So, listen. I didn’t mean to end up naked in a yoga class. I mean, not at first.

I had what you’d call a “pants-related epiphany” after splitting the inner seam of my leggings mid-warrior pose at a hot yoga class that smelled like armpits and lavender farts. I was trying to get my life together. You know the vibe. I had a crystal in my bra, a smoothie with kale and regret in the cupholder, and I was genuinely attempting to get my chakras lined up like ducks in a row.

Then the pants gave out. Loudly. With witnesses. And right there, with my polka dot granny panties blinking in the mirror like some kind of cosmic Morse code, I thought, What if we just ditched the whole pants situation entirely? What if, instead of trying to hide all my soft, jiggly bits inside an overpriced Lycra prison, I just let it all breathe?

Turns out, there’s a name for that. It’s called “naked yoga.” And yes, it’s exactly what it sounds like. Yoga. Butt naked. Birthday suit. Full moony with your downward doggie. At first, I laughed like a church kid who just heard the word “penis.” Then I Googled it. Then I signed up. Then I spent two hours deciding whether I needed to trim anything (I did).

When I finally showed up to my first naked yoga class, I was nervous, sweaty, and tragically over-moisturized. I slipped on my own thigh at one point. I also discovered that nothing, nothing, will test your spiritual commitment like trying to hold tree pose while some dude next to you is casually doing a forward fold and his situation is swinging like a lazy Sunday hammock.

But here’s the wild thing—I loved it. Not in a creepy, let’s-make-eye-contact-too-long kind of way. But in a holy hell, I actually feel good in my own body for once kind of way. I wasn’t sucking it in. I wasn’t adjusting seams. I wasn’t wondering if my belly roll was flopping out of my sports bra. I was just there. Unclothed. Unbothered. And oddly at peace.

This book is not about getting you to strip down and join a nudist commune in the mountains (though if that’s your vibe, live your truth, boo). It’s about showing up for yourself exactly how you are—stretch marks, rogue hairs, jiggly buttcheeks and all—and realizing that you are, in fact, a whole damn vibe just as you are.

We're gonna talk about naked yoga, sure, but we're also gonna talk about body shame, freedom, spirituality, camel toe trauma, boob sweat, mental health, and why you should never do a headstand too close to a ceiling fan.

This ain’t your mama’s yoga book. There are no inspirational black-and-white photos of glistening abs on a cliff at sunrise. There’s just me, Jazmyn Waller, writing this in a robe with one tit out, telling you that you’re already whole, already enough, and possibly overdue for a full-frontal existential breakthrough.

So welcome to Yoga in the Buff. Grab a mat, lose the pants, and let’s get into it.