Walk with me down memory lane real quick, fam.

It’s 2005.

I’m in college trying to figure out this shit called life.

Life isn’t bad at all, though. I’m doing pretty good in school, working while I’m in college, and dating this lil cute thang.

Me and “Cute Ting” decide to go to Knott’s Berry Farm.

Fun date.

For those unfamiliar with Southern California, Knott’s Berry Farm is an amusement park. Rides, games, shows, food—the whole thing.

At the time, I was probably around 285 pounds.

See, I was always a BIG BOY.

Hefty.

Chubby.

Or that special category they used to give kids like me:

Husky.

“Fat boy” used to offend me.

But if I’m being real, that’s what I called myself in my own head.

Fat Boy.

So Fat Boy and Cute Ting are walking around Knott’s, riding rides, enjoying ourselves and, of course, snacking as we go.

Well…

I’m snacking as we go.

I’m a certified Candy Head.

Crazy sweet tooth.

So I probably had some Sour Punch. Maybe Twizzlers. Might’ve grabbed a funnel cake. Possibly an Icee.

Hey.

Fat Boy's gotta eat. 🤷🏾‍♂️

Eventually, we come across a ride I had been on plenty of times growing up:

Xcelerator.

I can close my eyes right now and transport myself back to that line.

It was 4:17 p.m. on a perfectly weathered October Wednesday.

Finally, it’s our turn.

Ladies first, because Ima gentleman.

Cute Ting gets in, straps herself down and waits for the attendant to check her restraints.

I do the same.

Safety belts checked.

Everybody ready.

Let’s go!

Except…

The ride doesn’t move.

Something is wrong.

Hmm.

What the fuck could it be?

Then I notice the ride attendant is standing over me again.

😅

He looks toward the ride controller and yells:

“HEY JOE! IT’S THIS SEAT RIGHT HERE!”

And points directly at me.

😬

Now, yes, it was a Wednesday.

But for whatever reason, Knott’s was packed.

Everybody already sitting on the ride is annoyed because we haven’t left.

Everybody waiting in line wants to know what the delay is.

And now…

Everybody is looking at me.

😨

The attendant says:

“I’m sorry, sir, but you don’t fit on this ride. It’s a safety concern.”

I immediately respond:

“No problem!”

Unbuckle.

Get me quickly get the hell outta here.

I’m not sure if what I remember next literally happened this way, but this is how the memory lives in my head:

Everything stopped.

The rides.

The screaming.

The laughing.

The music.

The conversations.

All of it.

It was like Jean Grey from X-Men froze the entire amusement park…

Except everybody could still move their eyes.

And all of those eyes were looking at me.

😳

Cute Ting says:

“I’m sorry. Let’s get off.”

She starts unbuckling.

I stop her.

I’m trying to keep it cool.

“Nah, you’re good. Please enjoy it.”

Very mature.

Very composed.

Very gentlemanly.

There was only one problem.

She was sitting to my left.

Which meant I had to climb over her to get out.

So now I’m performing the Fat Boy Walk of Shame over my date, out of the ride, through the exit gate, while approximately 47 million people watch.

The second I cleared the gate?

Jean Grey released everybody.

The park came back to life.

Screams.

Laughter.

Music.

Everything.

I barely spoke for the rest of the evening.

And perhaps the clearest indication of how deeply I had been wounded:

I didn’t even finish my Sour Punch or my Twizzlers.

Yeah.

It was serious.

Fast-forward a few years.

It’s around 2010.

Still Fat Boy.

By this point, I’m working in my career and consistently making one very important nutritional decision after late shifts:

King Taco.

Almost daily.

I don’t blame Fat Boy.

I blame King Taco for being so damn good.

Unfortunately, over time, King Taco transformed Fat Boy into…

Fatter Boy.

The heaviest I remember getting was somewhere around 320 pounds.

But even at that size, I still had this stubborn thirst for adventure.

I wanted to go places.

Try things.

Experience shit.

One day, a friend and I decide we want to go zip lining.

We find the perfect place.

We’re ready to book.

Then, somewhere in the fine print, I see one sentence:

MAXIMUM WEIGHT CANNOT EXCEED 250 LBS.

Damn.

I remember feeling crushed.

Embarrassed.

Disappointed.

Frustrated with myself.

But strangely…

I was also hungry.

And for once, I wasn’t craving food.

This wasn’t my usual "Six-Dollar-Burger from Carl's Jr." hunger.

This was different.

For the first time, my weight wasn’t just affecting how I looked or how I felt about myself.

My weight was deciding where I was allowed to go.

What I could experience.

What I could do.

My body had become a gatekeeper to my own life.

And I refused to live like that.

That day, I subscribed to Men’s Health magazine.

Joined 24 Hour Fitness.

Bought two books:

Eat This, Not That! The Grocery Store Survival Guide.

And:

Eat This, Not That! The Fast Food Survival Guide.

And somewhere inside myself, I made a declaration:

Fat Boy was leaving.

And I was going zip lining.

I wish I could tell you everything changed immediately.

It didn’t.

A lifetime of unhealthy eating and living doesn’t disappear because you bought two books and got emotionally aggressive near a zip-line website.

It took time.

A lot of time.

Years to perfect.

Some days, I drove to the gym…

…and sat in the parking lot.

That was it.

I couldn’t make myself go inside.

Some days, I ate perfectly.

Other days?

Fat Boy filed an appeal.

Sometimes the scale moved fast.

Sometimes nothing happened for weeks.

Sometimes I felt unstoppable.

Sometimes I felt like I was doing everything right and my body was basically saying:

That’s cute.

But I stayed with it.

One day at a time.

One decision at a time.

I celebrated the wins.

Tried not to turn setbacks into excuses.

And kept moving.

After about eight months, I looked and felt like a completely different person.

And eventually?

I went zip lining.

In several different places around the world with the first being in Costa Rica.

For roughly the next decade, I maintained a healthy, active lifestyle and generally kept my weight around 210–220 pounds.

Fat Boy had not disappeared completely.

But he had been evicted from management.

In walks 2020.

COVID changed everybody’s lives.

But something else happened that completely changed mine:

I became a father.

And I am here to inform you that society has exactly two categories available for fathers:

In Shape.

Or:

Dad Bod.

That’s it.

No appeals process.

For the last six years, I have bounced back and forth between these two classifications.

Sometimes I’m firmly In Shape.

Sometimes Dad Bod has possession of the property.

Sometimes I’m standing directly on the border between the two like a disputed territory.

Then we had our second baby in 2023.

Now there are two children.

More responsibilities.

Less sleep.

More stress.

Less free time.

And perhaps the most dangerous development of all:

There are snacks everywhere.

Kid snacks.

All day.

Every day.

Within arm’s reach.

Fruit bars.

Fig bars.

Popcorn.

Doritos.

Golden Oreos.

And my personal kryptonite:

Welch’s fruit snacks.

Why do they only put four or five fruit snacks in the little bag?

What am I supposed to do with that?

Obviously I need another package.

Maybe three.

Don’t judge me.

Side note:

I am currently leaning more toward the Dad Bod side of the border.

My health goals aren’t what they were when I was 25.

Back then, a lot of it was:

Lose weight.

Look good.

Fit the ride.

Get on the zip line.

Now?

I think about lifespan.

Healthspan.

Longevity.

Energy.

Being able to run around with my girls.

Being strong enough to pick them up long after they think they’re too old for Daddy to pick them up.

And remaining physically capable enough to actually enjoy the life I’m working so hard to build.

But knowing what I want and consistently doing what it takes to get there are two very different things.

Allow me to demonstrate.

Ideal Me:

Alarm goes off at 6 a.m.

Monday through Friday, I wake up before everybody else and knock out a 30-minute 5K around the neighborhood.

Actual Me:

I also have a 6:30 alarm.

My wife has a 7:00 alarm.

Kids have to be at school by 8.

Most mornings, 6 a.m. Marcus negotiates with 6:30 Marcus.

6:30 Marcus usually wins.

I might get one or two runs in during the week--if that.

Ideal Me:

After the kids are bathed and asleep, I hit the gym.

Heavy weights Monday, Wednesday and Friday.

HIIT Tuesday and Thursday.

Discipline.

Structure.

Beast mode.

Actual Me:

I make most of the weight-training days.

HIIT?

We’re currently in contract negotiations.

By 7 p.m., I’m often exhausted.

Some nights I genuinely don’t have it.

And if I already ran that morning?

My brain becomes an extremely persuasive defense attorney:

Your Honor, my client already exercised today. We move that he sit his ass down.

Motion granted.

Ideal Me:

Weekends are for outdoor cardio.

The stairs.

Hiking.

Kettlebells.

Weighted walks.

Easy four-mile runs.

Sunshine.

Nature.

Vitality.

Actual Me:

Sometimes.

Other weekends?

The couch begins presenting a very compelling argument.

Then there’s nutrition.

My ideal nutrition plan is beautiful.

Low carb.

High protein.

Whole foods.

Plants.

Healthy fats.

Strategic fasting.

The kind of diet where you look at it on paper and think:

This man is going to live to 147.

Reality?

Fruit snacks know my name, fam.

My government name.

Not figuratively.

I walk into the kitchen and hear:

“Marcus…”

😳

Who said that?

Welch’s.

Then popcorn joins in.

Doritos.

Fig bars.

Golden Oreos.

Tequila whispers from another room.

Pinot Noir knows how to make eye contact.

Butter?

🤤

Wendy’s somehow obtained my phone number.

Sake calls whenever I enter a sushi restaurant.

Ramen called me yesterday.

I answered.

🫣

You understand the problem.

I know ultimately this is me versus me.

But I’ve also realized something:

My current health battle isn’t identical to the one I fought at 320 pounds.

I’m older.

I’m a father.

I’m a husband.

I have responsibilities.

Ambitions.

Stress.

Exhaustion.

Constant stimulation.

A brain that always wants to work on twelve things simultaneously.

People who need me.

People I love needing me.

And only so many hours in a day.

I am a father first.

That is a huge part of my identity.

But it isn’t my entire identity.

And I definitely don’t want my body walking around announcing:

THIS NIGGA GOT KIDS.

😂

So yes.

I’m still fighting Dad Bod.

But I’m trying to fight it differently.

This battle is mostly mental for me.

And strangely, the lesson isn’t very different from what Fat Boy learned all those years ago.

Focus on the next decision.

Celebrate progress.

Build self-control slowly.

Don’t turn one bad meal into a bad week.

Don’t turn one missed workout into quitting.

Don’t add unnecessary shame to a life that already comes with enough pressure.

And pay attention to the little things.

Stand while I work instead of sitting all day.

Take thinking walks outside in the sun.

Grab a few macadamia nuts instead of six packages of fruit snacks.

Play physically with my girls every day.

Take the stairs.

Lift something heavy.

Sleep when I can.

Carry Wifey upstairs every night.

Okay.

You’re right.

Now I’m doing too much.

But most importantly:

Remind myself that I’m doing alright.

And keep going.

Because I’ve already learned what happens when small decisions compound.

They took me from more than 320 pounds to a completely different life.

And now, at a different stage of life, they can move me again.

If you’re anything like me—fighting Dad Bod, fluffiness, exhaustion, inconsistency or simply trying to feel better inside your own body—I’ll leave you with something I try to remind myself:

QUOTE SIGNAL

Because baby steps are exactly what got me from 320+ pounds…

to The Moody Maestro.

You're doing alright.

Keep going.

Onward & Upward.

—Moody Maestro

Join The Newsletter