When I was a teenager, I held my body close, shoulders curved inward, back hunched—hiding. I was covered from head to toe with clothing and with shame. My body, evil thing that it was, a thing to be abhorred, disciplined, resisted, was a burden that I would carry with me until I was liberated by death. The flesh, “bring it under subjection,” the pastor preached, “resist the temptations of the flesh, mortify the flesh”—the flesh, the physical body, literally the thing, the living, breathing thing that carries us through our journey on this planet—was our worst enemy. He wasn’t the only pastor to preach that; it’s kind of a thing that’s out there, a thing that people actually teach their children. It was worse that my flesh was female. Female flesh is worse than male flesh because female flesh is what causes male flesh to stray. How could they give in to temptation if we didn’t tempt them in the first place?

When I left the church, the message changed. My body wasn’t evil anymore, well, not totally, as long as I used it the right way, but it was wrong, all wrong. My legs weren’t long and lean, my abs weren’t well-defined, my boobs were too small, and my ass was too big. My hair wasn’t long and wavy and sunkissed, and my cheekbones weren’t high enough or defined enough. When I was nineteen, I bought a workout VCR (yes, I’m that old) called Brand New Butt and tripped around the living room trying to follow the steps of those perfect ladies, those desirable ladies.

In the church, I felt shame if I was desired; out of the church, I felt shame if I was not.

Then I got pregnant and gained too much weight. My baby bump took over my whole body instead of just being the perfect little round ball in the front, while the rest of me remained graciously unchanged and sexy. My face swelled, and my feet puffed up. I dutifully pulled out the maternity yoga DVD and tried to twist and stretch my exhausted body through the poses. I tirelessly counted out the kegels so my husband wouldn’t be disappointed after I pushed a giant alien out of my vagina.

As a forty-year-old mom, I worried about thinning hair, wrinkles, and back fat, my body changing shape every three months without consulting me beforehand. Sadly, I have been at war with my body my whole life. I know that I’m not alone, and like so many of my sisters and friends, I’ve committed to unlearning all of the bullshit and breaking the cycle so I can gift an alternative narrative to the next generation.

I hope that they will always have the courage to move through the world, not with their eyes covered but wide open, resisting the shame, the pressure, and the confusion of trying to fit someone else’s mold of what is desirable and proper, never feeling like they have to hide any part of themselves because it doesn’t fit that mold. I hope they will claim the space they need to grow into every last bit of their graceful and powerful selves, step into the fullness of their integrity, and be the unshakable forces of nature that they are. May their strength well up from the deep, like earthquakes, hurricanes, and molten lava—elements that will reshape the world to the benefit of all humanity.