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, thing that needed 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”—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 blonde and my cheekbones weren’t high enough or defined enough. When I was nineteen I bought a work-out 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, the rest of me remaining stubbornly unchanged, sexy. My face swelled, and my feet puffed up. I dutifully pulled out the maternity yoga DVD tried to follow along, but I was so exhausted! I dutifully counted out the kegels so my husband wouldn’t have to suffer after I pushed a giant alien out of my vagina.

As a forty-two year old mom, I worry about thinning hair, wrinkles and back fat, my body changing shape every three months without consulting me beforehand. I realize I have been at war with my body my whole life and I know that I’m not alone. I want to unlearn all of the bullshit and break the cycle. As that mom, with two beautiful children who believe in the power of humanity, self-respect, and mutual respect no matter your gender, identity or race, is it no wonder that seeing women—mothers—rock the Super Bowl with their grace, independence, and power would leave me with tears of joy?

And now, watching the backlash unfold, my thoughts rest with my kids and their friends. 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.