Grant - 39
For most of my life, I’ve associated food with shame.
It started in elementary school. Kids would call me “fat” and criticize what I was eating for lunch. Looking back, I wasn’t overtly fat, just a little overweight. I internalized their comments to mean there was something wrong with me. During recess and lunch, I would eat as fast as I could, sometimes alone in the cloak room, so no one could see me. To this day, people comment on how fast I eat, and I wish they wouldn’t. It’s not something I do consciously. It’s a defense mechanism to shield myself from shame.
During high school, I started working in a warehouse. I became lean, muscular, and weighed 230 pounds. Throughout my twenties, I had a healthier relationship with food and managed to lose 50 pounds. Despite being physically fit, my mind carried a heavy mental burden, which affected my social life and made things such as dating impossible.
At 26, I was diagnosed with an illness that required medication which came with side effects including raising blood glucose levels, cholesterol, and altering my hormones leaving me never feeling full. I went from weighing 180 pounds to 380 pounds in a year and a half which led to metabolic syndrome.
At 380 pounds, life was hard, my weight affected many facets of my daily existence. Clothes cost more, walking even 100 meters was a challenge, fitting into booths at restaurants was nearly impossible. My weight was impacting my work because I had undiagnosed sleep apnea, and I developed asthma. The cost of food skyrocketed. At my heaviest, I was spending over $2,000 a month just to eat.
Social stigma is prevalent when you are obese, people often assume it’s a choice, but it’s not; it’s multi-dimensional. There are socio-economic factors, genetics, relationship status and various other influences. I was in a doctor’s office when a woman, frustrated that she couldn’t secure an appointment, stormed out and said, “What are you looking at, fatty?” I felt small. I wanted to hide. Is that how strangers saw me? I remember feeling deeply ashamed by that woman’s comments. That time, I cried.
At 29, after reaching 395 pounds and desperate to lose weight, I joined an Aquafit class where I was the only male participant, and at least ten years younger than anyone else. I felt a lot of resistance going to those classes but stuck with them and after one year, I lost enough weight to start running.
After having lost 155 pounds I decided to start dating. I asked my best friend if she wanted to go out with me and she said “Yes.” Life was good for a while. I remember her saying, “You think you’re still big, but you’re not. Stop acting like it.” To be honest, I didn’t know how not to, I was still suffering from years of deep-seated shame. During this time, and because I was still on medication, I regained 30 pounds. My partner suggested I stop, that I was no longer the same person I was when I started them. I thought to myself, “She may be right, but she’s not a doctor.” I knew the relationship was over when she bluntly stated, “I was never physically attracted to you.” That shame from childhood resurfaced in an instant. Her words were crushing, I longed for a relationship with someone who did in fact, find me attractive.
After experiencing knee pain, a doctor told me, “Your knees hurt because you are fat; there’s nothing I can do.” His words were a punch in the gut, leaving me both angry and hopeless. Seeking a solution, I visited a physiotherapist for orthotics, and within weeks, my pain began to fade, reigniting hope and allowing me to resume running.
That experience of receiving genuine care from the physiotherapist left me on a mission to seek out a doctor who would treat me with the same compassion. After a dozen meet-and-greets I finally found a physician who would listen and immediately began trialing new medications.
After two and a half years of challenges and multiple hospital stays, I found a medication that would work better than the first. I also found myself at my heaviest. 410 pounds. It felt like I was starting over, both mentally and physically. That familiar shame enveloped me, a constant reminder of my struggles and the battle I was seemingly losing. I felt trapped in a body that didn’t reflect my worth, wrestling with feelings of inadequacy. How did I get here? Unlovable, confused, humiliated, embarrassed, disgraced. I knew I couldn’t stay here forever.
What I later came to understand about obesity is that it’s a chronic condition. When you lose weight, your fat cells shrink but don’t disappear. Your body instinctively resists change, wanting to return to its maximum weight, leaving many like me caught in a loop of frustration and despair.
Today, I weigh 250 pounds and have maintained a +/- 10-pound range for the past year. While this isn’t my ideal weight, I can now do things I never dreamed possible four years ago. I can hike a 1,200-meter ascent, walk over 20 kilometers in a day, fit comfortably in roller coasters, and even sit in a folding chair.
Do I still feel shame? Sometimes, yes. I still catch myself eating too fast, and I still get discouraged when the scale shows a few extra pounds. Despite all that, most people wouldn’t know what I’ve been through, my body no longer shows the signs of severe morbid obesity. But the memories and emotions stay with me. My condition constantly reminds me that I’m different. Whether it’s blood tests, dietitians, weight-loss education groups, doctor appointments, or the meticulous planning and preparation of my meals. Yet none of these daily struggles compare to the deep pain I felt when I was slowly destroying myself and felt utterly powerless to stop.
Today, while I may still encounter biological challenges, I know I’m no longer powerless. I can adjust my behavior and make choices that align with my goals. I feel liberated—not only from helplessness but also from the chains of obesity and the prison my mind once was. Now, I’m embracing the life I choose.
Music - Grant's music choices during our photo session included Tom Walker, Hvetter, Nils Frahm and Ludovico Einaudi.
