So here we are. You, me, and probably a little skepticism about why a grown woman would willingly spend her life nude outside of, like, showers and doctor visits. I get it. I used to be like you—modest, covered, and a firm believer that boobs were only supposed to see daylight once every two years during a bikini mishap. But then life took a turn. A weird, slippery, slightly jiggly turn.

I didn’t wake up one morning and say, “You know what would make my life better? Not wearing pants ever again.” No, it started with a wine-fueled backyard dare, an overly confident Susan, and one very startled mailman. I’ll tell that story later, but spoiler alert: the mailman still won’t make eye contact with me, and now I leave his Christmas tip in the mailbox like I’m trying to feed a wild raccoon.

The thing is, once I got past the sheer terror of seeing my own nipples under full sun, I realized—being naked is amazing. It’s freeing. It’s real. It’s like your skin can breathe and your thighs can finally stop screaming inside jeans. Do I look good naked? That depends. Are we talking at noon with flattering light and a spray tan, or at 8 a.m. with cereal crumbs stuck to my hip and one tit slightly lower than the other? Either way, I don’t care anymore. And that’s the magic.

Nudism, or nude living as I like to call it (nudism sounds like something that comes with a pamphlet and a waiver), isn’t about being sexy. Though, let’s be honest, sometimes it is sexy. I once dated a guy who said my naked confidence gave him a fear boner. Still not sure what that means, but he stuck around for three months and folded my laundry naked, so something was working.

This book is my gift to you, fellow curious soul. Maybe you’re here because you’ve always wondered what it’s like to live naked. Maybe you just want to laugh at a woman who once dropped a hot quesadilla on her bare stomach. Either way, you’re welcome here. You’ll get tips, stories, some questionable advice, and a whole lot of TMI.

Let me just say this now: I have no filter. If I’ve farted during a group meditation at a nudist resort (spoiler: I have), I’ll tell you. If Tanya told me my butt looks like two sad pancakes when I bend over, I’ll share that too. She’s not wrong. My butt has its days.

So buckle up—well, not literally. We’re not doing belts in this lifestyle. Loosen your waistband, maybe take off your socks, and get comfy. I’m Kristin, I’m 38, and I live my life in the buff.

And baby, it’s glorious.