Be Yourself
Posted: Fri Mar 14, 2025 11:20 pm
Be Yourself
Chapter 1: The Spark
I’ve always felt different—not in a way that made me stand out in a crowd, but in a way that made me feel like I was carrying a secret, a quiet rebellion simmering beneath my skin. It started when I was barely a teenager, though the roots of it might have been there long before. Maybe it was the summer I turned eleven, when I’d peel off my sweaty, suffocating jeans the moment I got home from school, tossing them into the corner of my room like a prisoner shedding chains. My mother would scold me, her voice sharp with disapproval: “People don’t want to see that, Cass. Put on some shorts.” But the relief of the cool air on my legs, the way my heartbeat slowed as if my body itself sighed—that felt like truth.
Or maybe it was earlier still. I remember being six, crying hysterically at the scratchy lace of a flower girl dress my aunt forced me into for her wedding. The fabric bit into my shoulders, the sash digging into my ribs like a warning: Conform, or be uncomfortable forever. I’d tugged at it until the seams frayed, earning a spanking and the nickname “Little Houdini” from my exasperated father.
We lived in Waterflow Falls, Wisconsin, a town so small it barely earned a dot on the map. Here, conformity wasn’t just expected—it was enforced. Women wore knee-length skirts to church picnics; men mowed lawns in collared shirts. Nudity wasn’t just taboo—it was a moral failing. Once, when I was eight, my cousin dared me to run through the sprinkler in my underwear. The neighbors called my mother to complain about “indecency.” I spent the rest of that summer grounded, the weight of their judgment like a stone in my gut.
But there were flickers of something else, cracks in the world’s rigid facade. When I was ten, my mother took me to Madison for a doctor’s appointment. As we drove through a leafy neighborhood, I saw them: three people strolling down the sidewalk, utterly naked. A man with a silver beard, a woman laughing as she swung a grocery bag, and a girl my age, her sunlit hair bouncing as she skipped. They weren’t hiding or rushing—they were living. I pressed my face to the car window, mesmerized, until my mother jerked the wheel and hissed, “Don’t stare, Cassidy. It’s rude.” Her knuckles were white on the steering wheel, but all I could think was, why aren’t they cold? Why aren’t they afraid?
We moved to the suburbs of Madison the following year. If Waterflow Falls was a locked box, Madison was a window cracked open—still stuffy, but with a whisper of breeze. My new middle school had rainbow stickers on classroom doors and a “Diversity Day” assembly every semester. Yet even here, certain lines held firm. Then came seventh grade, and the anti-bullying assembly that split my life into before and after.
The auditorium buzzed with the chaos of 300 students packed into creaking seats. Sunlight filtered through dusty blinds, painting stripes on the linoleum as the principal introduced the speakers. There was a gay man who’d survived conversion therapy, his voice cracking as he described praying until his knees bled; a Black woman who’d been followed in stores since she was twelve, her sharp laugh masking old hurt; a boy in a wheelchair who’d been told he’d never play sports—then became a Paralympic sprinter. Their stories were met with respectful applause, the kind adults call “mature.”
Then Erika Mitchell took the stage.
The room didn’t go silent as much as shatter into it. Someone dropped a water bottle; the thud echoed like a gunshot. She was naked—not in the careful, artistic way of statues, but unapologetically human. A scar curved over her hip, stretchmarks silvered her thighs, and her bare feet left faint prints on the stage. Teachers sitting in the seats before me all made some audible sounds after she was at the microphone.
“My name’s Erika,” she said, and her voice was honey and gravel, the kind that dared you to look away, “and yes, I know I’m naked.”
The giggles died when she didn’t flinch. She told us about her family’s nudist colony—“Not a cult, unless you think sunscreen is a religion”—and the legal battle to become “permanently unclothed” under state law. “We’re like vegans, but for fabric,” she joked, and a few kids snorted. But her smile faded as she described walking to school past hecklers, the time a boy yanked her hair to “see if those are real” (she broke his nose), and the petition to ban her from the town pool. “They said I’d ‘disturb the children,’” she said, rolling her eyes. “Newsflash: kids don’t care until adults teach them to.”
I couldn’t breathe. It wasn’t her body that stunned me—it was her certainty. She stood like a queen, shoulders back, and chin high, as if the air itself adored her. When she said, “Clothes are costumes. Why spend life playing dress-up?” something in my chest cracked open.
Afterward, the hallways erupted. Boys high-fived over “free porn,” girls whispered “She’s so gross” while stealing glances at their reflections. I lingered by her Q&A table, too shy to speak, until she caught my eye. “You get it,” she said suddenly, pointing at me. Not a question—a fact. My face burned, but I nodded. She grinned. “Good. Don’t let them shame you into silence.”
That night, I Googled “nudist colonies near Wisconsin” under my blanket. Articles warned of “moral decay,” but I clicked on a photo gallery: people gardening, playing chess, and riding bikes— all naked, all ordinary. One image stuck with me: a woman my mom’s age, stretchmarks and all, belly-laughing on a porch swing. She looked free.
I started small; slept naked, my sheets cool against my skin. Changed clothes faster after gym, savoring those seconds of bareness. Each time, the world’s voice—“Cover up, hide, be small”—grew quieter.
Erika’s words became my mantra: Why spend life playing dress-up? The spark was lit. Now, all I needed was the courage to let it burn.
By sophomore year, the halls of Madison High became a gallery of contradictions. Kids dyed their hair neon and pierced their eyebrows, but even rebellion had rules. Then I saw them—the ones who broke the final taboo.
Liam was first, a junior with sun-bleached dreadlocks and a permanent sunburn line across his hips. He held court under the oak tree at lunch, bare feet in the grass, preaching about "corporate enslavement via fast fashion" to anyone who’d listen. "They’re just threads, man," he’d say, gesturing to a classmate’s designer hoodie. "You’re paying $200 to wear a billboard." The football team called him "Naked Buddha," but he’d just laugh and offer them hemp granola.
Next came Marisol, a transfer from Chicago mid-semester, strutting into homeroom in a cropped band tee that ended just below her ribs—and nothing else. Rumors swirled: expelled, pregnant, in witness protection. But she’d smirk and say, "I just hate pants." Her confidence was a weapon. When Mr. Hendrix tried to send her to the office for "dress code violations," she’d slapped a medical exemption form on his desk. "Chafing," she deadpanned. "It’s a sensitivity."
I watched them like a botanist studying rare blooms. They weren’t Erika—no state-registered idealism, no speeches—but they carried her same fire. I ached to ask how they breathed through the stares, but fear kept me mute. Instead, I cataloged their survival tactics: Liam’s Zen indifference, Marisol’s defiant humor. I practiced in the mirror—shoulders back, don’t flinch, breathe—but only managed a hunched shuffle.
Jenna found me crying in the art room closet after gym. My thighs had rubbed raw under cheap polyester shorts, the skin angry and welted. "Chub rub a bitch, huh?" she said, tossing me her Vaseline.
We’d been friends since middle school, bonded over shared lunches and Doctor Who marathons. She was the first person I kissed (a dare-fueled peck at Rachel Cho’s pool party), the one who held my hair back after my first beer. So when I whispered, "I think I want to be like them," I expected… something. Not laughter.
"Them?" She snorted. "Liam smells like school lunch farts, and Marisol’s just doing it for attention."
"It’s not about them," I said, too fast. "It’s—Erika. How she owned it. I want to feel…"
"Free?" Jenna rolled her eyes. "Cass, you’re not exactly—" She caught herself, but the word hung between us, fat and suffocating.
Later, she texted: didn't mean it was beautiful!!! The damage was done. That night, I stood before my mirror, tracing the softness of my belly, the dimples on my thighs. Not the type. As if freedom had a BMI limit.
Mrs. Alvarez’s "Body Positivity" pamphlet featured smiling, airbrushed women in bikinis. ‘Love the skin you’re in!’ Chirped the caption. I wondered if the models had ever sprinted past store windows to avoid their reflections.
"Have you considered yoga?" Mrs. Alvarez asked, when I returned for my mandated follow-up. "Mindfulness can help with… impulsive urges."
"It’s not impulsive," I said. "I’ve wanted this since seventh grade."
She adjusted her cardigan like armor. "Desire isn’t always healthy, Cassidy. What if this is a reaction to trauma? Body dysmorphic? Your mother mentioned…"
Weight Watchers at twelve. The keta phase. The shrink who called me "pre-disordered." I stood abruptly, chair screeching. "You think I’d rather be naked because I hate my body?" Her pitying look said it all.
The bus ride downtown took 17 minutes. I counted each second, my backpack heavy with research: legal statutes, notarized forms, and a printout of Erika’s old interview (“Nudity isn’t radical—shame is"). The clerk didn’t blink at my request. "Birth certificate? Photo ID?"
I slid them across the counter. She stamped the paperwork with a thud that echoed through the vaulted room. Changing rooms are there. Trash cans are full, though."
In the bathroom, my hands shook as I unbuttoned my jeans. Last chance. I thought of Mom’s "modest is hottest" tirades, Jenna’s laugh, Mrs. Alvarez’s pamphlets. Then I yanked my shirt over my head. The mirror girl stared back—pale, trembling, real.
October air cuts on my skin as I step outside. A cyclist swerved, yelling, "Put some clothes on, psycho!" Across the street, a toddler pointed. "Mommy, that lady’s naked!"
"Yep," I whispered. "And?"
By the third block, numbness set in. Not courage—just the dull throb of inevitability. Mom’s scream could’ve shattered the crystal. Dad’s face crumpled like a discarded draft. "Why?"
I handed him the registration papers. "Because I’m not ashamed anymore."
"We’re ashamed!" Mom spat. "Do you know what people will say? What will they think?"
"That you raised a daughter who doesn’t cringe at her own shadow?"
She lunged, but Dad caught her arm. "Let’s… process this."
Upstairs, I locked my door and stood at the window. The streetlamp painted my silhouette onto the glass—a girl-shaped exclamation point.
Liam nodded as I entered history. "Took you long enough."
Mr. Donovan stammered through the Preamble, eyes glued to the whiteboard. Snickers erupted when I raised my hand, but Liam kicked the loudest boy’s chair. "Chill, bro. It’s just skin."
At lunch, Marisol tossed me a granola bar. "Pro tip: Cafeteria chairs suck. Bring a towel."
The whispers didn’t stop, but they dulled—background static to Marisol’s stories of nude beaches and midnight bike rides. "They’ll get bored," she said. "Bullies need a reaction. Give ‘em nothing."
Jenna passed me after the last bell, her gaze skittering over me like a skipped stone. "You’re doing it," she said, half-accusation, half-awe. I kept walking.
Mom confiscated my phone but not my notebook. Under Day 1, I wrote:
They see my body.
I see the flinch in their eyes—
The shame they taught me to carry.
Joke’s on them.
I put it down.
The second day was worse. Word had spread overnight. Students clustered in the hallways like vultures, phones held aloft. “Show us your freedom!” a senior jeered, aiming his camera at my hips. Mr. Donovan pretended not to hear, shuffling papers at his desk.
In the bio lab, Tyler “accidentally” brushed his hand against my back while reaching for a microscope slide. His friends snickered. Mrs. Kwon froze, her eyes darting between us. “Cassidy, maybe… sit in the front?”
Maybe teach your students consent, I wanted to snap. Instead, I moved, the linoleum cold under my feet.
At lunch, Marisol tossed me her hoodie. “For the chairs. Trust me.”
I hesitated. “Won’t you get in trouble?”
She smirked. “I’m not the one registered. You can’t wear it, but I can lend it as a… public service.” The fabric was warm, smelled like lavender. I draped it over the cafeteria bench, a flimsy shield against splintered wood.
Gym class was mandatory. Coach Riggs refused to let me sit out. “Dress code says appropriate attire,” he barked, though he couldn’t meet my eyes. “No exceptions.”
“I’m exempt,” I said, holding up my state ID.
“Not in my gym.”
The locker room was a minefield. Girls snapped towels, “joking” about “accidents.” I changed in a stall, heart pounding.
During dodgeball, Jason Fuller aimed low. The rubber stung my thigh, leaving a welt the shape of his grin. “Oops,” he said. “Didn’t see you there.”
When I reported it, Vice Principal Crane sighed. “Cassidy, you have to understand—your lifestyle makes some kids uncomfortable. Maybe tone it down?”
“Tone down existing?”
He slid a detention slip across his desk. “For disrupting class.”
Mrs. Greer summoned me after the second period. The office reeked of stale coffee and regret.
“We’ve had… complaints,” she said, fiddling with her pearls. “Parents are concerned about exposure.”
“I’m following the law.”
“Yes, but—” She leaned forward, voice dropping. “What if we found a compromise? A… modesty panel? Or a sash?”
“I’m not a parade float.”
Her smile tightened. “Think of the younger students. They’re impressionable.”
“They’re fine,” I said, thinking of the third-grader who’d high-fived me that morning. “It’s the adults who keep staring.”
The art room was supposed to be safe. Mr. Vega let me sketch in the back, away from prying eyes. But Derek Hooper followed, his breath sour with Axe body spray. “Need a model?” he whispered, crowding me against the kiln.
I kicked his shin, hard. He howled, drawing the class’s attention. “She’s crazy!”
Mr. Vega didn’t ask questions. Just pointed to the door. “Office. Now.”
In the hallway, I pressed my back to the lockers, shaking. Marisol found me there. “They’re scared,” she said, handing me a stolen Coke.
“Of what?”
“That you’re right.”
The police arrived during the fourth period. Two officers, one bored, one blushing. They escorted me to the conference room, where Mom sat clutching a tissue like a white flag.
“We’ve received reports of… lewd conduct,” the female officer said.
“I’m naked. Not lewd.”
Mom flinched. “She’s confused. We’ll get her help—”
“Ma’am,” the male officer interrupted, “the paperwork’s legit. She’s not breaking any laws.”
Mom dissolved into tears. “What kind of world is this?”
The kind where I’m the criminal for existing, I thought.
Dad waited in the driveway, a cardboard box in his arms. Inside, the house felt hollow. Mom’s sobs echoed down the hall. “Your mom’s… adjusting,” Dad said, setting the box on my bed. “But the law’s the law.”
I peered inside—every stitch of clothing I’d ever owned, folded neat as surrender. “They’re donating it,” he said. “Can’t have ‘temptations’ lying around.”
I touched my favorite hoodie, threadbare at the elbows. “Do you agree with this?”
He hesitated. “I agree that you’re the bravest person I know.”
We packed in silence. Jeans, prom dress, the itchy Christmas sweater Grandma knit. Dad paused over my childhood overalls. “Remember when you refused to wear anything else? Drive your mom nuts.”
“I was four.”
“Yeah.” He smiled, sad. “Some things don’t change.”
The closet gaped empty, hangers dangling like question marks. Mom stayed in her room. Dad made pancakes, humming Sinatra too loud.
At noon, the doorbell rang. Marisol stood on the porch, a stack of towels in her arms. “Housewarming gift,” she said. “For chairs. Car seats. Life.” I hugged her, the towels soft between us.
“They’ll never get it,” she murmured, “but that’s the point.”
The sunlight that streamed through my bedroom window felt accusatory, as if even the sky were demanding an explanation. I lay in bed, tracing the cracks in the ceiling plaster—a map of fractures I’d never noticed before. Downstairs, the clatter of dishes betrayed Mom’s presence. She’d taken to rearranging cabinets obsessively, as though reorganizing spices could reassemble the world she’d lost.
Dad knocked softly, balancing a tray of toast and orange juice. “Thought you might be hungry,” he said, setting it on my dresser. His eyes flickered to the empty closet, its door still swung open like a wound. “Your mom… she’s not handling this well.”
“And you are?”
He sank onto the edge of my bed, the mattress groaning. “I keep thinking about that time you refused to wear shoes in third grade. Remember? You went barefoot for a month, even in the rain. You said they ‘suffocated your toes.’”
“You bought me those hideous rubber sandals.”
“And you set them on fire in the backyard.” He chuckled, but it faded quickly. “This isn’t a phase, is it?”
I picked at the toast crust. “Would it matter?” He didn’t answer. He just squeezed my shoulder and left, the ghost of his touch lingering.
Marisol arrived on a beat-up motorcycle, her crop top replaced by a leather jacket that ended mid-rib. “Get on the back of the motorcycle,” she said, tossing me a helmet. “We’re going guerrilla shopping.”
“I can’t wear anything,” I reminded her.
“Who said anything to you?”
We rode to a thrift store on the outskirts of town. Inside, Marisol beelines to the accessories aisle, grabbing scarves, belts, and a feathered boa. “For the aesthetic,” she said, draping the boa over my shoulders. The cashier started, her gum snapping like a metronome.
Outside, Marisol lit a cigarette. “My mom tried to burn my birth certificate when I went bottomless. She said I was ‘erasing her sacrifices.’” She blew smoke into the sky. “Parents think our bodies are their masterpieces, but we’re not fucking canvases.”
“What’d you do?”
“I moved in with my aunt. She’s a burlesque dancer. Taught me how to flip shame the bird.” She grinned, stubbing out the cigarette. “Your turn. What’s your rebellion soundtrack?”
I hesitated. “Erika’s speech, I guess. The part about costumes.”
Marisol snorted. “Mine’s ‘Born This Way.’ Basic, but it slaps.” We rode back in silence, the wind carving its path.
Mrs. Piet from across the street cornered me while I watered the lawn. Her Yorkshire terrier tapped at my ankles. “I’ve known you since you were in diapers,” she said, clutching her pearls. “This… phase—it’s disrespectful.”
“Disrespectful to whom?”
“To God! To decency!” Her face purpled. “What if my grandchildren see?”
“They’ll learn that bodies aren’t sins,” I said, turning the hose slightly. The dog yelped and retreated. Mom watched from the kitchen window, her reflection a smudge of disapproval.
While my parents slept, I crept into the garage. The donation box sat by Dad’s toolbox, sealed with tape. Inside, I found my old soccer jersey—number 14, grass-stained from the game where I’d scored the winning goal. Mom had missed it, stuck at a conference. I tucked it under my mattress, a fossil of the girl they’d expected.
Mom dragged me to church. “Maybe you’ll listen to someone, to teach you that it is indecent to be like that” she hissed, thrusting a shawl at me.
“Illegal,” I reminded her. She seethed but said nothing.
Inside, pews creaked as heads swiveled. Pastor Michaels preached about modesty, his eyes darting to me like I’d personally summoned Sodom. Afterward, Mrs. Garner clutched Mom’s arm. “We’re praying for her,” she whispered, loud enough for me to hear.
In the parking lot, a teenager snapped a photo. Mom shielded me instinctively, then flinched at her reflex. Dad suggested a hike—“Somewhere quiet, just us”—but Mom refused. “I won’t enable this,” she spat, slamming the bedroom door.
I found her later, crying into a sweater I’d worn in sixth grade. “You used to love this,” she mumbled, holding it up. The sequined unicorn on the front was flaking off.
“I did,” I said. “Then I grew up.”
She hurled it at the wall. “You’re throwing everything away!”
Marisol texted: Check the news.
A local blog had posted about me: “Madison High’s Nudist Crusader: Courage or Cry for Help?” The comments were a graveyard of Bible verses and dick jokes. One stood out: @ErikaMitchellOfficial: Proud of you. Keep burning bright. I screenshotted it, the pixels glowing like a beacon.
Downstairs, Dad tuned his guitar, humming “I Will Survive.” Mom’s sobs had dissolved into silence.
In my room, I unfolded Erika’s old interview and traced her words: “They’ll tell you you’re too much. Prove them right.”
The jersey under my mattress prickled, a ghost of who I’d been. Outside, the moon hung naked, unashamed. The moon hovered outside my window, a pale witness to the stripped-down truth of the room. I’d thrown off the top sheet and comforter, leaving only the fitted layer clinging to the mattress like a second skin. The pillowcase smelled of lavender detergent—Mom’s choice, not mine—but I didn’t fling it away. Some habits, it seemed, still tethered me to her.
When the knock came, I almost didn’t hear it. Not the sharp rap-rap of her usual impatience, but a hesitant brush of knuckles against wood. The door creaked open, and there she stood, backlit by the hallway’s amber glow. Her silhouette was unfamiliar, edges blurred by the absence of fabric. For a dizzying moment, I thought I was hallucinating—the stress of the week conjuring mirages—but then she stepped forward, and the light pooled around her.
Naked.
Not the clinical nakedness of birth or childhood baths, but deliberate, trembling nakedness. Her body was a map of secrets I’d never been allowed to read: silver stretch marks rippling across her hips, a cesarean scar tucked low like a hyphen, breasts softer and lower than the stiff underwire versions she’d always hidden. She looked… human.
“Can I come in?” Her voice wavered, a frayed thread. I nodded, my throat tight.
She perched on the edge of the bed, the mattress dipping under her weight. Her thigh pressed against mine, warm and startling. I realized I’d forgotten the heat of another person’s skin.
“I… I owe you an explanation,” she began, staring at her hands. They fluttered like trapped birds. “No, not an explanation. An apology. Or maybe… a confession.” The words spilled out in a rush, as if she’d rehearsed them in the mirror:
“When I was your age, I wanted to be a dancer. Not ballet—modern. The kind where you move like fire, like… like your body isn’t a thing to hide. My teacher, Ms. Alvarez, had us practice in leotards so thin they felt like air. One day, I didn’t wear one. Just… danced. It was electric, Cassidy. Like I’d been praying in a language I finally understood.”
She paused, her breath hitching. “Then my mother found out—called me a slut, a deviant. She burned my recital costume. She said I’d end up pregnant and penniless if I kept ‘flaunting.’ So, I stopped. I let her dress me in cardigans and shame.” A tear slid down her cheek. I didn’t move to catch it.
“When you were born, I swore I’d protect you from all that. Keep you safe in a world that eats girls alive. But I… I got lost in the how. I thought if I armored you in modesty, in rules, you’d never feel the teeth.”
Her hand found mine, calloused from years of scrubbing dishes raw. “But you’re not a girl to be armored. You’re a wildfire. And I’ve been trying to stomp you out instead of… instead of marveling.”
Silence pooled between us, thick and sacred. “I’m scared,” she whispered. “Not of your nakedness… of mine… of remembering what it feels like to… to want.”
I turned to her then, really looked. Her shoulders hunched, not in shame but in the ache of decades folded too small. “Do you still dance?” I asked.
She laughed, wet and broken. “In the laundry room. When your father’s at work.”
“Show me.”
A beat. Then she stood, her body a silhouette against the moonlit window. Her arms lifted, tentative, then swept into a motion that was all hips and heartbeat. No music, just the creak of floorboards and the rhythm of her breath. She was clumsy, rusted with disuse, but alive. So alive.
When she finished, she was crying in earnest. “I’m proud of you,” she said, fierce as a vow. “And I’m… I’m ready to learn. To see you. To be seen.” We didn’t hug. Didn’t need to. Her hand stayed on my head, a benediction, as the moon climbed higher.
As she left, Mom hesitated in the doorway. “Your father… he keeps your baby blanket in his toolbox. Did you know?”
The morning light filtered through the bathroom window, soft and forgiving. I stood under the shower’s spray, the water sluicing over my skin like a baptism. The razor in my hand felt heavier than usual, its weight a reminder of the lines I’d crossed, the boundaries I’d erased. I ran the blade over the stubble of my pubic area, the motion methodical, almost meditative. It wasn’t about vanity or conformity—it was about ownership. My body, my rules.
I stepped out of the shower, the air was cool against my bare skin. I didn’t reach for a towel; instead, I let the droplets cling to me, catching the light like tiny prisms. The mirror fogged, but I didn’t wipe it clear. I didn’t need to see myself to know I was there.
When I walked into the kitchen, it was almost surreal. Mom was there, dressed in her usual executive attire—a tailored blazer, a crisp white blouse, and a pencil skirt that hugged her hips. Her hair was perfectly styled and her makeup flawless. She looked every bit the powerful woman she was, the one who commanded boardrooms and made decisions that affected hundreds of lives.
But as I watched her pour herself a cup of coffee, I saw something else. I saw the young woman from last night; the one who had danced in the moonlight, her body moving with a freedom she hadn’t allowed herself in decades. That woman was still there, just beneath the surface, hidden under layers of silk and ambition.
Dad was by the door, adjusting his tie. Looked up and caught my eye, giving me a small, almost imperceptible nod. It was a quiet acknowledgment, a silent show of support that spoke volumes. Before he left, he turned to Mom, and they shared a kiss—a simple, everyday gesture that felt anything but ordinary. It was tender, filled with a kind of intimacy that I hadn’t seen between them in years.
Mom noticed me standing there and smiled, a genuine smile that reached her eyes. “Good morning,” she said, her voice warm.
“Morning,” I replied, leaning against the counter.
She hesitated a moment before I set her coffee cup down and walked over to me. “I meant what I said last night,” she said softly. “I’m proud of you .”
I nodded, feeling a lump form in my throat. “I know, and… thank you.”
She reached out and brushed a strand of hair from my face, her touch gentle. “You’re so brave, Cassidy. Braver than I ever was.” I didn’t know what to say to that, so I just stood there, letting her words sink in.
Dad cleared his throat, breaking the moment. “I’ll see you both tonight,” he said, his voice steady but with a hint of emotion.
“Have a good day,” Mom replied, her tone light but with an undercurrent of something deeper.
As the door closed behind him, Mom turned back to me. “Do you want some breakfast?” she asked, her tone casual, as if this were any other morning.
“Sure,” I said, smiling.
We moved around the kitchen together, the silence between us comfortable now, not strained. Mom cracked eggs into a bowl, it was a simple, ordinary moment, but it felt significant.
As we sat down to eat, Mom looked at me, her expression thoughtful. “I was thinking… Maybe we could go shopping this weekend. Not for clothes, obviously,” she added quickly, a small smile playing on her lips, “but for… I don’t know, towels? Maybe some new sheets? Something that’s just for you.”
I felt a surge of gratitude, not just for the offer but for the effort she was making. “I’d like that,” I replied.
She nodded, satisfied. “Good. It’s a date, then.”
We ate in silence for a while, the only sound was the clink of forks against plates. But it wasn’t an uncomfortable silence. It was the kind of quiet that comes when words aren’t needed, when understanding passes between people without the need for speech.
As I finished my breakfast, I couldn’t help but feel a sense of hope. The road ahead wouldn’t be easy—I knew that. There would still be challenges, still be moments of doubt and fear. But for the first time in a long time, I felt like I wasn’t alone.
Mom stood and began clearing the table, her movements efficient and practiced. I watched her for a moment, then stood to help.
“Thank you,” I said softly, as we stood side by side at the sink.
She looked at me, her eyes shining with unshed tears. “No, Cassidy. Thank you.” At that moment, I knew that we were going to be okay.
Chapter 1: The Spark
I’ve always felt different—not in a way that made me stand out in a crowd, but in a way that made me feel like I was carrying a secret, a quiet rebellion simmering beneath my skin. It started when I was barely a teenager, though the roots of it might have been there long before. Maybe it was the summer I turned eleven, when I’d peel off my sweaty, suffocating jeans the moment I got home from school, tossing them into the corner of my room like a prisoner shedding chains. My mother would scold me, her voice sharp with disapproval: “People don’t want to see that, Cass. Put on some shorts.” But the relief of the cool air on my legs, the way my heartbeat slowed as if my body itself sighed—that felt like truth.
Or maybe it was earlier still. I remember being six, crying hysterically at the scratchy lace of a flower girl dress my aunt forced me into for her wedding. The fabric bit into my shoulders, the sash digging into my ribs like a warning: Conform, or be uncomfortable forever. I’d tugged at it until the seams frayed, earning a spanking and the nickname “Little Houdini” from my exasperated father.
We lived in Waterflow Falls, Wisconsin, a town so small it barely earned a dot on the map. Here, conformity wasn’t just expected—it was enforced. Women wore knee-length skirts to church picnics; men mowed lawns in collared shirts. Nudity wasn’t just taboo—it was a moral failing. Once, when I was eight, my cousin dared me to run through the sprinkler in my underwear. The neighbors called my mother to complain about “indecency.” I spent the rest of that summer grounded, the weight of their judgment like a stone in my gut.
But there were flickers of something else, cracks in the world’s rigid facade. When I was ten, my mother took me to Madison for a doctor’s appointment. As we drove through a leafy neighborhood, I saw them: three people strolling down the sidewalk, utterly naked. A man with a silver beard, a woman laughing as she swung a grocery bag, and a girl my age, her sunlit hair bouncing as she skipped. They weren’t hiding or rushing—they were living. I pressed my face to the car window, mesmerized, until my mother jerked the wheel and hissed, “Don’t stare, Cassidy. It’s rude.” Her knuckles were white on the steering wheel, but all I could think was, why aren’t they cold? Why aren’t they afraid?
We moved to the suburbs of Madison the following year. If Waterflow Falls was a locked box, Madison was a window cracked open—still stuffy, but with a whisper of breeze. My new middle school had rainbow stickers on classroom doors and a “Diversity Day” assembly every semester. Yet even here, certain lines held firm. Then came seventh grade, and the anti-bullying assembly that split my life into before and after.
The auditorium buzzed with the chaos of 300 students packed into creaking seats. Sunlight filtered through dusty blinds, painting stripes on the linoleum as the principal introduced the speakers. There was a gay man who’d survived conversion therapy, his voice cracking as he described praying until his knees bled; a Black woman who’d been followed in stores since she was twelve, her sharp laugh masking old hurt; a boy in a wheelchair who’d been told he’d never play sports—then became a Paralympic sprinter. Their stories were met with respectful applause, the kind adults call “mature.”
Then Erika Mitchell took the stage.
The room didn’t go silent as much as shatter into it. Someone dropped a water bottle; the thud echoed like a gunshot. She was naked—not in the careful, artistic way of statues, but unapologetically human. A scar curved over her hip, stretchmarks silvered her thighs, and her bare feet left faint prints on the stage. Teachers sitting in the seats before me all made some audible sounds after she was at the microphone.
“My name’s Erika,” she said, and her voice was honey and gravel, the kind that dared you to look away, “and yes, I know I’m naked.”
The giggles died when she didn’t flinch. She told us about her family’s nudist colony—“Not a cult, unless you think sunscreen is a religion”—and the legal battle to become “permanently unclothed” under state law. “We’re like vegans, but for fabric,” she joked, and a few kids snorted. But her smile faded as she described walking to school past hecklers, the time a boy yanked her hair to “see if those are real” (she broke his nose), and the petition to ban her from the town pool. “They said I’d ‘disturb the children,’” she said, rolling her eyes. “Newsflash: kids don’t care until adults teach them to.”
I couldn’t breathe. It wasn’t her body that stunned me—it was her certainty. She stood like a queen, shoulders back, and chin high, as if the air itself adored her. When she said, “Clothes are costumes. Why spend life playing dress-up?” something in my chest cracked open.
Afterward, the hallways erupted. Boys high-fived over “free porn,” girls whispered “She’s so gross” while stealing glances at their reflections. I lingered by her Q&A table, too shy to speak, until she caught my eye. “You get it,” she said suddenly, pointing at me. Not a question—a fact. My face burned, but I nodded. She grinned. “Good. Don’t let them shame you into silence.”
That night, I Googled “nudist colonies near Wisconsin” under my blanket. Articles warned of “moral decay,” but I clicked on a photo gallery: people gardening, playing chess, and riding bikes— all naked, all ordinary. One image stuck with me: a woman my mom’s age, stretchmarks and all, belly-laughing on a porch swing. She looked free.
I started small; slept naked, my sheets cool against my skin. Changed clothes faster after gym, savoring those seconds of bareness. Each time, the world’s voice—“Cover up, hide, be small”—grew quieter.
Erika’s words became my mantra: Why spend life playing dress-up? The spark was lit. Now, all I needed was the courage to let it burn.
By sophomore year, the halls of Madison High became a gallery of contradictions. Kids dyed their hair neon and pierced their eyebrows, but even rebellion had rules. Then I saw them—the ones who broke the final taboo.
Liam was first, a junior with sun-bleached dreadlocks and a permanent sunburn line across his hips. He held court under the oak tree at lunch, bare feet in the grass, preaching about "corporate enslavement via fast fashion" to anyone who’d listen. "They’re just threads, man," he’d say, gesturing to a classmate’s designer hoodie. "You’re paying $200 to wear a billboard." The football team called him "Naked Buddha," but he’d just laugh and offer them hemp granola.
Next came Marisol, a transfer from Chicago mid-semester, strutting into homeroom in a cropped band tee that ended just below her ribs—and nothing else. Rumors swirled: expelled, pregnant, in witness protection. But she’d smirk and say, "I just hate pants." Her confidence was a weapon. When Mr. Hendrix tried to send her to the office for "dress code violations," she’d slapped a medical exemption form on his desk. "Chafing," she deadpanned. "It’s a sensitivity."
I watched them like a botanist studying rare blooms. They weren’t Erika—no state-registered idealism, no speeches—but they carried her same fire. I ached to ask how they breathed through the stares, but fear kept me mute. Instead, I cataloged their survival tactics: Liam’s Zen indifference, Marisol’s defiant humor. I practiced in the mirror—shoulders back, don’t flinch, breathe—but only managed a hunched shuffle.
Jenna found me crying in the art room closet after gym. My thighs had rubbed raw under cheap polyester shorts, the skin angry and welted. "Chub rub a bitch, huh?" she said, tossing me her Vaseline.
We’d been friends since middle school, bonded over shared lunches and Doctor Who marathons. She was the first person I kissed (a dare-fueled peck at Rachel Cho’s pool party), the one who held my hair back after my first beer. So when I whispered, "I think I want to be like them," I expected… something. Not laughter.
"Them?" She snorted. "Liam smells like school lunch farts, and Marisol’s just doing it for attention."
"It’s not about them," I said, too fast. "It’s—Erika. How she owned it. I want to feel…"
"Free?" Jenna rolled her eyes. "Cass, you’re not exactly—" She caught herself, but the word hung between us, fat and suffocating.
Later, she texted: didn't mean it was beautiful!!! The damage was done. That night, I stood before my mirror, tracing the softness of my belly, the dimples on my thighs. Not the type. As if freedom had a BMI limit.
Mrs. Alvarez’s "Body Positivity" pamphlet featured smiling, airbrushed women in bikinis. ‘Love the skin you’re in!’ Chirped the caption. I wondered if the models had ever sprinted past store windows to avoid their reflections.
"Have you considered yoga?" Mrs. Alvarez asked, when I returned for my mandated follow-up. "Mindfulness can help with… impulsive urges."
"It’s not impulsive," I said. "I’ve wanted this since seventh grade."
She adjusted her cardigan like armor. "Desire isn’t always healthy, Cassidy. What if this is a reaction to trauma? Body dysmorphic? Your mother mentioned…"
Weight Watchers at twelve. The keta phase. The shrink who called me "pre-disordered." I stood abruptly, chair screeching. "You think I’d rather be naked because I hate my body?" Her pitying look said it all.
The bus ride downtown took 17 minutes. I counted each second, my backpack heavy with research: legal statutes, notarized forms, and a printout of Erika’s old interview (“Nudity isn’t radical—shame is"). The clerk didn’t blink at my request. "Birth certificate? Photo ID?"
I slid them across the counter. She stamped the paperwork with a thud that echoed through the vaulted room. Changing rooms are there. Trash cans are full, though."
In the bathroom, my hands shook as I unbuttoned my jeans. Last chance. I thought of Mom’s "modest is hottest" tirades, Jenna’s laugh, Mrs. Alvarez’s pamphlets. Then I yanked my shirt over my head. The mirror girl stared back—pale, trembling, real.
October air cuts on my skin as I step outside. A cyclist swerved, yelling, "Put some clothes on, psycho!" Across the street, a toddler pointed. "Mommy, that lady’s naked!"
"Yep," I whispered. "And?"
By the third block, numbness set in. Not courage—just the dull throb of inevitability. Mom’s scream could’ve shattered the crystal. Dad’s face crumpled like a discarded draft. "Why?"
I handed him the registration papers. "Because I’m not ashamed anymore."
"We’re ashamed!" Mom spat. "Do you know what people will say? What will they think?"
"That you raised a daughter who doesn’t cringe at her own shadow?"
She lunged, but Dad caught her arm. "Let’s… process this."
Upstairs, I locked my door and stood at the window. The streetlamp painted my silhouette onto the glass—a girl-shaped exclamation point.
Liam nodded as I entered history. "Took you long enough."
Mr. Donovan stammered through the Preamble, eyes glued to the whiteboard. Snickers erupted when I raised my hand, but Liam kicked the loudest boy’s chair. "Chill, bro. It’s just skin."
At lunch, Marisol tossed me a granola bar. "Pro tip: Cafeteria chairs suck. Bring a towel."
The whispers didn’t stop, but they dulled—background static to Marisol’s stories of nude beaches and midnight bike rides. "They’ll get bored," she said. "Bullies need a reaction. Give ‘em nothing."
Jenna passed me after the last bell, her gaze skittering over me like a skipped stone. "You’re doing it," she said, half-accusation, half-awe. I kept walking.
Mom confiscated my phone but not my notebook. Under Day 1, I wrote:
They see my body.
I see the flinch in their eyes—
The shame they taught me to carry.
Joke’s on them.
I put it down.
The second day was worse. Word had spread overnight. Students clustered in the hallways like vultures, phones held aloft. “Show us your freedom!” a senior jeered, aiming his camera at my hips. Mr. Donovan pretended not to hear, shuffling papers at his desk.
In the bio lab, Tyler “accidentally” brushed his hand against my back while reaching for a microscope slide. His friends snickered. Mrs. Kwon froze, her eyes darting between us. “Cassidy, maybe… sit in the front?”
Maybe teach your students consent, I wanted to snap. Instead, I moved, the linoleum cold under my feet.
At lunch, Marisol tossed me her hoodie. “For the chairs. Trust me.”
I hesitated. “Won’t you get in trouble?”
She smirked. “I’m not the one registered. You can’t wear it, but I can lend it as a… public service.” The fabric was warm, smelled like lavender. I draped it over the cafeteria bench, a flimsy shield against splintered wood.
Gym class was mandatory. Coach Riggs refused to let me sit out. “Dress code says appropriate attire,” he barked, though he couldn’t meet my eyes. “No exceptions.”
“I’m exempt,” I said, holding up my state ID.
“Not in my gym.”
The locker room was a minefield. Girls snapped towels, “joking” about “accidents.” I changed in a stall, heart pounding.
During dodgeball, Jason Fuller aimed low. The rubber stung my thigh, leaving a welt the shape of his grin. “Oops,” he said. “Didn’t see you there.”
When I reported it, Vice Principal Crane sighed. “Cassidy, you have to understand—your lifestyle makes some kids uncomfortable. Maybe tone it down?”
“Tone down existing?”
He slid a detention slip across his desk. “For disrupting class.”
Mrs. Greer summoned me after the second period. The office reeked of stale coffee and regret.
“We’ve had… complaints,” she said, fiddling with her pearls. “Parents are concerned about exposure.”
“I’m following the law.”
“Yes, but—” She leaned forward, voice dropping. “What if we found a compromise? A… modesty panel? Or a sash?”
“I’m not a parade float.”
Her smile tightened. “Think of the younger students. They’re impressionable.”
“They’re fine,” I said, thinking of the third-grader who’d high-fived me that morning. “It’s the adults who keep staring.”
The art room was supposed to be safe. Mr. Vega let me sketch in the back, away from prying eyes. But Derek Hooper followed, his breath sour with Axe body spray. “Need a model?” he whispered, crowding me against the kiln.
I kicked his shin, hard. He howled, drawing the class’s attention. “She’s crazy!”
Mr. Vega didn’t ask questions. Just pointed to the door. “Office. Now.”
In the hallway, I pressed my back to the lockers, shaking. Marisol found me there. “They’re scared,” she said, handing me a stolen Coke.
“Of what?”
“That you’re right.”
The police arrived during the fourth period. Two officers, one bored, one blushing. They escorted me to the conference room, where Mom sat clutching a tissue like a white flag.
“We’ve received reports of… lewd conduct,” the female officer said.
“I’m naked. Not lewd.”
Mom flinched. “She’s confused. We’ll get her help—”
“Ma’am,” the male officer interrupted, “the paperwork’s legit. She’s not breaking any laws.”
Mom dissolved into tears. “What kind of world is this?”
The kind where I’m the criminal for existing, I thought.
Dad waited in the driveway, a cardboard box in his arms. Inside, the house felt hollow. Mom’s sobs echoed down the hall. “Your mom’s… adjusting,” Dad said, setting the box on my bed. “But the law’s the law.”
I peered inside—every stitch of clothing I’d ever owned, folded neat as surrender. “They’re donating it,” he said. “Can’t have ‘temptations’ lying around.”
I touched my favorite hoodie, threadbare at the elbows. “Do you agree with this?”
He hesitated. “I agree that you’re the bravest person I know.”
We packed in silence. Jeans, prom dress, the itchy Christmas sweater Grandma knit. Dad paused over my childhood overalls. “Remember when you refused to wear anything else? Drive your mom nuts.”
“I was four.”
“Yeah.” He smiled, sad. “Some things don’t change.”
The closet gaped empty, hangers dangling like question marks. Mom stayed in her room. Dad made pancakes, humming Sinatra too loud.
At noon, the doorbell rang. Marisol stood on the porch, a stack of towels in her arms. “Housewarming gift,” she said. “For chairs. Car seats. Life.” I hugged her, the towels soft between us.
“They’ll never get it,” she murmured, “but that’s the point.”
The sunlight that streamed through my bedroom window felt accusatory, as if even the sky were demanding an explanation. I lay in bed, tracing the cracks in the ceiling plaster—a map of fractures I’d never noticed before. Downstairs, the clatter of dishes betrayed Mom’s presence. She’d taken to rearranging cabinets obsessively, as though reorganizing spices could reassemble the world she’d lost.
Dad knocked softly, balancing a tray of toast and orange juice. “Thought you might be hungry,” he said, setting it on my dresser. His eyes flickered to the empty closet, its door still swung open like a wound. “Your mom… she’s not handling this well.”
“And you are?”
He sank onto the edge of my bed, the mattress groaning. “I keep thinking about that time you refused to wear shoes in third grade. Remember? You went barefoot for a month, even in the rain. You said they ‘suffocated your toes.’”
“You bought me those hideous rubber sandals.”
“And you set them on fire in the backyard.” He chuckled, but it faded quickly. “This isn’t a phase, is it?”
I picked at the toast crust. “Would it matter?” He didn’t answer. He just squeezed my shoulder and left, the ghost of his touch lingering.
Marisol arrived on a beat-up motorcycle, her crop top replaced by a leather jacket that ended mid-rib. “Get on the back of the motorcycle,” she said, tossing me a helmet. “We’re going guerrilla shopping.”
“I can’t wear anything,” I reminded her.
“Who said anything to you?”
We rode to a thrift store on the outskirts of town. Inside, Marisol beelines to the accessories aisle, grabbing scarves, belts, and a feathered boa. “For the aesthetic,” she said, draping the boa over my shoulders. The cashier started, her gum snapping like a metronome.
Outside, Marisol lit a cigarette. “My mom tried to burn my birth certificate when I went bottomless. She said I was ‘erasing her sacrifices.’” She blew smoke into the sky. “Parents think our bodies are their masterpieces, but we’re not fucking canvases.”
“What’d you do?”
“I moved in with my aunt. She’s a burlesque dancer. Taught me how to flip shame the bird.” She grinned, stubbing out the cigarette. “Your turn. What’s your rebellion soundtrack?”
I hesitated. “Erika’s speech, I guess. The part about costumes.”
Marisol snorted. “Mine’s ‘Born This Way.’ Basic, but it slaps.” We rode back in silence, the wind carving its path.
Mrs. Piet from across the street cornered me while I watered the lawn. Her Yorkshire terrier tapped at my ankles. “I’ve known you since you were in diapers,” she said, clutching her pearls. “This… phase—it’s disrespectful.”
“Disrespectful to whom?”
“To God! To decency!” Her face purpled. “What if my grandchildren see?”
“They’ll learn that bodies aren’t sins,” I said, turning the hose slightly. The dog yelped and retreated. Mom watched from the kitchen window, her reflection a smudge of disapproval.
While my parents slept, I crept into the garage. The donation box sat by Dad’s toolbox, sealed with tape. Inside, I found my old soccer jersey—number 14, grass-stained from the game where I’d scored the winning goal. Mom had missed it, stuck at a conference. I tucked it under my mattress, a fossil of the girl they’d expected.
Mom dragged me to church. “Maybe you’ll listen to someone, to teach you that it is indecent to be like that” she hissed, thrusting a shawl at me.
“Illegal,” I reminded her. She seethed but said nothing.
Inside, pews creaked as heads swiveled. Pastor Michaels preached about modesty, his eyes darting to me like I’d personally summoned Sodom. Afterward, Mrs. Garner clutched Mom’s arm. “We’re praying for her,” she whispered, loud enough for me to hear.
In the parking lot, a teenager snapped a photo. Mom shielded me instinctively, then flinched at her reflex. Dad suggested a hike—“Somewhere quiet, just us”—but Mom refused. “I won’t enable this,” she spat, slamming the bedroom door.
I found her later, crying into a sweater I’d worn in sixth grade. “You used to love this,” she mumbled, holding it up. The sequined unicorn on the front was flaking off.
“I did,” I said. “Then I grew up.”
She hurled it at the wall. “You’re throwing everything away!”
Marisol texted: Check the news.
A local blog had posted about me: “Madison High’s Nudist Crusader: Courage or Cry for Help?” The comments were a graveyard of Bible verses and dick jokes. One stood out: @ErikaMitchellOfficial: Proud of you. Keep burning bright. I screenshotted it, the pixels glowing like a beacon.
Downstairs, Dad tuned his guitar, humming “I Will Survive.” Mom’s sobs had dissolved into silence.
In my room, I unfolded Erika’s old interview and traced her words: “They’ll tell you you’re too much. Prove them right.”
The jersey under my mattress prickled, a ghost of who I’d been. Outside, the moon hung naked, unashamed. The moon hovered outside my window, a pale witness to the stripped-down truth of the room. I’d thrown off the top sheet and comforter, leaving only the fitted layer clinging to the mattress like a second skin. The pillowcase smelled of lavender detergent—Mom’s choice, not mine—but I didn’t fling it away. Some habits, it seemed, still tethered me to her.
When the knock came, I almost didn’t hear it. Not the sharp rap-rap of her usual impatience, but a hesitant brush of knuckles against wood. The door creaked open, and there she stood, backlit by the hallway’s amber glow. Her silhouette was unfamiliar, edges blurred by the absence of fabric. For a dizzying moment, I thought I was hallucinating—the stress of the week conjuring mirages—but then she stepped forward, and the light pooled around her.
Naked.
Not the clinical nakedness of birth or childhood baths, but deliberate, trembling nakedness. Her body was a map of secrets I’d never been allowed to read: silver stretch marks rippling across her hips, a cesarean scar tucked low like a hyphen, breasts softer and lower than the stiff underwire versions she’d always hidden. She looked… human.
“Can I come in?” Her voice wavered, a frayed thread. I nodded, my throat tight.
She perched on the edge of the bed, the mattress dipping under her weight. Her thigh pressed against mine, warm and startling. I realized I’d forgotten the heat of another person’s skin.
“I… I owe you an explanation,” she began, staring at her hands. They fluttered like trapped birds. “No, not an explanation. An apology. Or maybe… a confession.” The words spilled out in a rush, as if she’d rehearsed them in the mirror:
“When I was your age, I wanted to be a dancer. Not ballet—modern. The kind where you move like fire, like… like your body isn’t a thing to hide. My teacher, Ms. Alvarez, had us practice in leotards so thin they felt like air. One day, I didn’t wear one. Just… danced. It was electric, Cassidy. Like I’d been praying in a language I finally understood.”
She paused, her breath hitching. “Then my mother found out—called me a slut, a deviant. She burned my recital costume. She said I’d end up pregnant and penniless if I kept ‘flaunting.’ So, I stopped. I let her dress me in cardigans and shame.” A tear slid down her cheek. I didn’t move to catch it.
“When you were born, I swore I’d protect you from all that. Keep you safe in a world that eats girls alive. But I… I got lost in the how. I thought if I armored you in modesty, in rules, you’d never feel the teeth.”
Her hand found mine, calloused from years of scrubbing dishes raw. “But you’re not a girl to be armored. You’re a wildfire. And I’ve been trying to stomp you out instead of… instead of marveling.”
Silence pooled between us, thick and sacred. “I’m scared,” she whispered. “Not of your nakedness… of mine… of remembering what it feels like to… to want.”
I turned to her then, really looked. Her shoulders hunched, not in shame but in the ache of decades folded too small. “Do you still dance?” I asked.
She laughed, wet and broken. “In the laundry room. When your father’s at work.”
“Show me.”
A beat. Then she stood, her body a silhouette against the moonlit window. Her arms lifted, tentative, then swept into a motion that was all hips and heartbeat. No music, just the creak of floorboards and the rhythm of her breath. She was clumsy, rusted with disuse, but alive. So alive.
When she finished, she was crying in earnest. “I’m proud of you,” she said, fierce as a vow. “And I’m… I’m ready to learn. To see you. To be seen.” We didn’t hug. Didn’t need to. Her hand stayed on my head, a benediction, as the moon climbed higher.
As she left, Mom hesitated in the doorway. “Your father… he keeps your baby blanket in his toolbox. Did you know?”
The morning light filtered through the bathroom window, soft and forgiving. I stood under the shower’s spray, the water sluicing over my skin like a baptism. The razor in my hand felt heavier than usual, its weight a reminder of the lines I’d crossed, the boundaries I’d erased. I ran the blade over the stubble of my pubic area, the motion methodical, almost meditative. It wasn’t about vanity or conformity—it was about ownership. My body, my rules.
I stepped out of the shower, the air was cool against my bare skin. I didn’t reach for a towel; instead, I let the droplets cling to me, catching the light like tiny prisms. The mirror fogged, but I didn’t wipe it clear. I didn’t need to see myself to know I was there.
When I walked into the kitchen, it was almost surreal. Mom was there, dressed in her usual executive attire—a tailored blazer, a crisp white blouse, and a pencil skirt that hugged her hips. Her hair was perfectly styled and her makeup flawless. She looked every bit the powerful woman she was, the one who commanded boardrooms and made decisions that affected hundreds of lives.
But as I watched her pour herself a cup of coffee, I saw something else. I saw the young woman from last night; the one who had danced in the moonlight, her body moving with a freedom she hadn’t allowed herself in decades. That woman was still there, just beneath the surface, hidden under layers of silk and ambition.
Dad was by the door, adjusting his tie. Looked up and caught my eye, giving me a small, almost imperceptible nod. It was a quiet acknowledgment, a silent show of support that spoke volumes. Before he left, he turned to Mom, and they shared a kiss—a simple, everyday gesture that felt anything but ordinary. It was tender, filled with a kind of intimacy that I hadn’t seen between them in years.
Mom noticed me standing there and smiled, a genuine smile that reached her eyes. “Good morning,” she said, her voice warm.
“Morning,” I replied, leaning against the counter.
She hesitated a moment before I set her coffee cup down and walked over to me. “I meant what I said last night,” she said softly. “I’m proud of you .”
I nodded, feeling a lump form in my throat. “I know, and… thank you.”
She reached out and brushed a strand of hair from my face, her touch gentle. “You’re so brave, Cassidy. Braver than I ever was.” I didn’t know what to say to that, so I just stood there, letting her words sink in.
Dad cleared his throat, breaking the moment. “I’ll see you both tonight,” he said, his voice steady but with a hint of emotion.
“Have a good day,” Mom replied, her tone light but with an undercurrent of something deeper.
As the door closed behind him, Mom turned back to me. “Do you want some breakfast?” she asked, her tone casual, as if this were any other morning.
“Sure,” I said, smiling.
We moved around the kitchen together, the silence between us comfortable now, not strained. Mom cracked eggs into a bowl, it was a simple, ordinary moment, but it felt significant.
As we sat down to eat, Mom looked at me, her expression thoughtful. “I was thinking… Maybe we could go shopping this weekend. Not for clothes, obviously,” she added quickly, a small smile playing on her lips, “but for… I don’t know, towels? Maybe some new sheets? Something that’s just for you.”
I felt a surge of gratitude, not just for the offer but for the effort she was making. “I’d like that,” I replied.
She nodded, satisfied. “Good. It’s a date, then.”
We ate in silence for a while, the only sound was the clink of forks against plates. But it wasn’t an uncomfortable silence. It was the kind of quiet that comes when words aren’t needed, when understanding passes between people without the need for speech.
As I finished my breakfast, I couldn’t help but feel a sense of hope. The road ahead wouldn’t be easy—I knew that. There would still be challenges, still be moments of doubt and fear. But for the first time in a long time, I felt like I wasn’t alone.
Mom stood and began clearing the table, her movements efficient and practiced. I watched her for a moment, then stood to help.
“Thank you,” I said softly, as we stood side by side at the sink.
She looked at me, her eyes shining with unshed tears. “No, Cassidy. Thank you.” At that moment, I knew that we were going to be okay.