The Corset Never Came Off

How Evangelical Fashion Keeps Women Small

Recently, The Washington Post published an article titled “Is A Floral Sundress A Political Statement?” exploring why young conservative women are embracing milkmaid dresses, florals, and feminine flourishes. The piece takes readers inside a Turning Point USA rally, highlighting a sea of floral “Little House on the Prairie” dresses. Upon seeing the article's title, I immediately thought, ‘This “fashion” is about survival, it's about playing into a fantasy.’

You can tell a lot about what a culture believes by how it wants its women to look.

In some corners of social media, a growing trend of prairie dresses, gentle ruffles, modest hems, and fantasies of butter churning is presented as a form of empowerment. The tradwife aesthetic, romanticized femininity styled after Laura Ingalls Wilder, is more than just fashion; it's a political stance. As with many narratives about women, it primarily focuses on male comfort, control, and power.

Women's fashion has consistently served as a political statement. Our choices of clothing-what's allowed, what results in punishment, and what's deemed appropriate to appear "feminine,” “respectable,” or “desirable”-are all controlled by power structures that have never been impartial.

High Heels Were Never About Women

Begin with the heels. Not the stilettos in your closet today, but their origins. Persian men originally wore high heels in the 15th century to help secure their feet in stirrups during warfare. As they gained popularity in Western Europe, heels became a status symbol among aristocratic men, enhancing their height and commanding presence, much like male politicians still wear height-enhancing lifts today. It was only later, in the 17th and 18th centuries, that high heels transformed into a fashion statement for women, signaling social rank and, more covertly, sexual availability. Heels elongated the legs, lifted the buttocks, and made fleeing more difficult.

According to Elizabeth Semmelhack, director of the Bata Shoe Museum and author of Heights of Fashion: A History of the Elevated Shoe,

“Men’s heels were about equestrianism and power; women’s heels became about eroticism and appeal.” The shift wasn't accidental. It was a reorientation of fashion around the male gaze. Women didn’t ask for heels. They were told—implicitly and explicitly—that this is what made them beautiful. Which, of course, meant this is what made them valuable. [Semmelhack, Elizabeth. Heights of Fashion: A History of the Elevated Shoe. Periscope Publishing Ltd., 2004.]

Fashion as a Cage

The trend persisted, with corsets tightening waists to the point where breathing became difficult. Petticoats and hoop skirts hindered movement, while bustles exaggerated volume without any practical purpose. These clothes weren’t created for active women but for women who were expected to sit, smile, and present a favorable image of their husbands.

In Victorian England, high-necked gowns and heavy skirts represented piety and restraint. However, it wasn’t just about modesty; it was a matter of control. Clothing served as a stand-in for virtue. Dressing to suggest chastity implied moral uprightness, while revealing ankles could cast doubt on your character.

This is the traditional evangelical style that has been passed down and never questioned.

The Fantasy of the Helpless Woman

Today’s tradwife aesthetic—a curious mix of “Little House on the Prairie” and Hobby Lobby maternity photos—doesn’t emerge randomly. It’s a deliberately chosen style that conveys not only femininity but also a sense of submission. The long, shapeless dress is more than just modesty; it serves to infantilize. A woman wearing a dress resembling a child’s nightgown seems more controllable, less intimidating, and less adult.

And that’s the point.

Evangelical men, especially those deep in purity culture and Christian nationalism, don’t want women who are confident, strong, or sexually independent. They want women who are easy to control. They want women who appear like girls. They desire a return to a world where the lines between wife, servant, and daughter are blurred and where their authority is never questioned.

That’s why the tradwife dress pairs so well with the fundie baby voice. You’ve heard it—the high-pitched, soft-spoken tone that never dares to interrupt or assert. It’s not just annoying; it’s effective. It’s a tool of survival in evangelical spaces, where speaking too boldly can cost you your place at the table—or your seat in church.

A grown woman who dresses and speaks like a child serves as a reminder to evangelical men that they will always have something to conquer. Ultimately, conquest remains the goal—whether it’s empire, theology, or marriage.

The Politics of Dressing Like a Colonizer’s Prize

The Laura Ingalls cosplay isn’t just about vintage aesthetics or homemade bread. It’s about recalling an era when white women were regarded as the prized rewards of colonial ambition. When “purity” was defined in contrast to the alleged savagery of the outside world. When women were viewed as the moral core of the household, and the property of their husbands.

White evangelical women who adopt this aesthetic understand precisely what they’re doing. Whether intentionally or not, they are signaling loyalty to a system where they may never be equal to men, but they can still be “protected” by them. That protection—the illusion of safety in a violent world—is the closest they come to power.

It’s no surprise that with the rise of Christian nationalism, evangelical women are doubling down on modesty and “traditional femininity.” The message is clear: If you are well-behaved, obedient, and dressed according to the ideal standards, you won’t be rejected.

The Women Who Refuse to Dress Like Children

We’re told fashion is just a matter of taste. A personal choice. But it’s never been only that. When women wear clothes—especially in systems designed to make them appear smaller—they are making decisions about survival, resistance, and visibility. For some, the prairie dress acts as a shield. For others, it’s a symbol of allegiance. But for many of us, refusing to shrink ourselves—refusing to speak softly, dress like children, or flatter male fragility—is an act of rebellion.

This isn’t about judging a dress. It’s about recognizing what that dress signifies in the space. It’s not about the fabric itself; it’s about fantasy. When women dress to appear like girls, men don’t have to grow up or be held accountable. When femininity is packaged as meekness, submission becomes desirable. And when fashion rewards women for shrinking, softening, or vanishing into piety and purity, then every hemline, whisper, and puffed sleeve becomes a message about who gets to wield power—and who must diminish herself to survive it.

So no, it’s not “just a dress.”
It never was.
It’s a costume.
It’s a cage.
It’s a contract.
And some of us are done performing.

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