On the first day of our trip to St. John, I turn on the outdoor shower and present my naked body to the Caribbean Sea. The view is like a souvenir shop postcard: miles of turquoise water, greenery cascading down from the cliff where I’m perched, a sailboat cruising by with passengers’ bronzed bodies splayed across the bow. Watching them pass by makes me feel as if I’m nude in front of strangers. I turn my body away from the ocean while I lather shampoo into my hair and rub a flimsy piece of soap over my skin. I don’t need these strangers to see me removing sand from the crevices I prefer to cover with a bathing suit.

As I shift positions to steal a look at the sea, I lock eyes with an iguana perched on top of a tall bush just beyond a wooden railing. We’re so close I can see a thin, red tongue flicker in and out of its mouth before the lizard bites off a bunch of leaves. At first, I think it’s a coincidence. It’s staring in my direction, but after a moment, I watch its head cock to the side, rearranging its eyes to watch me shave my armpits. I know next to nothing about iguanas, but I assume this one is male. He won’t look away.

His eyes seem to search my wet, slightly sunburned body, the pale areas marking where my swimsuit covered. I turn away and scrub soap over my belly—an area that I used to call my best feature. Hours in the pool and weight room each day had left my abdominals chiseled. My swimmer’s body had been carved, and my coaches were the artists. But all that had changed after I left the sport seven years ago. Even with daily exercise, my body has softened and filled out in ways I didn’t anticipate. Others say I look healthier now, but I study my different body and am ashamed to admit I feel ashamed.

*

I was twelve years old the first year my family joined Meadowbrook Swim Club for the summer. On the opening weekend, even my pool-rat self had to admit the water was freezing. My friend Cody and I discovered a way to make it bearable, though: play in the pool until our teeth chattered, then speed walk to the locker room to avoid the lifeguard whistling at us for running. We’d then crank the showers onto hot in the communal shower area and wait until steam filled the space.

I immediately realized Meadowbrook was different from Valley, our previous swim club located in a little suburban neighborhood. At Valley, women went into changing rooms with drapes to close when they undressed and dressed. They’d often enter the changing rooms in tennis outfits and exit in resort-worthy swimsuits, ready for a day of leisure by the pool. But Meadowbrook was in the Mount Washington area of Baltimore that draws a different crowd, even to this day.

The center of Mount Washington is a Whole Foods Market located within a historic mill that produced cotton in the 1800s. In the summer, older locals carrying reusable shopping bags power walk in their Birkenstocks over the Jones Fall Bridge to fetch groceries. You might expect these gluten-free, tofu-eating Whole Foods regulars to be the epitome of health—but no. It’s clear that many of these shoppers are overweight, even beneath their uniform khaki pants and ASPCA t-shirts. They’re a different kind of crunchy; a whole separate breed from the shoppers you’d find at a Whole Foods in, say, San Francisco. Many of these Mount Washington locals make a statement with their unaltered, unshaved bodies. And when I was young, this type of person blew my mind—especially when I saw women belonging to the category. Why don’t they take care of themselves? I wondered.

These were the same women who walked naked around the Meadowbrook Swim Club locker room, chitchatting with each other while their wrinkled breasts sagged and their bushy pubic hair dripped chlorinated water onto rubber floor tiles. They were never in a rush to get dressed; in fact, they seemed to relish being in this nude sanctuary. They especially loved to converse in the group showers, unabashedly scrubbing their vaginas and letting their soft bodies jiggle around. This is an environment I wasn’t used to, so when Cody and I escaped to the warm showers that Memorial Day Weekend, it’s all I could talk about.

“Did you know nipples could be so big?” I asked Cody. “That one lady’s looked like pepperonis.” My friend was much shyer than I was, so she likely just shook her head and let me go on rambling like this to myself.

“It’s like they want everyone to see their big naked bodies. I don’t get it,” I continued.

I incorrectly assumed I was speaking quietly and no one outside the shower area could hear me. There was a curtained-off portion of the locker room labeled ADULTS ONLY, and an older member of the nudist colony flung the fabric open and marched into the public shower. Although there were at least six other showers available, she turned on the one next to me and stood there facing me.

“I want you to take this all in,” she told me. “Take it all in. This is what you’re going to look like one day, you little brat.”

I looked at her naked body in horror, suddenly paralyzed. I wanted to look away, but I also didn’t want to disobey. My eyes quickly scanned her: the pixie-style haircut, her big nipples, the curls of pubic hair between her legs, the lumpy flesh on her thighs. I looked behind me toward Cody. Her eyes bugged out of her head, and I saw them searching for the nearest exit. The woman aggressively yanked off the shower, gave me a nasty final look, and marched back to the ADULTS ONLY section.

Cody and I sped out of the locker room across the concrete pool deck, and hid behind my mother’s pool chair.

“There’s no way we’re gonna look like that,” I whispered to Cody with false confidence.

I was still feeling proud and a bit superior after becoming the first of my friends to get their period the previous summer. Now I considered myself a women’s health expert. I dubbed myself the Menstrual Messiah and considered it my mission to let my girlfriends know they didn’t have to fear this milestone. We’d all been brainwashed in elementary school by a woman named Miss Harris who ran the fifth grade “Our Changing Bodies” unit. She lectured for several weeks on the stabbing pains we could expect from menstrual cramps, the horror of receiving your first period in the middle of the school day, and something called toxic shock syndrome. I and so many of my classmates left fifth grade panicked that our upcoming, inevitably awkward middle school experience would include standing up from our desks one day to reveal blood-soaked pants in front of our entire class. So when I survived my first period, I needed to spread the gospel. Of course, I left out details about the hour I’d spent on the cold bathroom floor with a hand mirror trying to insert my first tampon. And I didn’t tell them that I’d been on an emotional roller coaster beforehand, managing to alienate almost every member of my family. Those parts weren’t important—I just didn’t want my friends to be as scared as I was.

My intentions as the Menstrual Messiah started from a good place, but it’s funny how quickly an eleven-year-old can become overconfident after convincing herself that she’s a prophet. By the time I reached my Meadowbrook days, I was brimming with what I’d now label as toxic female positivity: Getting your period is wonderful! You’ll never gain weight if you just exercise regularly! Womanhood is the best! I’d spew. I had unknowingly turned into my own version of Miss Harris. I was too young to realize that Miss Harris and the Meadowbrook nudists certainly knew more about womanhood than I did.

*

Back in the St. John outdoor shower on our final day of the trip, the iguana nods at me. At first I think I’ve imagined this, but later learn these creatures nod to acknowledge the presence of others—animals and humans alike. When I lock eyes with the iguana a final time, I wonder if I incorrectly assumed its gender. Maybe it’s a young female, gazing at my body like I did with the naked women at Meadowbrook. The iguana’s eyes take in the one-piece tan I’ve gained after my first trip forfeiting the bikini. It sees the ripples on parts of my stomach that used to be flat.

I imagine the iguana later telling its friends, “There’s no way we’re gonna look like that.” I’m tempted to yank off the shower and tell the little brat to take it all in. But there’s another possibility, too. Maybe this iguana has shed its skin several times over her lifetime. Hell, she’s probably older than I am. Perhaps this nod she’s given me isn’t one of judgment, but rather she’s saying, Me too, sister. She’s wise and knows what it’s like to be an adult and feel uncomfortable in her own skin.

The iguana takes a bite from the branch below her and then turns toward the sunshine, closing her eyes and soaking in the last evening rays of the sun. I follow her lead and close my eyes too, taking deep breaths and listening to the waves crash below. I can hear a dog barking in the distance and listen to that too. I open my eyes and blink to take a snapshot of the moment—to take it all in.

Jessie O’Dea Walker holds an MFA in Creative Writing & Publishing Arts from the University of Baltimore and received her BA from the University of Richmond. Her work has appeared in the Under Review, Black Fork Review, Invisible Illness, and other publications. She lives in Richmond, Virginia, with her college sweetheart turned husband and is the proud mother of two feline fur babies. Find out more at jessieodeawalker.com.