(Trigger warning: sexual assault)

To all the brilliant, beautiful girls I’ve ever led:

I owe you an apology. 

I taught you faith, and community, and some things about tampons and style and boys. Together we learned that God’s love shows up in strange things, and you helped me to see it in places I never would have thought to look. We cried, because girls can be mean. And I grabbed your arm one time, when you tried to punch her. I told you your drama was unbecoming. And you told me when I didn’t understand. 

You helped me to find my voice, as I realized yours might not be heard if mine couldn’t be. And I reveled in hearing you find yours. Some tried to denounce you. Demean you. And it was so much easier to defend you than myself. So I taught you not to let anyone call you cute. And you taught me to not be cute. And we practiced together speaking truth through the bullshit.

And then there were boys. I told you some unhelpful things, like to stay away from them, because that seemed like a thing I should say. And I told you that you were beautiful and brilliant, which is true, and to not give any time to any boy who made you feel like anything less. I told you to guard your heart. And be careful where you go, and who you go with. I told you to make good choices and be prepared to protect yourself. I told you that the world is not like the movies teach you. That boys would love you. Really love you. That there was a curse associated with being a beautiful, brilliant female like you.

But there is much I didn’t say. 

What I should have taught you, is that our world hasn’t changed as much as it has needed to since I was your age. What I didn’t say, is that you can be perfect, you can protect yourself and make good choices, and bad shit can happen anyway.

What I didn’t say is that at some point, in some place, there’s a good chance a boy will do something to you that you don’t want him to. You might not know how to name it. But you’ll know it. And it will hurt. 

And after this happens, you’re going to think about all the things you could have done differently. All the things you could have said, the ways you shouldn’t have been in that scenario to begin with. And sometimes, depending on the situation, you might even hate yourself because until the moment the shitty thing happened, until the moment you realized what he was doing and that your power was gone, you even liked it. You were in on it. But it turned. He didn’t listen. You didn’t speak up. And now, it feels terrible.  

What I should have told you, is that isn’t just not as easy as we all made you think. That it probably won’t be a predator in a dark alley. That you might not identify with the language of victimization, because you’re brilliant and beautiful. That curse I told you about? This is part of it. You wield power. You will test that power. And you should. Test it. Explore it. Enjoy it. But it will likely be taken from you at some point. Snatched away when you’re not expecting. And that will fly in the face of everything you’ve come to learn. Because you are powerful, the world will tell you it’s your fault. And I fear, I so fear, mine will be one of the voices in your head saying, “Maybe you shouldn’t have been there to begin with.” 

What I should have taught you, is that when that happens, you are still beautiful and brilliant. What I should have told you, is that it’s a myth that power can’t be taken. It can be, and it’s not your fault. You’re not damaged. You’re not any less perfect than you were before. You didn’t “ask for it” by simply existing in all of your brilliant, beautiful glory.

We told you some weird shit about God caring more about you “heart” than your “body.” I suppose we didn’t want you to stress about extra pounds and bad hair cuts. I suppose we bowed to patristic theologies written by men who didn’t have to navigate the world in female flesh. But I fear what we’ve done is teach you that your body doesn’t matter. And what you know, brilliant girl, is that your body does matter. We wrapped up your perfection with your virginity, made it seem as if your power is entirely yours, instead of teaching you that your power lives inside a body the world sees as conquerable. We taught you your body was merely a shell, a thing to carry what really matters, leaving you unprepared to navigate your instinct to wear all the sweatpants, to cover the things we told you shouldn’t even matter, as they burn with memory. Perhaps our mothers created the myth that it’s our hearts that count, to distance us from the pain our bodies will endure at the hands of this world. But I fear it’s taught us to be victimizers of ourselves. So don’t believe it.

What we all should have taught you is that God cares about your body as much as your soul. That it’s not just “what’s on the inside that counts.” That you were created with bone and flesh and breasts and hair. And that each and every freckle on your skin is beloved by God. We should have taught you that body is a temple, but not because of how you preserve your virginity, not because of how many vegetables you eat, not because of how many tattoos you don’t have. Your body is a temple because the Holy dwells in your flesh. The Holy wears your cleavage and bears your ink and shines in your hair. I taught you that “God is not a man.” But I failed to teach you that She delights in your female-ness. Hers is never among the voices that shame you for the length of your skirt or the fullness of your laughter or the joy of your sex. God loves your soul, but She wears your skin, and She loves that too.

The Holy dwells in your flesh, and She won’t be shaken by pain and shame. When your body is hurt, the Holy hurts with you, not against you. We should have taught you, so that when your mind is racing with all the thoughts and feelings and anger and hurt, you know not to direct it at your beautiful self, not to hide it from the God who weeps with you.

What I should have taught you, is that all of this is unfair. And the injustice might build up in you until you want to explode with rage against it all. If it does, I’m with you. I will not let you fight alone. But I should have told you that your fight doesn’t always need to be that big. That it’s okay, really okay, to just fight each day for yourself. The myth we taught you about your power being all your own? The one that crumbled under the weight of his hands? That’s the same myth telling you to fight alone. Don’t believe it. I should have assured you of the great army of women who have been on this battlefront for a very long time. You are part of it. We will win. You aren’t fighting by yourself, so don’t try to. 

I should have told you that healing is possible, and even likely, and there will be a day when you find yourself so surrounded by beauty you won’t even see the brokenness. Of all the things I should have taught you, this may be the most important. You have to trust the light returns. Your lens might be different now. Different, but not worse. Different, but not corrupted, because you, brilliant girl, are not corruptible. You must maintain the hope that light wins and beauty is everywhere. Not a contrived hope of those who don’t know the hurting. But the real, lived in, darkness-be-damned kind of hope that has stared into the brokenness, and told it to fuck right off. This kind of hope isn’t a matter of strength. It doesn’t have anything to do with the fighting you will do. This is different. It won’t fix the world, but it will save you. Let the light in. Let yourself see what is wonderful. Let your body collect a multitude of experiences that remind you of the joy of wearing your flesh.

I say this is most important, because the lived wisdom of all the women who should have taught me, is that it is much harder to fight against than to fight for. And you are brilliant and beautiful. The Holy breaths in your skin and dances in your bones. So let yourself welcome what is wonderful. Let yourself remember what you fight for. 

Beautiful girl, there is so much I should have told you. I am so sorry I didn’t. I am sorry I cannot protect you from the ways of this world. I am sorry I can’t save you from the curse that names your body as beautiful, and assault as your fault because of your brilliance. I’m still learning too. We always are. 

So maybe you’ll escape the curse. Maybe you didn’t buy the myths. Maybe you won’t be the overwhelming majority of young women to carry the pain. But if you do, I pray you remember what I should have taught you. I pray you know my “me too” is for you.