Clothes? Can’t Afford ’Em

[Danielle]

My name’s Marisol Vega. I’m nineteen, a scholarship student, and yes—I go to class completely naked. Not just at home, not just in the privacy of a dorm room. I wake up, roll out of bed, throw my bookbag over my shoulder, and walk out the door with nothing but skin between me and the world. It turns heads. It always does. And I don’t care.

I ride the first bus into the city before the sun even rises. I’ve got textbooks weighing down my back, a bottle of water in one hand, and not a stitch of clothing on me. The regulars are used to it by now—some smirk, some look away, but nobody dares say a word. You earn a certain kind of respect when you’re this comfortable with yourself.

Why do I do it? Because I’m not going into debt for a degree, that’s why. I’m here on a full ride from The Council for Casual Nakedness—a real organization that awards scholarships to students willing to ditch their clothes and live publicly nude as a lifestyle. Some people think it’s a stunt. But for me? It’s freedom, it’s power, and yeah, it pays the tuition.

I grew up in a house where money was always tight and clothes were always too big. My mom bought everything secondhand, and my brother's old jeans were my school uniform. Girls used to tease me for dressing like a scarecrow, like I didn’t know how to be feminine. But they didn’t get it—I wasn’t afraid to be seen. I was just waiting for a world that was ready for me.

That world cracked open the summer I visited my cousins in California. They lived near a clothing-optional beach, and I’ll never forget the first time I stepped onto that sand. I was wrapped up tight in a towel, sweating and self-conscious. My cousin Sofia just peeled her bikini off in one fluid motion and ran into the water like it was the most natural thing in the world. I asked her if it ever felt weird to be naked around so many people. She just laughed. “Modesty,” she said, “is a lie we tell ourselves because we’re scared of how powerful we are when we’re not hiding.”

That moment changed everything. From that point on, I wasn’t afraid of being looked at. I started to feel wrong when I was clothed, like I was pretending to be someone I wasn’t.

Back at school, that energy followed me into the drama department. I was in every play I could get into—and out of, costume-wise. Mr. Leland, our drama director, didn’t flinch the first time I suggested doing a role in the nude. He just nodded and said, “If you can handle it, so can the audience.” From then on, it became my signature.

I played spirits, muses, rebels, women who refused to conform. Sometimes the plays called for nudity. Other times, we rewrote them. The other actors used to get awkward—at first. They’d fumble their lines or avoid eye contact during rehearsals. But Mr. Leland didn’t tolerate any of that. “She’s not the one with the problem,” he’d say. “You are.”

When I was on stage, fully nude under the spotlight, there was nothing to hide behind—no costumes, no armor. Just me, breathing, alive, honest. And the audience couldn’t look away.

Now I live that same way every day. College campus? Yep. Lecture halls? Naked. Cafeteria? Naked. Group projects, study lounges, coffee runs? All naked. People react how they’re going to react. Some stare, some blush, some whisper. But most get used to it fast. Because I walk through those halls like I belong there—because I do.

This isn’t a phase. This is my life. I’m not doing it for the shock, or the attention, or even just the money. I’m doing it because I believe in it. Nudity isn’t shameful. It’s the truth. I’d rather be naked and seen than clothed and invisible.

So yeah—my name’s Marisol. I’m nineteen. I don’t wear clothes, and I’m graduating with zero debt. Try and top that.

End for now