ExMormon Explains Mormon Temple Garments

If you’re wondering, “What the hell are magic Mormon underwear?” buckle up, because we’re diving into some seriously sacred—and seriously bizarre—territory. These garments aren’t your standard Fruit of the Looms; they’re the holy, secret underwear worn by “worthy” Mormon adults who’ve gone through a temple ceremony known as the “washing and anointing.”

Imagine making a formal covenant with God promising you’ll wear this underwear 24/7, day and night, for the rest of your life. Yes, even to bed. Yes, even when it’s 100+ degrees out. And yes, often even during exercise.

Momon Temple Garments and My Experience Wearing Them

When I first received mine, it felt surreal. I’d spent my entire childhood “preparing to wear garments,” which, in hindsight, sounds absolutely bonkers. Most Mormon kids grow up thinking this is completely normal—until it’s your turn.

I vividly recall the first time I put them on; I was freaked out, and truthfully, aside from the brief blessing, I hated every moment. They were uncomfortable, awkward, and weirdly invasive. Below is a photo of how Mormon garments look, along with the markings on every garment. 

The garments come in various fabrics—some breathable, some decidedly not—and bear special embroidered marks that correspond to symbols taught in the temple. We’re talking squares, compasses, navel marks, and knee marks, each with its own meaning.

Originally, temple workers would physically bathe you during the ceremony, but after understandable pushback, the Church downgraded it from full bathing to “touching,” then to mere “gesturing,” and finally, now, they just recite words. Progress, I suppose?

But here’s the kicker: these garments are considered sacred to an extreme. Members aren’t supposed to ever let them touch the ground, and if they get worn out, there’s a specific disposal method—cutting out the sacred marks and then shredding the fabric until it’s “unrecognizable.”

My family used to burn them until the Church clarified that wasn’t necessary. If an organization dictates your underwear and its destruction protocol, you’ve got to wonder if you’re in a cult. Spoiler alert: You probably are. (Dad, pick up your phone!)

What bothers me most isn’t just the underwear itself; it’s the obsessive secrecy surrounding it. For instance, Mormons compare garments to other religions’ clothing, like the Sikh Kachera. But even Kachera aren’t worn 24/7 or hidden obsessively. A Sikh woman freely showed hers on YouTube, whereas Mormon influencers who dare even flash a waistband risk outrage and judgment from within their community. This isn’t about underwear; it’s about control, secrecy, and shame wrapped in cotton-poly blends.

Speaking of influencers, there’s an absurd double standard. Mormon Instagrammers show off their garments subtly, but only if it’s “tasteful” and approved by their audience. Others skirt the garment rules entirely, invoking “choice feminism” and conveniently labeling their deviations as “personal decisions.” It’s funny how “personal decisions” seem acceptable only when they align with trendy aesthetics or Instagram likes. (Joseph Smith is rolling over in his grave watching BYU students casually rock crop tops.)

Gendered Design Flaws

Let’s talk sexism because Mormon garments are peak sexist design. Men’s garments are far less invasive, allowing them to go about their day unbothered. Women’s garments, on the other hand, awkwardly position symbols right over the nipples and are notorious for being yeast infection factories due to poor breathability.

Thankfully, they’ve recently printed marks instead of embroidering them to ease discomfort. Still, when your religion’s underwear requires tweaks to avoid health issues, maybe revisit why you’re mandating underwear at all?

Wearing Garments on My Mormon Mission

On my mission, the garments became a nightmare. I had to exercise in them, sleep in them, and constantly feel them pinching, bunching, and generally making life miserable. I gained weight, battled body image issues, and despised every sweaty second. One particularly memorable story involves a fellow missionary who experienced literal panic about removing her garments to swim; indoctrination had convinced her they’d lose their magical “protection.”

Ah, yes, the magical protection myth. Garments are colloquially known as “Jesus jammies” or “Gs,” rumored to shield wearers from physical harm. Legend has it that Joseph Smith wouldn’t have been killed if he’d been wearing his garments correctly. (He wasn’t, obviously, since he died, but some Mormons cling fiercely to such lore.)

Today, the garment culture is evolving, driven by Mormon influencers pushing boundaries, flaunting “tank-top garments,” and advocating for personal choice. But here’s the rub: choice feminism misses the point. Celebrating individual choices ignores the societal pressure and indoctrination from birth. Is it truly a “free choice” if you’re conditioned from childhood to believe wearing garments is your ticket to divine favor and protection?

Final Thoughts

When I finally left the church, shedding those garments felt like reclaiming autonomy over my body. Suddenly, I could breathe—literally and metaphorically. I wasn’t bound by fabric or obligation, nor was I worried about an imaginary divine shield slipping away. For the first time, underwear was simply underwear, devoid of divine expectations.

Critiquing Mormonism isn’t easy or popular—especially something as sensitive as garments. Some find it deeply offensive, but my experience is valid. After years of wearing, sweating, itching, and conforming, I’ve earned the right to mock the absurdity of it all openly. Religion shouldn’t be immune from criticism, especially when it involves secret ceremonies, uncomfortable rituals, and controlling clothing mandates. If you think your religion is above questioning, you’re already neck-deep in problematic waters.

So yes, I wore magic Mormon underwear, and I hated it. I hated the secrecy, the sexism, and the absurdity. But most of all, I hated the control it symbolized. If your church tells you exactly how to dispose of your holy underwear—run, don’t walk, because you’re in a cult. Trust me—I’ve been there.