When Eve looked down at her naked breasts and belly and saw for the first time not the beauty of her curves or a powerful body capable of ushering life into this world, but instead the dimples of her thighs and the softness of her middle, I wonder at how crippling the shame that took hold of her mind. Fruit still in hand, juice dripping down her fingers, she had no idea that the dread she felt at the sight of her body—the sudden urge to sew a dress out of fig leaves—was a dread she would pass down to her daughters and granddaughters and generations of women and men to come.

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