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This is the alchemy of naturism: it desexualizes and de-commodifies the human form. Psychologists who study social nudity have noted a phenomenon called "body concordance." In textile life, there is a constant disconnect between our internal self (how we feel) and our external self (how we look). A woman might feel strong and capable, yet catch her reflection and spiral into anxiety about her thighs. A man might feel joyful, but suck in his gut when a camera appears.
So take off the armor. Take off the shapewear. Take off the shame. The body you have right now is not a problem to be solved. It is a human body. It belongs in the sun.
In a naturist environment—whether a beach in France, a resort in Spain, or a hot spring in California—the hierarchy of bodies dissolves. When everyone is naked, no one is naked. The novelty wears off within the first three minutes.
You look. You register. You move on. Because within ten minutes, you forget what anyone’s body looks like. You start noticing their laugh, their kindness, the way they play volleyball.
In the textile world, you might stand at a cocktail party wondering if your Spanx are showing. In a naturist club, you stand in line for a hamburger next to a 70-year-old man with a weathered back, a post-mastectomy woman with a surgical scar, a tattooed marathon runner, and a teenager with acne on their shoulders.
Seasoned naturists have a saying: "You come to a nude beach with the body you have, not the body you wish you had. By the end of the day, you don't wish for the other one anymore."