Life Experiences
German Saunas and the Art of Being Naked Without Apology
I only lasted three minutes in a German sauna — but it stayed with me a lot longer
The first time I walked into a German sauna, it was winter in Berlin, the perfect time to seek warmth and steam. My Indian friends had warned me: “You know they’re naked, right?” I laughed it off, assuming I could handle it. I lasted exactly three minutes.
Everyone was naked! Old men, young women, kids — literally everyone and all together at once. Confidently, casually, unapologetically so. They lounged, they stretched, they chatted about their dinner plans like their bits weren’t just out there, steaming in public. I, meanwhile, was wrapped tighter than a samosa, every muscle clenched, every instinct screaming for me to turn around and bolt.
And I did.
No dramatic exit, no shrieking, just a quiet, towel-swaddled retreat out the door and back into the safety of the changing room, where everyone at least pretended not to notice each other’s bodies.
What surprised me was not that I was embarrassed and uncomfortable, it’s that the moment stayed with me. Even though I left that sauna practically unchanged in appearance, something in my wiring had been gently, irreversibly rearranged.
I grew up in a conservative culture where modesty wasn’t just expected — it was required. Women didn’t talk openly about their bodies, let alone display them in public. Changing rooms were strictly separated into men and women. It was a choreography of strategic towel placement and backs turned. Even in my own home, I often felt the need to cover up in a way that made me forget I had a body at all, I just had to hide most of it, maintain a certain image, and occasionally dress up to be seen by others.
So you can imagine the emotional whiplash of walking into a room full of people of all ages, genders, and body types, completely nude and utterly unbothered.
There was no sexual tension, no side-eyes, no comparison. Just skin and steam and the strange, serene democracy of shared vulnerability. Except, of course, I wasn’t participating. I was observing and judging myself for not being able to handle it.
In the days after, I kept thinking about what I saw. Not in a voyeuristic way, but in the way you reflect on a dream that shook you. I thought about the older women chatting, stretch marks and soft bellies and sagging skin on full display, not flaunted, just there. I thought about the man who passed me with a towel slung casually over his shoulder like he’d just come from the beach, not from sweating naked in a communal wooden room.
I thought about how, even though I couldn’t bring myself to stay, something in that space felt… safe.
More than that…it felt free.
Here’s the strange part — the sauna didn’t cure my nudity issues. It didn’t inspire me to throw off my towel and embrace public nudity. I’m still not a sauna regular, and I still feel a flicker of discomfort when I walk past signs that say “textile-free zone.”
But I no longer carry the same shame.
There’s something about seeing others, truly seeing them, in their unpolished, unfiltered forms, that softens your gaze toward yourself. You begin to understand that most people don’t look like magazines. That most people are just trying to be comfortable. That your body, as imperfect as you’ve been taught it is, is not a personal failing; it’s just your body.
It turns out, when you stop being scandalized by other people’s skin, your own stops feeling like a scandal too.
I still hesitate before entering places where everyone’s naked. I still prefer my swimsuits, my towels, my layers. But I no longer feel like I have to hide. Not because I’ve overcome all my insecurities, but because I’ve realized most people aren’t looking. And if they are, it’s not in the way I used to fear.
This is, I think, what Germans have quietly mastered — the art of being naked without apology. Not flaunting. Not hiding. Just… being. It’s oddly radical. It’s also deeply boring, in the best possible way.
You go in. You sweat. You rinse off. You go home. No judgement. No drama. No shame. Just a body doing what bodies do.
I’m not sure I’ll ever be fully comfortable sitting nude in a room of strangers. But I’m grateful that I once tried and failed. Because even in my failure, I absorbed something essential.
I now look at people a little differently. I see less surface, more story. I notice how much more relaxed people are when they don’t feel the need to perform perfectly. And in quieter moments, I allow myself that same permission: to take up space, to let go of the angles, to exist without constant correction.
And in some strange way, it all started in that steamy room in Berlin, where I was too nervous to sit down — but brave enough to walk in.
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