As a kid, I was healthy and active. I played baseball, ran all around my Chicago neighborhood, and rode my bike regularly.
But in my junior year of high school, I fell in love with a girl. She wasn’t active, and most of her meals were deep-fried and fast foods. I soon adopted her ways of eating, and stopped exercising. In a year, I went from weighing 170 to more than 215 pounds.
Long story short, my girlfriend got pregnant and gave birth when I was 17. And when I found out she had been cheating on me the entire time, and that the child I had raised for a year wasn’t mine, my health plummeted.
I started to stuff my face not because I was hungry but because I was sad and angry. I was miserable and didn’t value my life anymore.
I drank two liters of soda a day. I ate fast food for breakfast, lunch, and dinner, not caring at all about the consequences. I thought exercise was a joke, and it got to a point where I’d get winded just tying my shoes. Weight loss wasn’t even on my radar.
At 5-foot-8, I was rapidly approaching 230 pounds. I didn’t realize that I was slowly killing myself.