Editor’s Note: Is anything ailing, torturing, or nagging at you? Are you beset by existential worries? Every Tuesday, James Parker tackles readers’ questions. Tell him about your lifelong or in-the-moment problems at dearjames@theatlantic.com.Don’t want to miss a single column? Sign up to get “Dear James” in your inbox.Dear James,In the second half of last year, I went to a naturist beach for the first time. I was afraid on my whole walk there that I would chicken out. But there was nobody around for miles—so I stripped. Since then, I’ve done it five more times, at various beaches, with growing confidence, in front of other people who have and have not been clothed. I’ve found great peace in lying naked on the sand, listening to the waves.But: Over the winter I started to get these feelings of shame and guilt. I was raised a very strict Catholic. And although my mother has been dead for a decade, I can suddenly feel her strong disapproval from beyond the grave.It’s a conundrum. How would you handle it?Dear Reader,Well, I was in church on Sunday morning for the Feast of Pentecost, celebrating the wacky mandate of the Holy Spirit to go where it pleases—to land, if it likes, right on top of somebody’s head (your head, my head, anybody’s head) and nest there in a throbbing bolus of flame. So yup, I’m ready to get Catholic about this. I’m ready to get dogmatic.Your body is a gift from God. In the appropriate place (such as a naturist beach), you should be able to go as naked as Adam in the garden and feel not a twinge-let of shame. You should be like the primal newborns in the Doors’ “Waiting for the Sun”: “At first flash of Eden / We raced down to the sea / Standing there on freedom’s shore.” (Who dares to say Jim Morrison isn’t a great American poet?) Isn’t that the true spirit of nudism? They don’t call it a birthday suit for nothing. Shed your clothes; shed everything that cramps or abashes you. Air out those musty parts. Unshadow yourself. Let it all flap. Be a real American. Scamper shoeless across the sand into liberty’s gold-green sunrise.Me, I’m not great at being naked. It makes me feel too … naked. So I know where you’re coming from. But you’ve done so well, made such strides in self-development. The confidence, the peace, the waves: Keep going! Of course—as at any breakthrough moment, any evolutionary threshold of the psyche—you’re being swarmed by the old demons, now at extra strength: guilt, disgrace, an image of your mother scolding you. They are to be stoutly resisted. Imagine instead your mother’s delight in you as a baby, in all your sweet-smelling, roly-poly nudeness. Imagine reality taking pleasure in itself across the surface of your skin. Last word here goes to Gerard Manley Hopkins, great Catholic sensualist, nudist in his heart: “The Holy Ghost over the bent / World broods with warm breast and with ah! bright wings.”Safe in my trousers,JamesBy submitting a letter, you are agreeing to let The Atlantic use it in part or in full, and we may edit it for length and/or clarity.