Bare

When I arrived at our hotel in Hakone, I exhaled.

Not just because we had made it—but because getting there had already been a lot. The rain had been relentless. The taxi line outside the station barely moved, people slowly giving up and calling Ubers, which I suspected was where all the taxis had gone. The train ride itself had been uneventful, but the second leg—on the small, winding train to Gora—had turned unexpectedly tense, thanks to a passive-aggressive mother determined to secure seats for her children over those of us who had been waiting far longer.

Then there was the luggage. Always the luggage. Too big, too heavy, I was in the way—once again cursing the size of it, justified only by the tripod I needed for my upcoming photography workshop.

So yes—by the time we arrived, I exhaled.

Almost immediately, I softened.

The welcome was quiet. Warm. Intentional. “Here, let me help you.” It wasn’t loud or performative—just calm, steady, and deeply grounding. It set the tone for everything that followed.

Hakone Honbako—honbako meaning “bookcase” in Japanese—felt less like a hotel and more like a retreat. When you entered, you stepped into a space that felt like a quiet, expansive library—wrapped in soft light and warm wood. Three stories of floor-to-ceiling bookshelves filled with books in every language, with small reading nooks tucked throughout that invited you to disappear for a while.

The staff—all women—were dressed simply, almost uniformly. Not styled, not curated. Just… present. It gave the place a feeling I couldn’t quite name at first. Then it clicked.

It felt like a place designed to quiet everything else. Not dramatically. Not forcefully. Just… quietly.

In our rooms, we found soft cotton loungewear—“jammies,” really—that you were encouraged to wear everywhere: to breakfast, to dinner, around the hotel. It made you feel, strangely, like both an inmate and completely at home.

Hakone Honbako – Hakone, Japan

And then there was the onsen.

Before this trip, I’m not sure I had ever really thought about what it meant to share a bath with other people—completely naked. I knew of Japanese baths, of course—there’s even a well-known one in San Francisco near my apartment—but the idea of actually doing it myself felt… uncomfortable. Exposing. Foreign.

Why would I want to do that?

In Japan, it isn’t awkward. It isn’t performative. It’s just… normal. A natural, healthy part of slowing down. Of caring for your body.

You wash first—thoroughly—alongside everyone else doing the same. Then you step into the bath, which isn’t really a bath at all, but a hot spring.

It’s a quiet, shared ritual.

When you sit in it, you feel it immediately—an exhale, a quiet sigh of relief. The warmth settles in, and everything else—the stress, the noise, whatever you’ve been carrying—just… melts away. You understand it.

While I loved the privacy of the onsen in my room, I also tried the public bath downstairs—sitting outside in the rain with my friends, which felt both unfamiliar and strangely easy.

Later, back in my own small outdoor onsen, completely alone, I started thinking about all of it—about what it means to be bare, not just physically, but in every other way.

Baring your body is one thing. That takes a certain kind of courage, especially coming from a culture where it’s often hidden, controlled, or quietly shamed. But what about your life? Your choices? Your truth?

I thought about how long it took me to even begin to see myself clearly. For years, I built a life that made sense on paper—career, stability, predictability. Things that felt safe. Responsible. But not necessarily true.

I don’t even think I bared myself to myself until recently. Admitted that I didn’t actually want the life I had so carefully constructed. Admitted that I was, quietly, deeply unhappy.

It wasn’t until 2023 that I really started to look at it—to question it, to begin slowly stripping things back.

Therapy helped. Travel helped. But even now, I don’t think I’m fully there. There are still parts of me I keep hidden.

Maybe that’s okay.

Not everything needs to be shared. But I do need to see it.

And maybe that’s what Hakone gave me—not just a place to rest, but a space to sit with all of that, to slow down enough to notice what’s there when everything else is removed.

Soaking in the onsen. Wrapped in a robe afterward. Curled under a down comforter before dinner.

Simple, quiet moments. Nothing to perform. Nothing to prove.

Just… being there.

Bare.