An ill-advised plan is hatched.

I was headed on vacation with my husband to a town with a nude beach for a week, and I decided we absolutely must visit it (no matter how uncomfortable the idea made me). My sweet husband wasn't crazy about the idea, but being the supportive guy he is, he got on board. There is a swirl of reasons I was attracted to the idea of a nude beach. At 31 years old, I’ve conquered an eating disorder, most of my body dysmorphia, and countless other seemingly unconquerable insecurities.

Last year, when I turned 30, I went on a celebratory bikini walk — it was the only time I had ever worn a bikini out, and it ended up being pretty liberating. And now, one year into my thirties, I’ve been enjoying the graduation-goggled view of my body many other women talk about as their bodies start to change; noticing wrinkles and new soft patches makes you realize how good you had it in your twenties. If only there were a way to bottle up that feeling of enjoying what you have while you have it to give to younger women.

My time with this reasonably ripe body was running out, and I figured I'd better do something with it. Getting naked at the beach seemed like the perfect thing...until it wasn’t.