The joy of being naked

Or, an unexpected tool for self-acceptance nay, love

Fair warning - if you read to the end of this you will see images that include nude body rolls (my nude body) so, maybe don’t if you’re sensitively minded or, just don’t like that kind of stuff.

I’d meant to write this piece as a gentle battle-cry against all the diet talk that pops up in the run up to Christmas and really ramps up into January.

Now, I have to be honest, I do think that I probably need to be smaller than I am, but the reason has shifted – it’s less to do with the society we live in and diet culture and more to do with how I’m feeling, more to do with my health. And before you cry “DIET CULTURE,” yes, I know, there are lots of studies that debunk the whole heavier/bigger/fatter people are more unhealthy than thin people narrative, and there is so much evidence that BMI is a crock of shit. But my body is tired, it’s struggling, and it’s getting harder and harder to live the life that I want to live because I’m restricted by my energy levels and my pain. I’m trying all sorts of things to address this – going to therapy, managing (or recognising at least) my stress, meditating, moving my body in gentle ways, journaling, getting a good amount of sleep – and it just feels as though my body might have an easier time if…well, if it had less body to carry around. BUT, I’m not focussing on that – I’m trying to focus on being healthy and on being fit and a natural offshoot of that (I imagine) is that my body will get smaller. But if it doesn’t get smaller that will be okay because I’ll be fit and healthy – which is, finally, the aim.

My body has been saying no

My back started hurting before Christmas and it’s now reached the stage I like to call “chronic acute pain.” So I’ve not been able to sit at a computer outside of the million hours a day that I sit at it for my day job. And so, writing has had to take a back seat and January has been and gone, and so too has my opportunity (unless I wait to the run up to summer and all the bikini body nonsense that we’ll see) to write a topical piece that provides a different narrative.

It was my birthday last week, I turned 52, which feels like a seriously proper (old) age to me – I’m slightly in shock. I think it’s because I’ve been in so much pain recently and it’s easy to fall into the “I’m getting old and falling apart” way of thinking, but I don’t really believe in that. I don’t think that it HAS to be so. As an antidote to feeling crap, I thought I’d come and finish this piece all about feeling, frankly, incredible…

Something changed

A lazy afternoon spent reading on the daybed with a gentle breeze on my skin.

Last year I was lucky enough to go and stay at Margot’s Retreat and even more than that, I managed to nab what I think is their most special accommodation, The Woodland Cabin, nestled as it is away from everything else. A real hideaway and a place to just, breathe, and unwind. Anyway, that’s for another post, this isn’t about how incredible it is there, and it really is, this is about how through being there and challenging myself, I began to appreciate my body and to see again how absolutely beautiful it is. Or, put another way, how I was reminded that I’m a “Hawt Mutha Funker.”

And I did this through the means of…nudity.

It started with a little trek along a stream

Beyond the cabin, up through the woodland, hidden by a jumble of greenery, is a beautiful little spring pool. A magical spot for one, or two.

If you know me you know I’m scared of just about everything, definitely lots of nature stuff like… slugs, erugh, and, water! I love love LOVE the idea of being someone who tra la las around in lakes of a summer, or who wild swims in rivers but urgh. The sea, I love, but if it isn’t crystal clear and bedded by sand, I will not put my feet down unless I have someone else’s legs to cling onto – slipping my feet downwards, resting on top of their feet until finally, I tell them to move their feet so I can place mine in the safe spot where theirs’ just were. I’m not proud of it. So here was this gorgeous little body of freezing cold water, surrounded by the perfect environment for slugs, and here was me, on a solo holiday, with nobody to attach myself to. I stood. I stared. I coaxed. I dipped a fingernail in. I briefly considered seeing if I could get Lottie or Jean Marc (the owners of Margot’s Retreat) to come in with me but I a) knew they were busy and b) knew that that was PATHETIC. And I knew something else…I knew I wasn’t getting in.

Not letting fear get in the way

And then suddenly, I was peeling off my clothes, all of them, and tip-toeing in. And then I was losing my footing, and before I knew what was what, I was submerged. And it was glorious. I felt elated. I felt free. I felt like shouting at the top of my voice “WOOOOO HOOOOO.” I think I gave a little “whoop” instead. The water was icy and utterly beautiful. I can’t claim to have stayed in ages, the top layer of pool bed having been disturbed by my floundering about was now suspended in the water and I started to worry about eels (sometimes this imagination of mine is a curse) that I couldn’t see in this now mud bath, or massive swimming slugs, and I had to get out. But I had done it, I’d got in. And I’d got in naked.

Feeling on top of the world, and a little bit chilly.

I felt liberated, unshackled somehow from something that had had a hold over me for decades – a shame about my body and a constant attempt to appear smaller and…inoffensive. Here was I frolicking around in all my glorious largeness. Some might say, “well, there was no-one to see you so, what did it matter?” but that was the important bit, the fact that there wasn’t anyone there but me. Me and my body. Me and my mind. And I wasn’t hiding myself from myself anymore.

I seem to have forgotten how to get dressed

I spent a fair bit of the rest of my holiday prancing around in the nude*, feeling sunshine on my skin and rain (for there was a fair bit of that). I ate breakfast in just my knickers, I lay on the daybed reading in nothing but my skin. I looked at my legs, my arms, my fingers, my toes. I felt the folds of my belly, a roll (or two) of back fat. I looked at my thighs that rub together when I’m not wearing trousers, unless I’m wearing “comfort shorts.” I looked at my bum which is, undeniably, massive, and appreciated it’s roundness. I marvelled at how soft my skin is because, try as I have, I have never become one of those people that moisturises (I do do my face these days, at least). I thanked my feet, and my knees, my hips, my muscles, my organs, for the life they’ve given me.

So taken with this nudity thing was I that I kept posting about it on Instagram, so much so that one of my friends messaged me to ask if I was at a nudist colony! I realised I ought to set that straight as Margot’s Retreat is definitely not that and I didn’t want to misrepresent them. It’s just (just!?) that they’ve created somewhere where you can be absolutely free. And for me that took the form of stripping off layers of self-hatred and societal pressure along with my clothes.

Don’t knock the selfies

I decided one day to do a little boudoir type selfie photoshoot because I’d caught sight of my hip as it curved towards my waist, and I was struck by how beautiful it looked.

I considered not sharing this one because, well…rolls, but I really like it and I had fun taking it. It looks quite 70s, I think - like a picture out of Playboy if they’d stuck two people together.

I’ve used self-portraiture (taking selfies) as a way of self-expression and building self-confidence before, and I didn’t want to miss the opportunity to capture myself at a point where I was feeling so good.

I mean, c’mon! What’s not to love?

I’ve never been into boudoir style photos but, I gotta say, I love these. I look at them now and think “DaYAM” “I am FINE!”. Also, I’m sorry but, this is a GREAT photo! Very ‘arty’.

Embracing self-love, it’s not just for the faint hearted – it’s for everyone

Now, I’m not suggesting that you do your own nekkid photoshoot, necessarily, but I am suggesting that you spend time with your body. That you make time to see it as it is. That you shed the noise of social media, advertising, your mothers, your fathers, your peers, society, and you just sit with yourself, not hiding, and appreciate what and who you are. Honestly, it feels like love.

*If by nude you mean always wearing flip flops whilst feet touch anything that might be hiding a slug yeh. Except for the 10 minutes where I forced myself to stand and commune with the ground – which, to be fair, felt great.

Daring to feel grounded.

This piece is for Lou Lou, hope you enjoyed the read. Sending positivity and love your way xoxo