with.” I didn’t know how to answer then. Nearly 10 years later, I still don’t have a perfect answer.

But I’ve learned this: the tension between what our bodies want and what we’ve chosen doesn’t disappear. Maybe the point isn’t to eliminate it. Maybe it’s to learn to live with it honestly, without shame. To acknowledge that both desires - the physical and the spiritual - can be true at once.

We’re not sinful for having sexual feelings. We’re not naive for choosing to wait. We’re just people trying to honour something we believe in, even when it’s hard.

Especially when it’s hard.

This piece was published in collaboration with Pillow Talk Scotland, a charity dedicated to promoting sex and relationships education through community events and journalism.

Find out more at pillowtalk.scot or on Instagram at @pillowtalk.scot.