The bus drove off, taking with it Laura Cullen’s old life. Left on the seat of the Lanzarote airport shuttle, her phone contained photos of that last girls’ trip, a week spent with her best friend eating seafood, swimming and enjoying the winter sun. The loss doesn’t bother her. She’d have to hand over her phone soon, anyway. As, through the gates at Arrecife airport, Glencairn is waiting for her. And her new sisters. It’s February 2022 and Laura, at 29 years old, is becoming a nun.
"Symbolic, right? Destiny!" Laura says to me over Zoom, laughing about that day almost three years ago, when everything changed. She’s in her novice mistress’s office in St Mary’s Abbey, Glencairn—a monastery in Ireland—and I’m camped out in a north London cafe because I’ve lost my house keys. I’m in gym gear. Laura is wearing a white scapular and habit, traditional nun’s garments.
Now 32, Laura will profess her first vows in March—"God willing"—and she will trade in her novice whites for a black veil when she becomes a junior. She’s two years into the process to become a full member of Ireland’s only Cistercian community, founded in 1098. Life is built around prayer seven times a day, with work that ranges from making Communion breads to general chores. A cloistered community, they don’t leave the grounds.
"Maybe I’ll just become a nun" has been the exacerbated sigh of women tired of the breakneck speed of modern life for some time. And those sighs are only getting louder: from the everyday drudge of dating app fatigue and a growing loneliness epidemic among women, to the more extreme rise of the trad wives and 4B movement (a radical feminist sentiment that emerged in South Korea and sees women say no to dating, marriage, sex and children). But more broadly, it feels like there’s a continuous chipping away of communities. A sense that we’re missing a deeper and real connection with each other— replaced instead by AI chatbots and unread DMs.
Of course, thinking about becoming a nun and actually becoming one are two different things. What your life looks like depends on which convent you enter: each religious community has varying lifestyles, even within the Catholic orders. Many are cloistered (like Laura’s), but others are apostolic, so you can see nuns in society working as teachers, social workers or nurses. Most involve vows of chastity, poverty (a promise to live simply, with no personal possessions) and obedience. There are militant schedules, long bouts of total solitude and silence. It’s a huge commitment, yet young women are taking it.
Ten years ago, the number of women entering religious orders trebled and hit a 25-year high. Not that the monastery gates were being hammered down by a glut of wannabe recruits—according to the National Office for Vocation, 45 women entered convents in England and Wales in 2014. Fourteen were 30 or younger. And in the US, although the percentage of nuns is on the decline according to AP, between 100 and 200 young women enter into a religious vocation each year.
It takes nine to 12 years of "formation" to become a nun, from the initial "discernment" stage, when a person first considers pursuing a religious vocation to final vows to become a professed sister. In 2024, some of those women should now have their habits, as full, lifelong members.
Those who do are at odds with their peers. According to Humanists UK, 70 percent of young adults aged 16 to 29 identify as having no religion, while 10 percent identify as Catholic. In the US, over a third of Gen Z describe themselves as "religiously unaffiliated," according to the American Survey Center. What could possibly draw young women to monastic life, which seems so out of step with the modern world? I sought out nuns with degrees, dating histories, now-dormant group chats and extinguished Snapchat streaks. Nuns who’ve brunched, bed-rotted, and meme-d, to find out.
Finding Yourself
Throughout her 20s, Laura had a "real craving for depth" but felt she was, largely, in a good place. She lived with a housemate in a nice part of Dublin right by the sea. She had a career in social work—a job she loved—and a good salary to support a life of sea swimming and coffee dates. "Something just felt missing," she says. "I felt a hunger."
Laura grew up in Meath, the eldest of two daughters in a "culturally Catholic" but not particularly religious household. She studied literature and philosophy in Dublin, and later completed a masters degree in social work. She travelled often and she did not, she says,"get called to God" early in life, but she "always had an instinct for God." "When I look back over my life I can see the thread there," she says.
Social work brought her closer to a feeling of purpose, working on harrowing child protection and elder abuse cases. "It was difficult," Laura says, "but meaningful." After an intense case at work, Laura planned a trip to Donegal with one of her closest friends. Disaster struck: Laura had a "whopper migraine," her friend had just been through a breakup, and they arrived at the glamping pods to torrential rain. Hunkered down with a laptop, Laura’s friend refused to watch anything with men in it. Instead, she suggested they watch a documentary about nuns. "I said, 'I don’t really want to watch a documentary about nuns on my week off!' But it blew me away."
She researched and kept questioning herself: "You make a sacrifice in any form of love: family or marriage. I had to consider if I wanted to give myself entirely to God." Each order has its own "charism"—a defining purpose—and Laura searched for the one that felt right. In fall 2020, she visited Glencairn, a strict Cistercian order—they believe in the rule of St. Benedict (pax, ora, et labora—peace, pray, and work), which means a focus on labor and deep prayer.
Her subsequent visits got longer and longer. Laura became an "Aspirant" in 2021 (a stage where you continue with your regular life as you learn more about whether it’s right for you) and, after returning from the aforementioned Lanzarote trip, turned down a new job opportunity in Glasgow and broke off a relationship with a "lovely guy with a motorbike." ("I doubt he’ll ever be dumped that way again!") A couple of weeks later, Laura made her official entry into the order as a "Postulant" in March 2022. After her first year, she became a "Novitiate" and entered an intense period of training.
By the time you read this article, Laura will be just weeks away from making her first profession of vows to become a junior sister. After that, she’ll take temporary vows every year until the ultimate Solemn Profession. It’s a gradual initiation, where the community gets to know her, too, and decide if she's a right fit for them. There are 24 nuns and potential lifelong sisters. Like a job promotion or fitting into a new friendship group, there are very-human nerves and anxiety. "You’re constantly asking, Does this feel right?" Laura says.
Embracing Silence
Inside the Carmel monastery, the peace is disorientating. I’ve come here to meet Sister Edith Maria, and I wait to speak with her in a room dotted with crucifixes and prayer leaflets. I hear a creaking and turn smiling to the door—which doesn’t move. I spin around in time to see wooden shutters unfolding on the far wall, where there’s an iron grille—a physical symbol of the nuns’ separation from the outside world—which Edith Maria pulls back so I can see her in her brown Carmelite garb. Her long dark hair is pulled up under her habit and she wears glasses. I take a seat opposite her.
For Sister Edith Maria, monastic life began with a Google search: "Carmels near me." The Carmelites are a well-known enclosed community with beliefs founded by 12th century hermits. One sister is appointed as the main communicator with the outside world, and she reports back on any news or world events from their singular television and radio. There are 42 Carmelite monasteries in the US, and 13 Carmelite monasteries in Britain housing around 200 nuns, but at least three will shut this year, and London’s Notting Hill HQ (where we meet) will welcome the (mostly elderly) sisters in. All Edith Maria knew was that they were very prayerful and wore brown. She began discerning at age 29, and she’s now 32. Like Laura, Edith Maria anticipates taking her first solemn vows next year.
Edith Maria grew up in Italy, moving to Aberdeen to study languages and translation, before relocating to London just before COVID to become a nursery teacher. While she grew up Catholic, it was in her adult years that she "took control" of her faith. As an undergrad, Edith Maria lived in an apartment run by a religious movement and found young people’s faith groups in Scotland and London. "Faith began to feel like a compass—it was guiding everything I did," she said. Like Laura, she was searching for ways to feel more involved in religion and coming up short. After some God’s Will-informed Googling, the process from initial discernment to official application (over email) took around six months. Like Laura, she’s a Novitiate, two and a half years in. Carmels do an extra year. "The process is very slow. Each step is a big step," she explains.
So what do nuns do all day? "The consensus out there," says Edith Maria, "is that we don’t do very much!"
"I had a friend visiting me who’s engaged, getting a promotion and buying a house with her fiancé," says Laura. "I was like, 'Well, I cleaned the church yesterday. I’m in the kitchen tomorrow!'" Still, reporting around the church bells ringing, I find the nuns busy. Days are regimented, starting early and moving precisely. Laura’s order rises at 3:45 a.m. and Edith Maria’s at 5:20 a.m.. Seven prayer sessions orchestrate the day’s rhythm, with set times for silent reflection, work, chores, drinking tea, and playing games together. The Carmels make altar breads, recently began beekeeping, and run a "crafty nun" store where they sell crochet work and candles. There’s a Carmelite podcast and Instagram, where some of the sisters broadcast what they’re up to—they deliberately do not engage with people outside of the orders on these platforms though, in keeping with their way of life. But spontaneity can feel like life’s greatest privilege, and by 8:30 p.m., what has the day brought?
"It’s difficult having every minute of your life assigned to something," says Edith Maria. The stringent structure is both work and liberation. And for an Italian, silent meals and early nights are tough. "I think it’s taught me discipline. When I was out there," she says, gesturing past the gothic lancet windows, "I was doing all the right things, but I felt like I was just filling time. Life didn’t have a pivot—you’re overworking to afford your lifestyle, or tired from keeping up with your friends. Here, the pivot is God. There’s a clear center." She has rediscovered painting, and a new love of gardening. When I speak to Laura, she’s on her "hermit day," which is a monthly day off. She’ll read, play guitar, and sleep. "I see my life as balanced for the first time," she says. "This is a slow, intentional way of living."
In a world that pushes us to always be optimizing and engaging with hustle culture, that sentiment feels radical. Raised in society’s constant din—unread messages clocking up, horns blaring on the commute into work—a life of solitude is an overhaul. "Before I entered, my life was so full of noise. I would drive to and from work with Spotify on. I fell asleep to podcasts," says Laura. "Now, I’m forced to listen inwardly. Silence is a rare commodity." Edith Maria was attracted to the silence, but when she entered, she realized how in opposition it is to her personality. "I’m chatty! But this life should be a challenge."
A True Escape?
Almost all women I know, in their 20s and 30s especially, live with the constant hum in their head of, Am I doing this right?. We are subject to time-pronged pressures: marriage, children, career arcs. Behind the monastery gates, these still loom large for Laura and Edith Maria. There are crossroads they come back to: "There was a relationship, a promotion I was up for," Laura says. "At first you focus a lot on what you’re losing, and then you feel grateful for what you’ve gained."
Edith Maria was a few years past a 10-year relationship. "I tried a few more," she jokes. "Marriage is something I still long for, honestly. We want to be known and understood. But I knew if I married someone then, I’d have destroyed it. I had to try this first."
Laura always saw herself having children. "I worried, Will I be able to become a truly loving person without being a mother? These sisters show me how mature their love is. I saw other ways of being a mother. Maybe our culture is a bit narrow in how we think. Celibacy, too. It has a bad reputation! There are millions of ways of being a human being."
The lengthy process to become a nun gives both the time and space to explore whether the sacrifice is worth it. Sister Mary Joseph, Edith Maria’s Mother Prioress, entered the Carmels aged 24. She’s now 77. "When I was growing up, becoming a nun held more status," she says in a Scottish lilt, as we sit overlooking their tranquil garden. "Today there’s more of a search to find us—but when they do, there’s a real sense of will." What’s the biggest personal challenge she sees? "Handing over the phones!" she says.
In our constant, always-on world, the idea of being free from our phones sounds, in some ways, appealing. But our handsets offer more than just obscure memes—they're a way to speak with our friends and family, and forge new connections that would have once been impossible. Laura has guest visits every few months, and Edith Maria writes home regularly. Not everyone has been supportive. Laura and a close relative aren’t speaking right now. "They are struggling with my decisions," says Laura. "I hope they can get there before my vows."
In place of the family and friends they grew up with, the nuns spend their days with their fellow sisters. Edith Maria’s next closest sister is 37, and the oldest is 90. For Laura, she has 29-year-old Sister Beatrice, who professed her first vows in 2021. Beatrice is Laura’s "angel," a designated confidante. Soon they’ll welcome a new young entrant. "You need someone who gets the unique struggles and how they intersect with contemporary life," she says.
"I was fed up with roommates!" says Edith Maria. "Older people have so much to share. They have lived the life I’m going through. It makes me feel deeply understood."
In the Cistercians, it’s Sister Charlotte’s 90th birthday. Laura and her sisters are caring for her as she ages. They’ve made baked Alaska. "The older sisters give me a sense of perspective, especially when I’m caught up in my own little psychodramas," says Laura.
For an outsider’s perspective, I speak to Dr. Carmen M. Mangion, a historian on gender and religion who has written about female religiousness in secular times. She explains that, while there are of course many upsides to these sorts of communities, there are everyday struggles, too. "The reality is, it’s like any group of humans. There can be cliques. Women are living holy lives but they [can still] have tension when living together." And that’s not the only challenge.
Out in the Loud
It felt like there was noise everywhere. "It was hard to go from silence to constant stimulation. Going to the grocery store was overwhelming and having conversations was difficult. [Having a] phone and a computer again were unpleasant privileges. It was a huge challenge," says Bethany, who works with a US-based organization called Leonie’s Longing, which supports women who have left convents and returned to their lay life. She was asked to leave her order in 2022—four years after completing her first vows—because the community had voted against her.
"I initially joined because it felt like a family, I felt peaceful and joyful there," she tells me. Bethany has a weekly video chat with other former nuns, which has been a vital support. Bethany says she was told that she was, "too cheerful, too obedient, blended in too well, [and that] they didn’t know what to do with me."
Religious women have experienced what academics call "an archaeology of exclusion" within the patriarchal Catholic Church, meaning the stories and experiences of nuns have been made invisible for centuries. In 2020, the International Union of Superiors General in Rome, a Catholic organization representing about 600,000 sisters and nuns from 80 countries worldwide, released a three-year study that highlighted burnout and stress as significant reasons for why women left religious life. It found young women were being "held back" by older superiors who pushed "bootcamp-style traditions."
While I’m told the nuns are not on a recruitment drive, and are meant to remain low in numbers, would the sisters recommend their life to others? "Well… I’d not describe myself as adjusted just yet," says Edith Maria. "But younger sisters? Yes please! Maybe that’s selfish, but I’ve only been here for two years, and I’ve already seen myself growing more whole. I wish it was something everybody could know."
It’s enticing, in some ways. And if nunneries did PR, these sisters could certainly write the ad campaign. For these women, their sense of freedom thrives behind convent walls—it’s affronting, when out in the chaotic, capricious contemporary landscape, many of us feel the opposite about this way of living. But they certainly aren’t cloistered from real-life problems: monasteries are challenged by finances, friendship dynamics, and emotional arcs like any other person or group.
The real stutter for many comes at the end goal—subordination. There’s the giving up of connecting with people of completely different faiths and beliefs to your own, the possibilities to more deeply understand people your own age, or of different genders and lifestyles, to fall in love. It’s a lot to compute. Despite that, their long, considered, and consistent self-examination feels admirable and something we so rarely allow ourselves in the everyday hustle of modern society. So, while organized religion is far from the answer to dating exhaustion, identity crises, or political strife, maybe there’s a rhythm of life here that could let a little bit of light in.
