The first time I visited a landed naturist club, I almost turned the car around three times. I was convinced I was too pale, too lumpy, too scarred. I walked toward the pool area holding a towel like a security blanket, expecting to see a sea of Greek statues.
I saw a 70-year-old man with a colostomy bag playing water volleyball. I saw a young mom with stretch marks reading a book. I saw a teenager with acne scars diving off the board without a care. I saw a woman with a double mastectomy sunbathing on her back, free and unashamed.
I read the books. I followed the body-positive influencers. I repeated the affirmations: "Your body is the least interesting thing about you."