This website uses cookies to ensure that you have the best possible experience when visiting the website. View our privacy policy for more information about this. To accept the use of non-essential cookies, please click "I agree"
My weight loss story that had nothing to do with weight—and everything to do with me.
I once stepped on a scale and it didn’t give me a number.
It gave me a decision.
“ERROR.” Or more accurately, “ERR”—because the LED display didn’t have the capacity for my situation.
Not “try again.” Not “low battery.”
Just a hard, unapologetic: “No.”
At my heaviest, I estimate I was somewhere around 625 pounds. The scale tapped out at 550 and decided it had boundaries.
Honestly, fair.
Let’s paint the picture properly.
56-inch waist.
5XL shirts (optimistically labelled).
Cardio consisted of thinking about walking.
I was stress eating while staying in a relationship that I knew, deep down, wasn’t right for me.
I wasn’t just overweight. I was strategically avoiding full-length mirrors.
And then, like most memorable life lessons, it came from a stranger on a dating app.
A modern-day poet. A philosopher of our time.
He said: “You seem like a great guy… but call me when you’re 180.”
I thought that comment would motivate me. It didn’t. It just gave my shame a target.
Now, there are a lot of ways to respond to that.
Growth.
Maturity.
Self-awareness.
What I chose instead was internalizing it like it was part of the Ten Commandments.
For years, that number—180—lived in my head like a toxic little project manager.
“Not there yet.”
“Still not good enough.”
“Maybe next time.”
And here’s the part I didn’t understand at the time.
I didn’t fail because I lacked discipline. I failed because I believed I wasn’t enough yet.
People love to say, “You just need more discipline.”
No.
What you actually need is to stop believing a story that quietly says, “You’re only worthy when…”
Because that story will have you eating a salad at lunch and your feelings at 10pm. And convincing yourself that tomorrow will be different—like you haven’t said that exact sentence 200 times already.
The number was never the problem.
Let me be clear.
That version of me wasn’t broken.
He was brilliant.
He found a way to cope.
To function.
To survive the comments, the jokes, the looks, and the “helpful” opinions about everything I ate.
To exist in a world that doesn’t exactly hand out participation ribbons for being 600+ pounds.
Food wasn’t the problem. It was the strategy. Just not one that aged well.
Fast forward.
Today, I’m 181 pounds. One pound away from that original number. The one that was supposed to fix everything.
And here’s the twist no one tells you.
It doesn’t feel like victory.
It feels like I finally stopped negotiating with a version of myself that was never going to approve me anyway.
Because somewhere along the way, something actually changed.
Not the weight.
The relationship with myself.
It wasn’t a rock-bottom moment. It wasn’t a doctor yelling at me—although one did, and it landed exactly as intended.
It wasn’t a montage with inspirational quotes.
It was quieter than that.
I stopped trying to hate myself into change.
And started understanding myself into it.
I got curious.
Why am I eating right now? What am I avoiding? What story am I running on autopilot?
Turns out, when you stop yelling at yourself long enough, you can actually hear the answer.
Let’s clear something up.
I didn’t leave that version of me behind.
I brought him with me.
Because that version of me is the reason I know what doesn’t work. He’s the reason I can spot my own bullshit instantly. He’s the reason I don’t panic when things get uncomfortable.
He’s what happens when you survive without understanding yourself.
He’s not my past.
He’s my proof of concept.
He’s the reason I made it here.
I used to think hitting 180 would feel like winning.
Confetti. Applause. A choir of angels singing, “You’re finally worthy.”
Reality?
It feels normal. And as it should.
Because the real win wasn’t the number.
It was no longer needing the number to feel okay.
If you’re reading this thinking, “Yeah, but…”
Good. That means you’re human.
Let me save you some time.
You don’t need to hate yourself into becoming better.
That’s a terrible long-term strategy with excellent short-term burnout.
What actually works?
Awareness.
Honesty.
And a willingness to call your own bluff.
Repeated more times than you’d like.
The number was never the problem.
You’re not one number away from being enough.
You never were.
You just might be one honest conversation away from changing everything.
And if I do hit 180?
I still won’t call him. Don't even remember who he is or was...
