THE WEIGHT I CARRY

I recently read an online magazine piece about a man wrestling with his body image. What stayed with me wasn’t just his vulnerability, but the tidal wave of comments that followed, a ten‑to‑one ratio of shaming, unsolicited diet advice and thinly veiled cruelty.   It reminded me how quickly society tears down anyone who dares to speak openly about their insecurities.  Then, when the person is a man, the silence around these struggles becomes even heavier.  Men often learn early that vulnerability is a liability, not a language.

The author further wrote that as we men age, we become more like our wild‑animal counterparts, less likely to engage in intentional conversations, especially about the tender places we guard.  I’d go further: for reasons I still don’t fully understand, many men don’t cultivate long‑term friendships with other men.  We don’t build new relationships easily and we rarely sustain them over time.  These patterns fray the fabric of our emotional lives and as we grow older, the threads only loosen.  Loneliness becomes a quiet companion; one we rarely acknowledge out loud.

Research shows men are more susceptible to isolation than women.  These are often early markers of depression and when left unaddressed, they spiral, deepening insecurities, shrinking our social circles and reinforcing the belief that we must carry our burdens alone.  Women, despite stereotypes of “catty” behavior, tend to maintain stronger communication networks and live longer as a result.  Men, meanwhile, often retreat into silence, convinced that emotional independence is the same as showing strength.

As I continued reading the article, I realized the author wasn’t saying it’s “okay to be fat.” He was saying it’s okay to be himself.  Its okay to stop measuring his worth against an impossible standard.  That hit home.  Only recently have I become comfortable being the “fat kid” on the playground of life, a role I’ve carried since childhood.

I remember the hierarchy clearly.  The boys with the brand‑name clothes, perfect haircuts, and effortless confidence.  The ones who could make any girl melt with a glance and command the loyalty of every boy in their orbit.  They were chosen first for kickball teams, for the prime lunch tables and first choice for dates for school dances.  The rest of us learned to build ourselves up just to feel worthy of being second choice, or worse face rejection with, no choice at all.

Those early experiences leave marks.  In one of my earlier posts, almost five years to this post, Seeing Myself Through Carnival Mirrors, I wrote about being fat‑shamed throughout middle school and to a lesser extent, high school.  The damage doesn’t vanish with age.  It just settles into the corners of our minds and shapes how we move through the world.  It shows up when we consider asking someone out, when we walk into a gym, when we choose a salad we don’t want because we fear judgment.  Even now, those old insecurities whisper, though not as loudly as they once did.

What people rarely understand is how these childhood experiences become adult habits. The hesitation before entering a room.  The instinct to shrink yourself.  The quiet calculation of whether your presence is welcome.  These aren’t dramatic moments, they’re subtle, daily negotiations with the past.  Over time, they accumulate. They become part of the additional weight we carry.

My own turning point came fifteen years into my YMCA career.  Despite having a complimentary membership, I never stepped foot into the wellness center.  I told myself I was too busy, too tired, too uninterested.  Yet, the truth was simpler: I didn’t want to be seen.  Eventually, needing a healthier outlet than food, sleep, or isolation to the stress I was facing.  I eventually took the bold step and entered the wellness center and introduced myself to a personal trainer.  That first workout was not just humbling but terrifying.  It was also the beginning of reclaiming my relationship with my mind and body.

Here it is many years later, I still work out three to five days a week . Three times with a trainer, the rest on my own with a mix of cardio and weight training.  I’ve accepted that I’ll never be the guy with a 32‑inch waist fitting a pair of pants perfectly or wearing a tight t-shirt showing off sculpted abs.  My body isn’t built for that.  But it is built for movement, for strength, for health and for showing up.  The hardest part of any workout is just showing up.  My workouts help me stay grounded, balanced and remain comfortable in my own skin.  They remind me that health is more than appearance.  It’s mental steadiness, emotional resilience and the quiet pride of knowing my quarterly bloodwork remains in the green, healthy, acceptable range.  

But acceptance isn’t a finish line.  It’s a practice.  Some days I feel confident; other days I feel like the kid waiting to be picked last for kickball.  Growth doesn’t erase the past, it simply gives you more room to breathe around it.

I digress — this began as a reflection on the author’s article, not a confession of my own journey.  But his courage opened a door, and I walked through it.  I hope others will too.

If you’re someone who has never faced these challenges, pause before posting that cutting comment or making that offhand remark.  You may have forgotten how fortunate you are to be blessed with genetics, discipline, or confidence that others fight daily to cultivate.  Not everyone wakes up feeling comfortable in their skin.  Not everyone walks into a gym without fear.  Not everyone orders a meal without calculating how others might interpret it.

When you see me enjoying a meal with my friends or sweating on the elliptical beside you, you won’t know the history I carry.  From the childhood shame, the teenage  bullying and the adult insecurities or the ongoing battles and the quiet victories I’ve overcome.  You won’t know the weight I’ve carried or the weight I’m still learning to set down.

So, here’s my challenge to my relationship circles and to anyone reading this.  When you see someone struggling internally offer friendship instead of judgment.  Listen before you assume.  You may discover you share more than you think.  You may even find that your own story feels lighter when spoken aloud.

But maybe, if we all take a moment to look beyond appearances, we’ll realize something simple.  The simple fact is there is a real person somewhere buried and hidden behind the physical appearances they may have not learned to accept.  One with feelings, emotions and possibly many shared interests as you waiting for a friend to accept them for who they are.  

Its than I realize its not only about the weight I carry but how some of us would rather have a fat head than a thin mind.