So here’s the thing nobody tells you when you decide to take up naked yoga: the mats are cold, your boobs have opinions, and if you’re even slightly gassy, you're playing a high-stakes game of Russian roulette with every twist and fold. And yet, here I am, thirty-eight years old, moderately flexible, wildly underqualified, and completely nude, doing downward dog next to a man named Chip whose testicles appear to have seen some things. Enlightenment? Maybe. Hemorrhoids? Also maybe.

I wasn’t always like this. I mean, I’ve always been a little bit unhinged, but nudity used to be reserved for very specific situations—showering, sex, the occasional drunken pool jump with Tanya where we lost our swimsuits to the filter and had to do the towel walk of shame past Susan, who was too busy filming us to help. You know, the usual.

But naked yoga? That was a whole new level of “what-the-hell-am-I-doing-with-my-life.” And let me tell you, I’ve done some things. I once went to a silent meditation retreat and got kicked out on Day Two for giggling during a chakra chant. I dated a guy named Laird who made me do couples’ goat yoga in his backyard while his ex-wife watched from a lawn chair. And yet, nothing prepared me for the raw (literally), unfiltered intensity of being fully unclothed and trying to touch my toes in front of strangers.

But it’s not all nipple drafts and foot cramps. Naked yoga has taught me things. Real things. Like how to appreciate my body not for how it looks in high-waisted leggings but for what it can do. Like how to breathe through discomfort (whether it’s emotional or the result of an unfortunate mat burn in an undisclosed crevice). Like how to confidently say, “Yes, I do need to shave my left knee, thank you for noticing.” I’ve learned about posture, pelvic floors, mindfulness, and the correct way to apologize when you accidentally bump someone’s butt mid-savasana.

This book isn’t just about how to do naked yoga without accidentally flashing your soul or queefing during cobra. It’s about what happens when you strip everything down—your clothes, your pride, your carefully curated Instagram angles—and show up exactly as you are. Saggy bits, scars, cellulite, and all.

I’m going to share everything. Tips for your first class. How to pick the right studio without ending up in someone’s basement surrounded by bearded men named Raven. How to avoid the dreaded “mirror moment” where you lock eyes with your own anus. And yes, there will be stories. So many stories. About that time I tried goat yoga again, naked. About the time Tanya and I got into a screaming match mid-class because she said my “cat-cow” looked like a constipated raccoon. About the man who offered me an essential oil rubdown and I had to pretend I was allergic to eucalyptus to escape.

So if you’ve ever been curious about naked yoga, or if you’re just here because the word “gassy” in the title spoke to your soul, welcome. Let’s stretch, fart, laugh, and maybe even learn something about ourselves along the way. Just, you know, keep your eyes on your own mat.