A Dads perspective on naturism at home

Raising a family is many things: noisy, chaotic, heart-expanding, sleep-depriving, fridge-emptying. Raising a naturist family with three kids? It’s… exactly the same.

Yes, really.

From the outside, people sometimes imagine that a naturist household runs like a woodland retreat somewhere between a yoga advert and a documentary narrated by David Attenborough. In reality, it’s far closer to a wildlife documentary about sibling rivalry narrated by someone slightly more exasperated.

Let me explain.

The Myth vs The Milk Bottle

Take this morning.

I opened the fridge to make a cup of tea and found — once again — the empty milk bottle placed lovingly back on the shelf. Lid on. Dignified. Useless.

Three children. Zero milk. One betrayed father.

Naturism, I can confirm, does not prevent this.

Nor does it prevent the mysterious disappearance of toilet rolls, the geological layers of cereal crumbs on the kitchen counter, or the strange teenage communication method known only as “caveman grunt”.

“Did you feed the dog?”

“Ugh.”

“Is that a yes?”

“Mm.”

“Is that an ‘mm yes’ or an ‘mm why are you talking to me’?”

Grunt. Door closes.

You see? Entirely normal.

Life Goes On (Mostly Unclothed)

The truth is, raising a naturist family is much the same as raising any other family. Homework still needs doing. PE kits are still forgotten. Someone still insists they have nothing to wear while standing in front of a wardrobe containing 73 hoodies.

In our home, nudity simply isn’t a big deal. It’s background noise — like the hum of the boiler or the sound of someone arguing over who finished the biscuits.

We don’t sit around discussing it. We don’t analyse it. It’s not a philosophy lecture at breakfast. It’s just… normal.

The kids grew up with it, so it carries no shock value. It’s not rebellious. It’s not dramatic. It’s not something that needs constant commentary. It’s simply a practical and comfortable way to be at home.

And then someone shouts, “WHO LEFT THE WET TOWEL ON MY BED?”

Civilisation collapses. Again.

The Only Real Difference

If there is a difference, it’s this:

We are very mindful of others.

If friends are coming round, everyone gets notice.

Proper notice.

Clear notice.

Repeated notice.

“Right, just so we’re clear — Tom is coming over at 4.”

Cue the house shifting into what I call “textile mode.”

It’s not about shame. It’s about respect.

Not everyone feels the same way about nudity. Some people are relaxed. Some aren’t. That’s fine. The key is consideration.

In fact, I’d argue that raising kids in a naturist household makes you more aware of other people’s comfort zones. We talk about context. We talk about boundaries. We talk about reading the room.

Little ones? Easy. They don’t care. They’re too busy building Lego fortresses or painting the dog with yoghurt.

Teenagers? Ah.

That’s when opinions arrive.

Suddenly there are social dynamics, peer awareness, image concerns. And that’s healthy. So we check in. We remind. We respect their autonomy.

“Are you comfortable with this?”

“Do you want privacy?”

“Shall we make sure everything’s sorted before your mate arrives?”

It becomes less about nudity and more about communication — which, frankly, every family could use more of.

The Teenage Years: Still Dramatic

Let me be clear: naturism does not reduce teenage drama.

There are still slammed doors.

Still mysterious moods.

Still passionate declarations that life is unfair because the Wi-Fi “lags for literally one second”.

But something interesting happens.

Because bodies aren’t hidden or turned into taboo objects at home, there’s less awkwardness around body changes. Less secrecy. Less shame. It doesn’t mean there are no insecurities — teenagers invent those at Olympic level — but there’s a foundation of normality.

A body is just a body.

It grows.

It changes.

It exists.

And then it stomps downstairs demanding snacks.

The Conversations That Matter

What we do talk about — gently, naturally — is respect.

Respect for self.

Respect for others.

Respect for context.

Being naturist doesn’t mean being oblivious. Quite the opposite. You become very tuned in to situations. Who’s around. How they feel. Whether something might make someone uncomfortable.

That awareness carries over into everything else — friendships, relationships, consent, communication.

If anything, that’s the quiet gift of it all.

Cavemen, Chaos and Connection

Some evenings, I’ll sit in the garden as the sun drops behind the fence. One child is kicking a ball. One is arguing about screen time. One is making strange prehistoric noises that I’m told are “just vibing.”

And I think: this is just family life.

There’s laughter.

There’s frustration.

There’s noise.

There’s love.

Raising a naturist family isn’t radical. It isn’t theatrical. It isn’t something we announce at parents’ evening.

It’s simply raising three kids who still forget to replace the toilet roll.

Three kids who roll their eyes at dad jokes.

Three kids who, clothed or unclothed, are navigating the messy business of growing up.

And me?

I’m just a dad trying to find the milk.

In the end, naturism isn’t the headline in our home.

Family is.

And like any family, we muddle through with humour, reminders, open conversations — and the occasional caveman grunt echoing down the hallway.

Which, I suspect, is entirely natural.