Let’s Talk About Litia: A Garment-Checking Case Study

On January 27, 2025, the magical community of middle-aged mothers, reluctant boyfriends, and new wave feminists waited with bated breath to watch the 29th season premiere of The Bachelor. It would be a glamorous affair topped with glittering virgin mimosas and manicure kits and gossip magazines, as the beautiful, 31-year-old Grant Ellis took the screen. Famous for his departure on Jenn Tran’s dumpster fire of a 21st Bachelorette season, Grant would soon meet twenty-five new young women all vying for the spotlight, the drama, or his everlasting love. 

Among these women is Litia Garr, who received the first of five close-up features during the season’s premiere, a highly coveted position for any contestant on the show. For good or for bad, the network was spoon-feeding its viewers, letting them know that this was a girl to remember… at least for the very near future. In her interview, Litia revealed several distinguishing details about her life: she's a 31-year-old venture capitalist, native to Kahuku, and, most notably, she openly disclosed that her parents raised her in the Mormon faith.

Wait, what?

At my watch party entirely composed of BYU students, the room erupted into a ripple of shocked whispers. Have Mormons finally become mainstream? Are we finally abnormally normal enough to be public about our faith under The Bachelor fandom’s scrutinous eye? Perhaps The Secret Lives of Mormon Wives was more effective than we ever imagined! Indeed, every Bachelor fan I knew at BYU was talking about it. And from what I could discern from the all too secular world of Twitter, we weren’t the only ones.

Well, in my little Mormon bubble, people were certainly talking—not necessarily about these questions and nuances; instead, they were talking about Litia’s garments. Or, rather, the blasphemous lack thereof.

Throughout the show, Litia wore low-cut tops, short skirts, and strapless dresses—all indicators that she was not wearing her temple garments consistently, if at all. Now, I have done my time between a number of watch parties—everywhere from The Village to TikTok Live—and everyone seems to be asking the same questions: Is Litia still active? Does she expect him to convert? What about fantasy suites? Is her cocktail alcoholic? Is she endowed?

Why isn’t she wearing her garments?

If you grew up in the church I knew as a child, this is a common, knee-jerk reaction to seeing a potentially endowed woman in a beautiful, hot pink evening gown with a deep V-neck. But it seems like no matter how many times we’re told not to be Pharisees, we cannot help our curiosity—and even frustration—about the religious habits of other members. When I was younger, I definitely fell into this toxic habit, simmering at my fellow Mia Maids’ bikini pics on Instagram. (They were definitely at Bishop’s lesson about modesty last Sunday!)

Now, much later, I can recognize a deeper root for my frustration. By the time I was fourteen years old, I had been told for well over a decade that in order to be part of my community, I needed to wear shorts to the knees, keep only one piercing in my ear, decline trips to Starbucks with my worldly school friends, and wear a one-piece bathing suit. But here were my church friends who had been told the same things for as many years, and, despite it all, they still got to wear their cute Aerie bikinis to Virginia Beach.

So, I think it’s safe to say that I, perhaps more than anyone else, understand this compulsion to speculate and judge. It is the natural byproduct of wanting to belong and the consequent frustration with those who won’t comply with our definition of “fitting in.” And despite how much any of us pride ourselves in making progress in this vein, garment-checking persists as a seemingly unshakable element of toxic church culture. After all, the garment is the ultimate mental shortcut: it reveals in a millisecond every single thing you need to know about someone, just from seeing your classmate stretch or your fellow shopper bend over to get the hash browns at the bottom of the Walmart freezer. If you consider yourself “orthodox,” you might be pleased at the visible inch of white beneath their shirt. If you consider yourself “progressive,” you might be hesitant to go out of your way to ask for their Instagram. 

Conversely, the lack of visible garments on known members is a mental shortcut of a different kind. “Progressives” might find an element of comfort or safety, while those on the strictly devout end might have something really intrusive to say about it. Regardless of where you might put yourself on that spectrum, we all put so much weight into what we personally believe about garments and inappropriately project those feelings onto another’s very personal decisions: Do they only wear their garments at night? Do they not wear them to the gym and then go about the rest of their day garmentless? Do they buy the XS blended petite that allows them to wear biker shorts? In other words, how often do they wear their garments, and why? 

With that said, I can definitely hear some of you shouting, “It’s just a question!” After all, garments say so much regarding individuals about whom you know very little. Curiosity isn’t illegal.

The problem, my dear reader, is that it is rarely an innocent curiosity. I hope that by now I have proven that these “just-a-questions” are often coupled with split-second assumptions about a member’s faith and subsequent judgments about their worthiness, progressiveness, or anything in between—all garment-checking is. Comparison is indeed the thief of joy and the firm foundation of the mental Mormon hierarchy. Because if you ask me, there is hardly anything more joyful than being so much better than everyone else, right? 

Take Litia, for instance. Many international viewers were floored by how stunning she looked on her first one-on-one dinner: her skintight dress, plunging neckline, and glittering heels quite literally took my breath away (I mean, just look at that hourglass figure!). Many of my fellow viewers, though, were not impressed. One such judgmental spectator, a prepubescent returned missionary sporting a “Virginity Rocks” sweatshirt, was even so bold as to joke, “Wait, is she the Mormon? Wow, she’s definitely not keeping her covenants!”

While I refuse to take the bait about his sweatshirt, suffice it to say that this asinine remark prompts a myriad of reactions: How do we even know if she’s endowed in the first place? Does she have a legitimate medical reason to abstain from wearing them? After all, her vague comment at the time about “still [being] very religious” doesn’t necessarily mean she’s still a practicing and active member.

Because of the inarguably private nature of garments, it is clear that vocalizing these invasive questions, even as a joke, poses an even bigger problem. You become someone nasty, rude, judgmental, obsessive, and, honestly, super annoying. You become someone so consumed by something that doesn’t have anything to do with you, which certain specialists more or less define as “going insane.” This is why I fervently believe we need to start feeling a lot more shame in our garment-checking—it’s only a matter of time before these assumptions fully govern the way we fundamentally perceive those in our lives, let alone total strangers.

This prescription isn’t necessarily for Litia’s sake. After all, I’m certain she knew she was walking into a lion’s den of Pharisees and orthodox Mormons, all drooling at the prospect of ripping apart another Salt Lake City ProgMo. Instead, I think we need to stop asking questions about another’s garments or endowment status because it benefits every single person on the faith spectrum—you and me included. Instead of living in speculation and judgment, we have the potential to freely focus on our own testimonies, our own decisions, and our own lives, which, I suppose, could be one of many motivators for the chic new garment tank tops (coming soon to a Deseret Book near you!). After all, garments are not meant to be detectable, but they almost always are—either with a centimeter of their visibility or a consistently garment-friendly wardrobe. Perhaps this change reflects how leaders are aware of this pertinent judgment, or perhaps not. Either way, if garments are susceptible to change over time (which they have several times over the centuries), and we’re watching that change in real time, then we need to stop exerting so much energy on something that is ultimately fluid. 

Unfortunately, in Litia’s case, the obsessive comparison has only been heightened. In the hypercritical and speculative intersection of Mormon/Bachelor culture, the natural capacity to judge in the combined space is exponentially amplified. While I suppose it is only natural to wonder about the day-to-day lives of reality TV contestants, what isn’t natural (and frankly never should be) is loudly speculating about someone’s underwear. Especially if you’re a slightly prepubescent Elder drowning in a “Virginity Rocks” sweatshirt. Okay, fine, I’ll take the bait: we all knew you were a virgin the second you decided to act like the garment police.

I don’t mean to be so reductive as to suggest that garments are just “magic underwear.” To countless members worldwide, these are treasured symbols of a sacred covenant, and I think it’s harmful to generalize something so complex. However, I think it’s important to acknowledge that garments do function as underwear, and it’s incredibly weird to speculate and deduce what someone is wearing beneath their clothing—covenant or not.

Now, if you truly do believe that garments are sacred (and I’m sure you do, Elder “Virginity Rocks”), I think that makes your question all the more inappropriate. You do not have the authority to judge or even speculate on the state of another’s covenant. And if you still insist upon doing so, then optimistically, you’re nothing more than a Pharisee. Pessimistically, you’re just kind of a pervert.

I think Scarlett Johansson said it best in her 2012 Avengers interview: when her interviewer insisted she give him details about what she was wearing beneath her bodysuit, she replied, “Since when did people start asking each other about their underwear?” The interviewer countered, insisting that it was just a question, to which she replied, “[Asking] somebody what kind of underpants they wear? What kind of interview is this?”

The internet was quick to chastise the interviewer, and, to this day, clips of this infamous exchange still go viral every few months. After revisiting this backlash every fiscal quarter, I believe that we, too, must have the same amount of shame when it comes to underwear speculation within our own community. Besides, if it were just a question, the general public wouldn’t have been disgusted, and Robert Downey Jr. wouldn’t have started harassing every invasive Avengers interviewer since. 

If you still don’t believe me, then take it up with the deity who said, “Judge not.” While judging is something we are all guilty of—even as an unfortunate result of our upbringing—it’s about time we all take control of our opinions and snap out of the toxicity. We need to hold ourselves accountable, be ashamed, forgive ourselves, and make a more conscious effort to change every single time we garment-check. We need to break this habit because, frankly, someone else’s underwear is none of our business. Even if she’s endowed. Even if she’s an RM. Even if she has a skin condition or got stuck at the gym or is terrified of being endowed or has deeply pressing questions about her testimony. Even if she’s a Bachelor contestant in a beautiful dress.