Last month, while moving through poses in a yoga class, I didn’t feel the familiar hug of a sports bra on my chest or the elastic waistband of a pair of yoga pants around my torso. In fact, I felt nothing touching my skin besides the mat.

As I rounded my back through several Cat/Cow poses, my eyes aligned with my soft, bare belly. Tears sprang to my eyes. I wished away that part of my body for a long part of my life. But now, I was in the middle of a naked yoga class—something I would never have believed I’d be capable of doing years ago.

I have been in recovery for the past 11 years from an eating disorder that spanned six years of my life. So when I read about a nude class called Naked in Motion, it sounded like a living, breathing exercise in what I had been practicing for the last decade.

I started hating my body around age 7. By 13, I developed an eating disorder that lasted for years and resulted in multiple hospitalizations.

Over the course of my recovery, I learned the coping skills necessary to handle my emotions in ways other than restricting, bingeing, purging, and over-exercising. I put a lot of work and energy into shifting my belief that only people who looked a certain way could be desired, respected, or loved. I finally adopted the idea that my body was a vessel for an outspoken, sassy, silly, intelligent, caring person—and that’s why the people around me loved me, not because of my appearance. I learned to think about and treat my body with more respect.

So, signing up for Naked in Motion made me feel like I was committing to something that represented everything this new me stood for. The class—which was open to cisgender women and transgender men or women—was meant to celebrate all shapes and sizes, challenge social stigma around nudity, and decry media “that glorifies certain kinds of bodies,” the website explained.

When the day of the event arrived, the confidence I had since buying my ticket started to waver. Okay, maybe I am a little nervous, I admitted to myself.

After climbing five flights of stairs at a nondescript apartment building in Brooklyn, I entered the space and was greeted by dim light, the smell of some woody incense, and an urn of hot water. While the instructor, Willow, welcomed attendees as they walked through the door, I made some chamomile tea and introduced myself to a few people already there.

She informed us that there were nine people signed up for class and instructed us to set up our mats in two staggered rows facing each other. Instinctively, I walked over to the far wall, laid out my mat, and sat down. A few seconds later, I stood up.

“No, I’m not going to hide in the corner,” I said quietly to myself as I dragged my mat to the middle of the room. If I was going to do this, I was going to do it right. One of the women who had already set up her mat heard my remark and grinned warmly at me.

More people came in and got situated. While we waited a few minutes for any stragglers to arrive, we sat sipping our teas, eyes averted. Given that we were a group of strangers, this seemed like the polite thing to do.

Once the door of the apartment was closed, latecomers were no longer welcome to join. Willow returned to the room and sat with us. She went over the rules of class, all of which were focused on how to conduct ourselves in class in order to maintain a safe, respectful, comfortable environment for everyone.