Let me just ask you straight out the gate, sugar—are you naked yet? Not like strip tease in front of a full-length mirror while whispering affirmations naked, although if that’s your thing, live your truth. I mean the good ol’ fashioned, vulnerable, jiggle-when-you-giggle kind of naked. The kind where you’ve got no Spanx, no control top, no bra doing the Lord’s gravitational work. Just you, your skin, and maybe a questionable tan line you got while drunk in Tulum.

If you’re not naked yet, don’t worry. You will be. Emotionally first, then maybe literally, depending on how brave you’re feelin’. This book isn’t just about being clothes-less, it’s about being shameless. About living out loud, with your cellulite and your cackle and your wildly inconsistent grooming habits. It’s about loving yourself, laughing at everything, and occasionally getting a sunburn on a place you didn’t know could burn.

I’m Kristin. I’m thirty-eight, I live in the suburbs just outside of Seattle, and I’ve been running around in the nude long enough to have a dedicated drawer for “outdoor nudist shoes.” I own three pairs. Tanya says that makes me a perv with a shoe fetish. I say it makes me prepared. When you’ve sprinted across volcanic gravel in the buff because you misjudged the “warmth of the earth” during a retreat in Iceland, you learn to prioritize foot protection. Lesson one: being naked does not mean being dumb.

Now listen, I didn’t come out of the womb a confident naked wonder. I was raised like a lot of you—in a world where your worth was calculated by thigh gaps, eyebrow arches, and how few carbs you could consume while still maintaining basic consciousness. But somewhere around thirty-one, right after a boyfriend dumped me because I “didn’t like kayaking enough,” I had a revelation in the shower. Actually, I slipped in the shower, sprained my wrist, and had to be carried out by a neighbor who saw everything. Everything. And you know what? He didn’t scream. He didn’t run. He said, “You’re kind of majestic like this.”

Something clicked.

After that, I started going to nudist places. First out of curiosity, then because I loved it. Then because I was addicted to the freedom. There’s no performance when your nipples are out and someone sees your rogue chin hair in full sun. There’s no hiding when your entire ass is greeting the day like it’s been nominated for an award.

Over the years, I’ve been to nude beaches in Croatia, hot springs in Oregon, a deeply uncomfortable drum circle in Arizona where a man named “Freedom Paw” tried to convince me to open my third eye with homemade elderberry lube. (I did not.) I’ve laughed, I’ve cried, I’ve accidentally sat on a pinecone.

I’ve also learned how to flirt without clothes, how to fall in love without filters, and how to eat soup in a nudist camp without dripping hot broth into your cleavage. (Don’t do it. Just don’t.)

This book is for anyone who’s ever felt too much or not enough. Too loud, too soft, too saggy, too smooth, too hairy, too pale, too dark, too weird, too wild. Guess what? You’re just right. Take it from me, a woman who once got her period during a naked drum circle and still managed to find a boyfriend the next day.

We’re gonna talk about love, lust, laughter, and yes, all the awkward bits in between. You’ll meet some of my friends. You’ll hear about a few of my boyfriends. One of them was into interpretive dance. Another thought coconut oil was a personality. None of them lasted, but the stories did.

So grab a towel for the bench, pour a glass of something cold, and get comfy in your birthday suit. Or your emotional birthday suit, if you’re not quite ready for the full peel yet.

Just remember, darling—life’s too short to wear pants. Let’s get into it.