It took getting naked in a Turkish hammam to finally be comfortable in my body

I distinctly remember dreading beach days and pool parties as a kid. I was the girl who showed up with a baggy t-shirt over my bathing suit to hide my stomach and arms. I remember my best friend’s cousin calling me “the fat girl with glasses” when I was maybe eleven or twelve years old. The comment stuck with me well into adulthood.

Even as an adult, I could never get past feeling like my body wasn’t good enough. I struggled with feeling confident even when I was at my most physically fit. Decades of yo-yo dieting coupled with an autoimmune disease that left me bedridden for much of the pandemic meant that even when I was quote-unquote slim, I still had stretch marks, loose skin that puckered around my stomach and arms, and knobby joints that made the body I thought I needed feel forever out of reach.

It never occurred to me to look at my body like something that carries me through life, something I should love and nourish into feeling its best, rather than hating it into getting small enough and tight enough to finally be worthy of love.

But something changed when I moved to Istanbul earlier this year, fulfilling my dream of living abroad (and closing the distance with my Turkish partner). It’s like I could no longer be neurotic and self-conscious when I could barely speak the language of my hosts. I didn’t have the words to be shy or to hide away in the same way I did in Canada.

The Turkish people I’ve met are also fascinated by my physical appearance; they see my blue eyes and strawberry blonde hair as a kind of unique beauty in a sea of predominantly brown eyes and black hair. 

Turks also admittedly are very in tune with weight loss and weight gain, in kind of the same way that my late grandmother was; noting the colour in my cheeks or the extra weight around my hips as a sign of living a happy and healthy life. It’s something that’s socially acceptable to comment on but in a more neutral, matter-of-fact place rather than a place of judgement.

The change in tone, and when I really took it to heart, happened on a seemingly insignificant day—when I decided to book my first Turkish hammam experience. I knew very little in terms of what to expect; I had only been in Istanbul for a few months and had yet to make any female friends. My Turkish boyfriend told me they scrub you up and down in a communal bath area, kind of like a wet massage. He failed to tell me a few things, though. Like the fact that I’d have to get completely naked in a room full of other naked Turkish ladies.

The thing about Turkish hammam culture is that it’s not supposed to be a luxury experience in the way that, say, spa culture is in North America. The hammam was originally a public bathhouse that served as both a space for Muslims to practice ablution. It also provided a place for general hygiene before indoor plumbing became widespread.

It goes without saying that nobody uses the Turkish hammam in place of a shower these days, but there are still bathhouses on many neighbourhood corners in Istanbul, and it’s considered a more everyday experience than, say, the way we look at Nordic spas or deep-tissue massages in Canada.

On my first visit to the hammam, I arrive a half hour in advance, unsure of what to expect. The front desk attendant checks me in—in Turkish—and offers me a Turkish towel and a pair of slippers and sends me upstairs to the locker room. I strip down to my bra and underwear, cover my body with the towel, and make my way to the waiting area.

Immediately, I feel like a fish out of water as I glance around at the other ladies waiting to be beckoned into the bathing space. Nobody else is wearing a bra. I wonder if I’ve done something wrong. There are ladies of all ages here, and most, if not all, are Turkish. I decide not to ask any questions and instead wait to be ushered into the bathing area.

This is what I mean when I say I don’t have the luxury to indulge in neurosis here: I hear a woman’s voice call my name and I stand to follow her as she brings me straight into a marble-clad bathing area, takes my towel from me, and gestures for me to remove my bra and underwear with a somewhat amused expression on her face.

I don’t have the vocabulary to protest or ask if there’s disposable underwear available—especially right now, as my phone, and with it, Google Translate, are stowed away in my locker—so I do as she says, stripping completely nude in front of her, the other hammam workers, and several other women who are also here for a bath.

My cheeks should be blazing hot, my fair skin giving away my humiliation, but they’re not. I realize that I’m barely embarrassed at all. There are no wellness girlies here taking photos for Instagram. Nobody is even looking in my direction. I am simply one of the dozen women here to enjoy a part of traditional Turkish culture.

It’s a rare occurrence for me to submit to an experience without my mind getting in the way. But lying back and allowing this woman to scrub my body, the hot water flowing over me, knowing that five feet away, a dozen other women are having the same experience, feels sacred and comforting somehow. It’s so tender that I can almost feel my heart breaking. I don’t worry about what this woman might be thinking when she rinses the soap off the loose skin on my stomach or if she’s judging the stretch marks that cover the sides of my hips. Because she’s not.

I let myself revel in a blissful comfort as she lathers shampoo into my hair, scrubbing my scalp with a soft, but thorough, pressure. We can’t communicate with each other aside from a couple of hand gestures and smiles, but the whole experience feels loving, almost maternal.

An hour later, I emerge from the bathhouse with a sense of rejuvenation I’ve never felt from a massage or facial. My skin feels cleaner than I’ve ever felt it, yes, but the meditative experience of having to go with the flow, to follow the lead of the Turkish ladies and just allow myself to be fully exposed, with no place for judgement, felt healing in a way that I could never have expected.

It’s not that I always feel a hundred percent comfortable wearing a bikini that exposes my fleshy stomach and stretch marks—but now I have proof that if I allow myself to get out of my own head, the specific aesthetics of my body is the least interesting part of whatever I’m experiencing, whether that’s a Turkish hammam with a dozen strangers or an impromptu beach day with friends.