I Did This to Myself

Losing 120 Pounds, Gaining It Back, and Fighting the Part of Me That’s Afraid to Try Again

AI image created by the author

People love to pretend fat is a moral failure. Like your waistline is a résumé. Like your body is a report card and everybody else gets to grade it. But here’s the part nobody on the outside ever sees. Nobody is meaner to an overweight person than the overweight person.

I don’t need strangers to shame me. I do it in my head, on a loop, every time I catch my reflection in a window or a mirror I didn’t plan to look into. I know exactly what I look like. I don’t need commentary.

I was 313 pounds at my heaviest. I got down to 193 in 2021. That didn’t happen by accident. That didn’t happen because of “good genes” or magic water or some influencer shaking a bottle at the camera. It happened because I showed up, over and over, when it sucked. I ate better. I moved more. I said no when it would have been easier to say yes.

Completing St. Anthony’s Triathlon at 285 pound in 2014

After losing 100+ pounds in 2020–2021, and feeling great about it, especially during COVID when everyone else was gaining weight.

And now I’m back at 270.

That didn’t happen by accident either.

This part is uncomfortable, but it’s mine. It’s not the food industry’s fault. It’s not my age. It’s not my metabolism throwing a tantrum. It’s not society. It’s me. I made choices. I stopped making others. I let things slide. Then I let them slide again. Then I pretended not to notice while my jeans quietly called for backup.

The hardest part is not the weight. It’s the knowing.

I know how to fix this. I’ve done it before. I know what works for me. I know what doesn’t. I know how to eat. I know how to train. I know how to build habits that don’t rely on motivation, because motivation is a flaky liar who shows up drunk and leaves early.

And yet, here I am, standing in front of a mirror I don’t like, wearing a body that feels like a bad rerun.

People think the hardest part is starting. It’s not. The hardest part is starting when you already know what it takes. When you know the work. When you know the boredom. When you know the long middle where nothing exciting happens except you not quitting.

It’s starting again, even though you've already proved you could do it.

Because now failure feels personal. You can’t hide behind ignorance. You can’t say “I didn’t know better.” You knew better. You just didn’t do it.

That eats at you.

Mentally, it’s exhausting. Every choice feels loaded. Every meal feels like a small moral trial. Every skipped workout feels like evidence being added to a case against you. You start bargaining with yourself. Tomorrow. Next week. After this trip. After this stress dies down. After this, after that, after everything except now.

Emotionally, it’s heavy. You don’t just carry fat. You carry disappointment. You carry shame. You carry that quiet voice that says, You already screwed this up once. What makes you think you won’t again?

Physically, it’s not just about being tired. It’s about joints that complain. Sleep that isn’t as clean. Energy that doesn’t show up when you ask for it. Clothes that feel like they’re judging you. Stairs that suddenly have opinions.

And the mirror. God, the mirror.

I hate what I see in it. Not because it’s ugly. Because it feels like a broken promise. A promise I made to myself and then quietly stopped keeping.

People think self-hate is dramatic. It’s not loud. It’s not some big emotional explosion. It’s quiet. It’s steady. It’s you knowing you deserve better and still not giving it to yourself.

The weirdest part is this. I don’t think I’m weak. I don’t think I’m lazy. I don’t think I’m stupid. I’ve done hard things. I’ve survived things that should have broken me. I’ve built things from nothing. I know I’m capable.

So why am I stuck?

Because sometimes the thing stopping you isn’t ignorance or laziness. Sometimes it’s fear. Not of failing, but of succeeding again and then losing it again. Fear of hoping. Fear of caring. Fear of putting your heart back into something that already disappointed you.

It’s safer, in a twisted way, to stay where you are. Miserable, but familiar. Unhappy, but predictable.

Changing means risk. It means trying. It means believing you’re worth the effort again.

That’s the real fight. Not calories. Not workouts. Not macros. Not step counts.

It’s deciding that you’re worth showing up for, even when you don’t like what you see right now.

I know how to fix my body. That part is easy on paper.

The harder part is fixing the part of me that’s tired of starting over.

But here’s the truth I can’t dodge forever. Not changing is also a choice. And it has a cost. It just charges you slowly so you don’t notice until you’re deep in debt.

I don’t need anyone else to shame me. I don’t need anyone else to motivate me. I don’t need anyone else to fix me.

What I need is to stop hiding from the mirror and stop pretending I don’t recognize the man in it.

Because I do.

And he deserves better than excuses dressed up as patience.

He deserves effort, even if it’s messy. He deserves another try, even if it scares him. He deserves the same loyalty he gives to everyone else.

This didn’t happen on its own. It’s my fault.

Which means fixing it is also mine.