I feel most at ease in my body when I’m in a bath. Cut off from the outside world, I sink into the warm water that cradles me like a safe cocoon. It’s the one place where I’m free from judgment and responsibility—where I feel completely present in my own skin. So when I arrived in Japan last spring, my first priority was to visit an onsen, a traditional Japanese hot spring. Rooted in Buddhist and Shinto beliefs that water purifies the soul, onsen bathing dates back to the sixth century and remains a cherished ritual in Japan today.
With over 3,000 hot springs across the country, finding one wasn’t difficult. After traveling from Tokyo to Kagoshima—a southern city rich with springs thanks to the nearby Sakurajima volcano—I was thrilled to discover a public onsen just two floors below my room at the Sheraton. In the women’s changing area, I noticed a woman with an amputated arm bathing alongside others seated on small stools, scrubbing their bodies with care. All bodies are welcome here, I reminded myself.
I needed that reassurance because I was feeling particularly self-conscious. After years of over-exercising and strict eating in my 20s, I’d spent the last few years healing my relationship with food and my body. But stress before my trip had caused me to lose weight, and I’d started dreading my reflection. Worse, I worried other women might see my thin frame as a symbol of diet culture and resent me. I tried to remind myself that my fears were just projections of my own insecurities—that the women around me were likely too focused on themselves to judge.
Still, I wasn’t going to let self-consciousness stop me from embracing Japanese culture—especially something as sacred as an onsen, a luxury I’d missed since moving to Brooklyn, where bathtubs are rare. So I dropped the small towel covering me and hurried (without slipping) to the nearest shallow pool. As I eased into the steaming water with other naked women, I caught glimpses of their silhouettes in the foggy window’s reflection. There were curves in unexpected places, proportions that didn’t fit the “fruit shapes” I’d read about in magazines. These were real bodies—each unique, each beautiful in its own way.
After staring a little too long, I realized the other women kept their eyes down, as if to say a woman’s body is her own business. But what struck me most was the quiet confidence in the air—a sense of ease that comes from being fully present in your own skin. One woman in my pool had her back turned, gazing at a tree in the courtyard. Another in the changing room studied her reflection—not fixing or adjusting, just observing, as if seeing herself for the first time.
Over the next 10 days traveling through Kyushu, I visited an onsen daily. With each soak, I grew more comfortable being naked. This accidental exposure therapy taught me that healing wasn’t just about the mineral-rich water or scrubbing away dead skin—it was about shedding the towel, baring myself, and watching others do the same. Research supports this: Dr. Keon West, a psychology professor at Goldsmiths, University of London, found that spending time naked around others (what he calls “naturism”) improves body image, self-esteem, and life satisfaction. It’s a powerful counter to the idealized bodies we’re taught to see as normal.
As I watched these women move with quiet assurance…Watching women meticulously follow their multi-step skincare routines in the airport bathroom before my red-eye flight, I found myself wondering what drives Japanese women to regularly soak in onsens. In North America, daily cleansing feels like a chore. Here, bathing rituals seem even more elaborate and time-consuming, yet less about vanity. As an ancient practice, the mindful act of bathing appears to remain a true form of self-care.
Could the same be said for public bathing in Seoul, the neighboring beauty capital? Eight months later, I traveled to my father’s homeland to find out. Like Japan, South Korea has long valued public bathing, with medicinal saunas dating back to the 15th century. But it was during Japanese rule in the late 1800s that Korean bathhouses, called jjimjilbangs (meaning “heated room”), became popular. Similar to onsens, modern jjimjilbangs feature hot and cold baths, steam rooms, and saunas. The key difference? They don’t use natural hot spring water, and while they’re part of Koreans’ self-care routines, they’re also social hubs—some even have karaoke bars, dining areas, and sleeping quarters (many stay open 24 hours).
The biggest contrast, though, is the atmosphere. I’ll never forget my first jjimjilbang experience during my solo trip to Korea at 19. Back then, I was more confident in my body, but nothing could’ve prepared me for that visit. The hot pools buzzed with Korean women chatting excitedly—what sounded like gossip to my half-Korean, non-Korean-speaking ears. Unlike the quiet, solitary onsens of Japan, jjimjilbangs were lively and communal, with zero privacy. I watched as women contorted into impossible positions during full-body scrubs, every inch exfoliated in the open. The treatments looked intense—scratchy mitts, elbows digging into backs—yet the women endured it all without flinching. I admired their resilience but lacked the courage to try it myself.
Over a decade later, I wondered if I’d still find jjimjilbangs overwhelming and decided to brave my first scrub. For guidance, I turned to Dr. Eunice Park, a Korean-born plastic surgeon who founded New York’s AIREM spa and clinic. She explained that Seoul’s jjimjilbangs fall into two categories: high-end hotel spas for foreigners and budget-friendly spots locals frequent. Since I’d tried the latter last time, she suggested easing back in at a hotel jjimjilbang. I went all out, booking a treatment at the Four Seasons Seoul.
After 30 minutes alternating between hot pools, I was led to a semi-private shower area for my scrub. The attendant wasted no time, vigorously exfoliating me with a rough towel. My subdued onsen experiences hadn’t prepared me for the thoroughness—legs spread, every crevice scrubbed. It wasn’t painful, but it wasn’t pleasant either, so I focused on my breath. A deep inhale brought the scent of apricots, instantly transporting me back to age 13, when I used St. Ives Apricot Scrub nightly.
That nostalgic smell, combined with my vulnerable state, created an intimacy I hadn’t felt since childhood. The attendant wasn’t warm or gentle, but her no-nonsense touch felt oddly reassuring.The experience was motherly, even soothing. After scrubbing every inch of my body, she poured a large basin of warm water over me, like a baptism. Then she draped three towels over my torso, which turned into a comforting weighted blanket as they soaked up the water. Once I was as dry as possible in the steamy shower room, it was time for my “mini-massage”—though there was nothing mini about it. She stretched my limbs in every direction and worked with pressure so intense it surpassed even my usual requests for firm massages.
By the time she moved to my face, my body felt as loose as a ragdoll. Her hands moved so fast I pictured her as an octopus, fingers flying everywhere. The frenzy continued as she lathered shampoo and conditioner into my scalp. Then came the only gentle moment—she slowly combed the conditioner through my hair, and for a second, it felt like my late mother was taking care of me again. Just when I thought it was over, she sat me up and poured hot oil all over my body, massaging it into my freshly scrubbed skin before giving my arms one last stretch.
I stumbled out of the treatment room in a daze—not the groggy kind after a typical massage, but a light, floating feeling, as if I’d been completely purified. It was the most intense cleansing I’d ever experienced, and I felt brand new. Most surprising was the quiet calm in my mind—no anxiety, no self-consciousness. When I caught my glowing reflection in the mirror, I noticed a scale under the sink but felt no urge to step on it. Instead, I walked away and ordered dinner without a second thought.