I should probably tell you right now that I didn’t mean to start writing a book while naked. It just sort of happened—like getting a parking ticket while trying to save a stray kitten or accidentally sending your therapist a sext (I MEANT TO SAY “I’m feeling emotionally raw,” not “I’m feeling hot and raw”).

It was a Tuesday. That weird kind of Tuesday that smells like someone else’s armpit and existential dread. My dryer had exploded in a fit of rage and lint, I was out of clean underwear, and I had just finished crying into a bowl of leftover tater tots like a sexy, unhinged raccoon. And in that sacred moment of rock-bottom glory, with my left tit dangerously close to a cooling Totino’s Pizza Roll, I thought: “You know what? Screw it. Let’s write a book.”

Not just any book. A book about being naked. And I don’t just mean the kind of naked where you’re like, “Oops, I forgot my towel again” and you’re flashing the Amazon guy who’s now visibly trying not to make eye contact with your areola. I mean soul-naked. Raw chicken feelings. The kind of vulnerable that makes you sweat in weird places and contemplate texting your ex just so someone will witness your descent.

Now, I know what you’re thinking.

“Jazmyn, what exactly qualifies you to write about baring your soul and/or body?”

To that I say: 1) I once got drunk at a family reunion and gave a TED Talk about my childhood trauma using marshmallows and interpretive dance. 2) I’ve been emotionally naked since 1992. 3) I’ve been physically naked in more places than I care to admit, including—but not limited to—a Waffle House bathroom, the back of a Subaru, and a Renaissance fair where I thought the robe was part of the costume, but it was actually someone’s sleeping bag.

This book is not a self-help guide, although you might feel mildly helped against your will. It’s not a memoir either, because that implies dignity and chronological order. It’s more like if your favorite wine aunt did mushrooms with Brené Brown and then FaceTimed you while sitting in a kiddie pool full of glitter and bad decisions.

I want to talk about the body stuff—the jiggly bits, the stuff we tuck into Spanx, the rogue chin hairs that sprout during full moons like hormonal werewolves. I want to talk about the soul stuff—the shame, the joy, the time I got dumped via Post-it note, and why I still occasionally spiral into a puddle of sadness when I hear the first four notes of a Norah Jones song.

But mostly, I want to do it all with you. Fully clothed, metaphorically naked, emotionally flailing, and possibly covered in snacks.

So grab a snack, lose your pants (figuratively or literally—I’m not the boss of you), and let’s get so real it makes both your nipples perk up and your inner child panic.

Welcome to Beautifully Naked.

Hope you brought a towel.