Moms, gather round. I need to tell you about the moment I basically shed my entire past life and emerged a new woman in a cloud of steam, eucalyptus, and what I can only assume was half a pound of my own dead skin.
In other words: I got a Korean body scrub. And I need you to ask for one for Christmas.
This all started when I had a work trip last month. When I travel for work, I don’t “stroll” through a city. I ruck through it. I’m hauling my laptop, camera, tripod, hard drives, cords, batteries and whatever else my job as a videojournalist requires. By the time I got home I felt like a sherpa who lost her mountain. I was sore. I was grimy. I was tired of being the pack mule of my own career.
And I kept seeing those “I got a Korean body scrub and my soul left my body” videos online. So I did it. And since we’re friends, I’m going to walk you through the entire thing especially the nudity part because I know that’s where some of us get stuck.
I went to Spa World in Katy, which is not an endorsement, just the place I chose. There are several good options around Houston. You book online. You pay admission (about $45) then pay for the services you want. I picked a one-hour body scrub and a one-hour massage because if I’m going to be vulnerable, I might as well go all in.
Here’s where it got real. You walk in, remove your shoes, lock them away, and that locker number becomes your identity. They hand you a towel and a little uniform, then guide you into the women’s locker room where you change into your birthday suit. I’m just going to say it: yes, everyone is naked. No, no one cares. And if you were a teen girl in the late ’90s or early ’00s, I know that body shame runs deep. I get it. I’m 43 and still unlearning a lot of it.
But I kept going.
You shower first so you’re not dragging the outside world into the shared pools. Then you’re supposed to soak for at least 15 minutes before your scrub. I had arrived early, so I ended up with 30 minutes of hot pool, cold pool, sauna, and a whole lot of trying not to make eye contact with anyone. Thirty minutes of no phone. Thirty minutes of just me, humidity, and my thoughts.
And honestly? It was kind of blissful. My brain started working again. I made mental to-do lists. I solved at least three life problems. I remembered what it felt like to not be needed every second of the day.
Then I heard it: “Forty-eight.”
That was me. Locker 48. The woman leading me to my scrub station was about to change my life.
I went behind a partition, laid face down on a table, and surrendered. This woman scrubbed my back, my arms, my legs, my front, my sides, places I didn’t even know could be exfoliated. There was a head massage. A neck massage. A milk bath. And every so often, she would rinse the table and I would see … things. Flakes. Piles. Evidence that I have lived a solid 43 years.
Halfway through, she told me to get up and rinse off. And let me tell you … whatever body shame I walked in with had been scrubbed, rinsed, and drained away. It’s wild how quickly “Oh, no, I’m naked” becomes “Well, in for a penny.”
Afterward, she guided me to the locker room to change into my uniform so I could walk to the massage area, which is coed. The massage was lovely. But the scrub? The scrub is what shifted something in my soul. I walked out feeling soft and clean and bizarrely light, like someone had hit a reset button on my entire physical being.
I told my partner the second I got home: this is now a twice-a-year non-negotiable. Put it on the calendar. Budget for it. Whatever needs to happen, make it happen.
That’s why I’m telling you to put this on your Christmas list. Not because it’s trendy. Not because it makes your skin feel like it belongs to a very moisturized baby seal. But because carving out that much intentional care for yourself is transformational.
And, look, maybe a body scrub isn’t your thing. Maybe you’d rather get a massage or a scalp massage or a facial. That’s fine. The point is this: in a season when moms are doing the most for everyone else, do something luxurious and generous for yourself.
Or better yet, go let someone scrub off the literal weight of motherhood.
You deserve it.
