When planning my trip to Japan, I wasn’t quite sure whether to include a visit to an onsen. I was fascinated by the culture, but a little hesitant about the custom of communal bathing. Curiosity and apprehension swirled together—until I finally decided to take the plunge. In the end, that moment became one of the most deeply relaxing experiences of my journey.

The onsen I visited was tucked away in the mountains, a quiet and welcoming ryokan. From the gentle smiles at the entrance, to the scent of tatami in the hallways, and the distant sound of flowing hot spring water—everything felt like a doorway to a world completely apart from daily life. After checking in and changing into a yukata, I made my way to the large communal bath. One deep breath in the empty dressing room, and then I stepped slowly toward the mist.

At first, I felt nervous—shedding my clothes and stepping into an unfamiliar space. But the moment I sat at the washing station and then lowered myself into the warm water, all my unease dissolved. The soft texture of the water, the gentle warmth that spread to the core of my body—it was as if the onsen itself understood my hesitation and embraced me with quiet comfort.

Just sitting in the water, my breathing naturally deepened. My shoulders relaxed. With eyes closed, the steamy world around me faded into a stillness filled with only the sound of water and rustling trees. Even the distant murmur of voices and soft laughter blended harmoniously into the atmosphere. It was a gentle time where no words were needed.

Each onsen has its own type of water—some are clear, others milky white with sulfur, or even brown with iron. The texture, scent, and post-bath feeling all vary depending on the spring. The one I entered that day was clear, but I could feel how my skin became smooth and my fatigue melted away. It was as if I had been gently washed clean, both inside and out.

After soaking in the hot spring, I treated myself to a cold bottle of milk. The taste—chilled, simple, perfect—was beyond words. One cool sip against my warm body made me smile without thinking. As I dried my hair in the dressing room and caught a glance in the mirror, my cheeks were gently flushed and my expression quietly joyful.

But the charm of a traditional onsen inn is not just about the bath. It’s in the stillness of the building, the darkness of the corridors at night, the crisp clarity of the morning air. It’s in the delicate Japanese meals, the softness of the futon, the view of a tiny garden through sliding shoji doors. Every detail quietly helps realign the soul. Though it feels far from the everyday, it’s also strangely familiar—like coming home to a place you’ve never been.

The next morning, I took one last soak before departure. Morning onsen has a completely different feeling—light slowly returning to the sky, warm water welcoming you into the day. The contrast between the chilly morning air and the gentle heat of the spring wrapped around me, lingering like a soft memory as I prepared to leave.

An onsen isn’t just a place to wash the body. It’s a space where you gently unravel yourself. At first, it takes courage—to be bare in a new place, to surrender your body to the water. But just beyond that hesitation waits a profound, enveloping sense of peace.

When I return to Japan, I know I’ll seek out another onsen. I want to once again lose myself in the steam—and find myself there, too. The onsen isn’t just a reward during travel; it’s an act of self-kindness, a deep breath for the heart.