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"I wish my hair was white like Elsa's, but it's not...it's just BROWN." You said it almost sadly, twisting your hair between your fingers and caressing your doll's long, thick braid. And I get it - you're three years old, and in your little world, Elsa is the most popular princess on the playground, with a dress that spins and hands that create ice castles. So I just laughed and told you your hair is perfect.

But what I really wanted to do? I wanted to grab your face and look you in the eyes and tell you that you are GORGEOUS. Stunning. Mesmerizing. And you actually are...you have these big, bright eyes that turn a gorgeous shade of blue when the sun hits them and straight, shiny hair that falls perfectly from the moment you wake up. You're really pretty....I'd think so even if I wasn't your mom.

But it's more than that. Because I know things you don't. I know the fascination with Elsa will fade, but the princesses will morph into cheerleaders and celebrities and snapchats, and you will compare yourself, and some days you will be convinced you don't measure up. You are going to grow up in world that is photshopped and filtered and sexed up, and you will be the target demographic.

They will try to make you insecure so you will believe them when they tell you that you need teeth whiteners, hair extensions, waist cinchers, breast implants, butt implants and lip fillers. They will market superficiality to you. Then they will create hashtags like #wokeuplikethis and #nomakeup to convince you it should come easily. You will wonder if your eyebrows are the right shape and your thighs are the right size, you will doubt your curves and you will doubt your lack of curves. And you will doubt your kind of beauty. And it won't ever quit, because you'll start to settle into who you are, and they'll start trying to sell you anti-aging creams and Botox.

So I want you to hear you are beautiful, and I want you to hear it often.

I want you believe it so much that you can drown out all that noise. I want you to have fun with fashion and makeup and be able to laugh when you and your friend attempt to dye your hair auburn and it turns fire-engine red (been there, done that). I want to lay by a pool with you and talk about a million things besides cellulite, and I want to take you swimsuit shopping and buy us thousand-calorie Starbucks frappes on the way home. I want you to believe it so much that you never feel like you have to compromise any part of who you are to hear it, never feel like you have to wear less clothes or kiss more guys. I want you to believe you are beautiful.

And then...

I want you to not to care.

I want you to know how very little it matters.

I want you to know how fleeting it is.

Fleeting in so many ways. Fleeting because time is going to pass, and you can't stay the world's version of beautiful forever. Trust me, I bought the wrinkle-fighting moisturizers, but I still see those little eye wrinkles creeping in when I smile (but I sometimes filter them out because none of us are immune to this). Fleeting because the world's version doesn't even stay the same, because strong is the new skinny, butts are the new boobs and lobs are all over Pinterest (and this will probably have already changed by the time I post this).  Fleeting because there's Brazilian beauty and Ugandan beauty and American beauty, and what's beautiful at the small-town baseball games isn't beautiful on the streets of New York.  Fleeting because beauty is subjective and beauty is skin deep. 

But most of all, fleeting because you are made in the image of God and that matters infinitely more than the images of this world.

So daughter, I want you to aspire to a different kind of beautiful. I want you to be kind and compassionate, I want you to be brave. I want you to be gentle and humble. I want you to be content. I want you to be confident and creative. I want you to love the least of these. I want you to have a servant's heart. I want you to date guys that challenge you and inspire you. I want you to smile from the inside. I want you to laugh all the time. I want you to know that Instagram likes don't make you likeable. I want you to sing or dance or run or write or lay in the grass and stare at the clouds, and I want you to do it all for the glory of God.

And don't be surprised when Elsa says she wishes she had brown hair like yours.

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