The Day My Boobs Got Sunburned

(and My Soul Ascended)

There comes a time in every woman’s life when she makes a choice—conscious or not—that results in her standing in front of a mirror, bare-chested, whispering to her own boobs, “What have we done?”

My moment came on a sunny Tuesday. I was 37, confident, slightly tipsy on hard kombucha, and armed with what I believed was “enough sunscreen.” (Narrator: It was not.) I was lying on my back, topless on a pink-striped towel, feeling like the queen of skin liberation. The sun was shining. The birds were singing. My boobs were out, happy, carefree, practically clapping in celebration.

Cut to six hours later. I was lying in my bathtub with a bag of frozen peas on my chest, whimpering like a Victorian widow, texting Tanya, “I think I fried my nips into pepperoni.” She responded, “Pics or it didn’t happen.”

Welcome to the day my boobs got sunburned—and my soul, dignity, and top layers of epidermis ascended into the stratosphere.

This book is not just a cautionary tale. It’s a journey. A nipple-centric memoir of foolish confidence, naked ambition, and third-degree emotional damage. It’s about one woman’s fiery foray into topless living, how she failed spectacularly, and why she still—despite it all—refuses to put her damn bra back on.

Because here’s the truth: going topless is freedom. Sun on your skin? Divine. Breeze under the boobs? Life-changing. But the sun is a fickle bitch. One moment, she’s blessing you with that goddess glow. The next, she’s cooking your areolas like fajita meat on a cast iron skillet.

And nobody talks about this. Nobody warns you. There are entire forums on waxing etiquette, body positivity, what snacks to bring to the nude beach, but not one article titled, “What to Do When Your Boobs Are Redder Than Your Wine.”

That’s why I’m here.

I’m Kristin. I’ve lived nude, loved nude, cried nude, and now—been burned nude. And I’m not gatekeeping the pain, the laughter, or the genius life hacks I’ve learned from applying aloe with a silicone pastry brush.

So whether you’re a seasoned sunbather or a newbie looking to let your chesticles feel the morning dew, this one’s for you. We’ll laugh. We’ll cringe. We’ll apply SPF with the reverence it deserves.

Because the day my boobs got sunburned, something changed in me.

My boobs descended. But I? I ascended.