Before spring break when my family came to visit me, I had a rather intense discussion with my mom about beauty. It all started because she, as usual, commented on how my hair needed brushing. I took things too far and pressed her to explain why she cares so much about physical appearance. I still stand by what I said that day — that to me, beauty is a matter of soul and body, of being fully alive and grateful. To me, my physical appearance should reflect my desire to create goodness and beauty in both myself and others. And to me, curling my hair and wearing make-up is not how I feel beautiful. I feel beautiful when I go on a run, when I give someone a hug, when I take a shower or wear a dress or climb a mountain.

This is all true. Yet something that she said has stuck with me, slipped under my skin and settled there. It’s like an invisible sliver or an itch I can’t place, and I keep remembering her words: “Hannah, the reason you’re so passionate about this is because you’re scared. You’re scared of being physically beautiful, and you act like you are a soul without a body.” (Or at least she said something similar to that.) I, of course, promptly denied her words when she said them, but I felt a sickly feeling in my stomach, a deep fear that I quickly dismissed. I knew she was right. Today, I finally admitted it to myself. I am scared of being thought beautiful.

This may seem weird and bizarre coming from someone who is so obsessed with the idea of beauty. I love beautiful things, and I see and seek out beauty in everything. One of my greatest longings is to be beautiful in my being, in my very existence, body, mind and spirit. I want to know that I am beautiful. But for others to see beauty in me is a terrifying thought. And the idea that my physical appearance, that my body could be attractive and pleasing to a man? I find it as impossible and frightening as the sight of a great serpent heaving its body out of the sea.

By no means does this imply that I am a Gnostic. I firmly believe in the beauty of physical creation, in the goodness of bodies and marriage and sex. I know the purpose and meaning and significance of all these things. I am a romantic at

heart and have spent countless hours daydreaming about my wedding. Yet I can’t conceive of the idea that my eyes and hair and hands and limbs would be beautiful and desirable to a man. In my eyes, I am still a little girl with scraped knees and shy eyes, standing on the fringe of womanhood and all its loveliness.

And I'm OK with that. I'm not quite sure if I want the power that comes with being a beautiful woman. For right now, I think I'd rather stay as I am in all my awkward, girlish grace.