I hope this story makes you laugh, or at the very least, smile today. That’s why I’m sharing it.
But I also want to be clear—just because I’m telling a funny story doesn’t mean I take what’s happening in our country and the world lightly. I don’t.
Every day, I dedicate time to staying informed and making my voice heard. One way I do this is by using 5 Calls to contact my representatives—it’s quick, easy, and effective. If you’re looking for a way to take action, I highly recommend it.
Now, let’s get to the part where I embarrass my teenage self for your entertainment today.
Think back to a moment in your life when you really wanted to be seen.
I mean really seen.
You had envisioned your arrival. Planned your outfit. Maybe even rehearsed how you’d toss your hair or drop a one-liner that would make someone gasp and say, “Who is she?”
Now imagine the moment arrives—and instead of seizing the spotlight, you trip over the mic cord and fall headfirst off the stage.
That, more or less, is what happened to me in Finland.
This is a story about one of my most embarrassing moments.
But more than that, it’s a story about the delicate emotional choreography of being a teenage girl who desperately wants to fit in… and is dying to be exceptional.
Who wants more than anything to be noticed… and also kind of invisible.
Who dreams of arriving, only to find herself clamoring for the emergency exit.
And it all starts with a neon orange Body Glove bikini and a cultural exchange I will never forget.
It was the summer of 1992.
The Olympics were playing out in Barcelona.
Crystal Pepsi was trying to make clear cola happen.
Boyz II Men’s “End of the Road” was on a 14-week loop in my Walkman, and Whitney was about to take over the world with “I Will Always Love You.”
The Real World had just premiered.
And I? I was making my international debut—boarding three planes, solo, from Kansas to Finland.
Why Finland?
Unclear.
It wasn’t one of the countries I listed on my Rotary Youth Exchange application, but someone at HQ must’ve said, “Let’s send this Midwestern cheerleader where the people are blond, the vowels are plentiful, and nudity is frequent.”
I was 15. A ponytail-swinging, pom-pom-wielding A-student with a perfectly curated bangs situation: bottom bangs curled under, top bangs flipped back.
Derrick Long was my first real boyfriend.
I had a deep fear of being uncool—and an even deeper fear of being seen trying too hard to be cool.
You know the vibe.
And while my friends were gearing up for Eudora’s annual CPA Picnic (What’s the CPA, you ask? That would be the Central Protective Association, formed in 1901 to protect the town from horse thieves), I was flying 5,649 miles to live with strangers on a cluster of Nordic islands.
My host family was uber rich, refined, and Swedish-speaking. During the colder months, they lived in a grand city home in Turku, Finland. And during the summer, they sailed the Baltic and retreated to their private island in the Turku Archipelago—one of 40,000 tiny islands scattered like polka dots across the sea.
And their summer home had a sauna.
Not a spa-day, tiled, steamy, eucalyptus-scented, robe-wearing scenario.
A real Finnish sauna. The site of a sacred, generations-deep tradition where everyone—regardless of age, gender, or personal hang-ups—sweated together. In the nude.
Grandparents? Naked.
Kids? Naked.
Cousins? Naked.
Me?
I was a Kansas girl raised on modesty, JCPenney swimsuits, and an American culture that somehow managed to be both obsessed with nudity and deeply ashamed of it.
You could show a Victoria’s Secret ad on network TV—but God forbid your bra strap peeked out at school. There was a name for girls like that.
So I clung to my swimsuits like they were armor.
All summer long, I refused to shed that final layer.
But secretly?
I wanted to be worldly. Cool. Unbothered.
Like someone who smoked clove cigarettes and listened to Björk.
So I made myself a promise:
Before I left Finland, I would do it.
Just once.
One naked sauna.
One glorious, uninhibited run into the sea.
It would be my coming-of-age moment.
My personal Scandinavian awakening.
Not Eat, Pray, Love—more like Heat, Play, Plunge.
It was a perfect plan.
My last weekend had arrived. It was time.
The men were out sailing. Everyone else was occupied—reading, cooking, doing something artsy.
I slipped outside and cranked the sauna heat to full hellfire mode.
And then, finally, I stripped down to my birthday suit—where the golden, never-quite-setting sun got its first glimpse of my naked body.
I walked into the sauna, took a seat, and began reflecting on my summer in Finland.
I had navigated a foreign land, a foreign language, a foreign family.
I had traveled through Sweden and Estonia.
I had eaten crayfish meat.
I had traded in Velveeta slices and Wonder Bread for fresh-baked loaves, real butter, and Västerbottensost—the most delicious cheese I had ever tasted.
I had sipped coffee like an actual adult.
I could’ve stayed home and spent the summer babysitting, working at Dairy Queen, or sneaking Boone’s Farm into cornfields.
But I hadn’t.
I had become cosmopolitan. Practically a grown-up.
I had transcended my small-town life. I was a citizen of the world.
Derrick who?
I would return home a woman. A sophisticated, well-traveled, cross-cultural goddess who could sit naked in a 200-degree wooden box like the best of them.
I had arrived.
My transformation was complete.
Sufficiently marinated in my own delusions of grandeur, heart pounding, I flung open the sauna door—and made a break for it.
No towel. No shoes.
Now, I don’t believe in trigger warnings, but let’s just say: this is where it gets… hairy.
What I had failed to consider—despite having lived there for weeks—was the terrain.
This was not a soft, sandy path to liberation. No, no.
The ground was sharp. Rocky. Prickly with pine needles.
Like Mother Nature herself had booby-trapped the trail for anyone foolish enough to attempt a barefoot hero’s journey.
So instead of the elegant, uninhibited frolic I had envisioned—something wild and ethereal, like a nymph in a feminist indie film—I hobbled forward like a baby deer learning to walk-run.
Wobbly. Awkward. Utterly betrayed by my own feet.
And then, just as I hit the clearing, the moment of impact arrived.
My foot landed on something jagged.
Not a twig. Not a pebble.
A full-blown weapon of the forest.
Pain shot through me like a lightning strike.
I let out a yelp so loud it triggered a full-scale bird evacuation from the surrounding trees.
I collapsed mid-stride, clutching my foot and lifting it into view, fully expecting to extract a spearhead, an arrow shaft—maybe even a cursed relic from some ancient Finnish warrior.
Balancing like a flamingo, I instead dislodged a tiny wooden shank—clearly fashioned by a conniving conifer hellbent on vengeance.
And then—as if on cue, as if the gods of humiliation had joined forces with the maritime transit authority—a deep, booming horn shattered the air.
The Silja Line ferry.
Announcing its presence.
And simultaneously, mine.
I looked up.
There they were.
2,800+ passengers.
Standing on deck.
Waving.
At me.
My leg snapped back to the ground. I froze—mid-crouch—in what can only be described as Startled Sasquatch Pose™.
My brain, in its final act of self-preservation, performed a NASA-grade emergency calculation:
Sauna distance vs. sea distance ÷ level of mortification × surface area of exposed flesh × likelihood of psychological implosion = optimal escape route.
By my estimation, I had exactly 2.3 seconds before my fragile teenage sense of self buckled under the seismic pressure of shame.
And so, without conscious thought, my body lurched forward.
Straight toward the sea.
Straight toward the ferry.
Straight toward the cheering, possibly photograph-taking crowd of strangers.
Dear reader, I beg you—just take a moment. Picture it.
Fifteen-year-old me.
Sprinting into the arms of my own shame.
Boobs bouncing like bags of Jell-O.
Butt cheeks clapping enthusiastically behind me.
Hair flying. Foot bleeding. Decency in flames.
Imagine it.
Because that’s the only way to truly understand the depths of my humiliation that summer.
And we’re not even done.
I fixated on the brackish water just beyond the rocky shoreline, refusing to acknowledge my floating fans.
I ran and as I approached the edge, I took one final breath, and with the force of a thousand teens cliff-jumping with reckless abandon, I launched myself into the deep blue—fully prepared to spend the rest of my days below sea level.
I would adapt.
I’d find a hollow stick and fashion a snorkel.
I’d befriend a family of otters.
Maybe a kind-hearted mermaid would take me in, teach me her ways, give me a new name.
People would hear I drowned in Finland and honestly? That was fine.
Because after flashing my foo foo to a full ferry, I no longer identified as human. I was now a myth.
A cautionary tale passed down in saunas for generations to come.
Like a stunned marine mammal, I hovered just below the surface.
Eyes closed. Limbs suspended.
The frigid water did nothing to cool the searing fire of my embarrassment.
And yet—because air is not optional—I resurfaced.
Slowly. Just my eyes at first.
The ferry had moved on.
I floated there, suspended between two truths:
I had wanted to fit in. To be worldly. To prove I could hang with the blond, naked elite of Finland.
But I had also wanted to stand out. To come home changed. Different. Better.
Instead, I had just… been seen.
The naked truth of me—utterly, overwhelmingly seen.
Not for my sophistication. Not for my courage.
But for my nude, flailing, tightrope sprint into self-destruction.
I had dreamed of becoming a woman that summer.
A little more grown. A little more bold.
And maybe, in a backwards, boob-jiggling kind of way—I had.
I took one last look around to make sure the coast was clear, and turned toward my final challenge:
Get. Back. To. The. Sauna.
I spotted a set of rocks that vaguely resembled a staircase and scrambled up them like a naked Gollum—slipping, muttering, and cursing every pinecone that dared graze my bare feet.
By the time I reached the sauna, I was breathless, pink-skinned, and spiritually concussed.
I yanked my towel off the bench, wrapped it around myself like a burrito, and sat down—dripping, steaming, and emotionally unwell.
The good news? No one had seen the second half.
The bad news? My brain would have me believe that every one of those ferry passengers would recount the story of the girl who streaked across the island like a mythical creature at every dinner party and holiday gathering.
I pulled myself together and headed back to the house.
My host mom looked up as I walked through the door.
“How was the sauna?” she asked.
“Good,” I lied.
Sometimes, in our quest to belong but also be our authentic self, we offer up more than just vulnerability—we offer up everything. Our soul. Our body. Our pride. Our precious illusions.
But maybe that’s what growth looks like. Raw. Exposed. Horrified. And—if you’re lucky—funny as hell later.
I came home from Finland changed. Not just because I’d seen the world.
But because, for one unforgettable moment, the world saw me.
All of me.
And I lived to tell the tale.
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