This post was published in Norwegian in july -21.

When I told my two adult children that I had written my first blog post, they were both supportive. But when I mentioned that I planned to strip naked and dance in the storm, I saw a hint of skepticism spread across my son’s face. Relief was clear when I explained it was meant symbolically.

But what is it about stripping naked, really?

This year, I had an early holiday, and last week I took the boat to Gressholmen in the Oslo Fjord with my mother and daughter. It was a beautiful day, and instead of heading straight to the pub, we decided to walk across the island. We climbed over some rocks. It was fairly deserted this early in the summer, but we could see a few bare behinds here and there.

“Is there a naturist beach here too?” I asked.

We walked on and sat at the far end of the promontory, our feet dangling over the rocks.

Soon after, one of the naturists came walking towards us. He stopped right behind us, and since we were seated at ground level, you can imagine at what height his “more delicate parts” appeared! Not all of us knew where to look…

Perhaps he had heard my comment as we passed, for he told us this was Oslo’s first naturist beach. He encouraged us to strip off, but added that perhaps we were not so free.

The first time I remember stripping naked, I was around 12 years old. My best friend and I went to the Solnøre River to swim. It was late afternoon, and the water was at its warmest. We cycled miles into Solnørdalen, crossed the cattle grid, and walked down the muddy path to the river and the pool where people used to swim. We moved a bit away from the others and settled further up along the riverbank. Here, we were alone. The water was clear up here and shallow enough that we could see all the small stones at the bottom. We dipped into the water and tried to swim against the current. That’s when we came up with the idea to swim naked. We looked at each other with wide eyes, took off our bikinis, and held them in our hands as we swam a few meters. We were fully aware that if anyone came close, they could see our bodies through the water. But it felt wonderful to have the water glide over our naked skin. It was strange how removing such a small bikini could make such a big difference. I felt free. We giggled and put our bikinis back on before daring to get out of the water. No one had seen us.

Maybe this was one of the earliest memories where I stepped out of my comfort zone and into unknown territory. Although it was a few years before my sister tried to “sell” me, it was still a step in the process of liberation.

It took more than 20 years before I ventured onto a naturist beach. I had already been living in Oslo for a few years, the kids were small, and I had some free time. I took the boat to the islands in the Oslo Fjord. Being the loner that I am, I’ve always liked finding a quiet spot for myself. When I got off the boat, I chose the path leading out onto the rocks instead of heading towards the beach. That’s when I discovered the naturist beach on Langøyene. Maybe it was the swimming episode at 12 that had liberated me, I don’t know, but I found a secluded spot right by the water’s edge and took off my clothes. It feels wonderful to feel the wind caress your bare skin and to slip naked into the cool water.

But what is it about being naked? I thought I was hidden until a boat slowly sailed by. It slowed down, and everyone on board turned their gaze towards the shore. Wow, naked people! Haven’t they seen that before? Then another boat came, and the people on board stared as if they had never seen a naked human being. Don’t they realize they are just as visible to us as we are to them? I turned my face away from the sea. What if someone recognized me?

That summer, I went there several more times. I had clearly taken some steps forward from the shy girl I once was.

Ever since Adam and Eve, there has been shame associated with being naked. Or was it when the inner critic awoke, and they saw their own flaws?

Either way, it’s quite common for people to be afraid of being seen naked. Is it shame tied to sexuality, fear that others will see our flaws, or are we simply afraid that people will see who we really are?

It’s a paradox. Because deep down, most of us want to be seen. We dress to show who we are—or perhaps who we want to be? Clothing becomes a mask we present to others. It’s quite fascinating when people break free from the “normal” mask and put on another one, whether it’s hippie, emo, or biker.

After I had been to Langøyene, I was asked if I was a naturist. No, I’m not, even though I have stripped naked a few times.

Maybe naturism is also a mask? A symbol that they are free. Or perhaps just a desire to be?