A practice, not a finish line
For years, I carried my body like an apology before I'd said a word. I'm a chubby man. I'm also on the smaller side, in a community that talks about size like it's the whole conversation. I spent a long time entering rooms already bracing for the verdict — undressing with the light off, deflecting compliments before they landed, assuming any man who wanted me had somehow overlooked something obvious.
What actually shifted wasn't a better body. It was a slower, quieter decision to stop treating my body as evidence in a trial it never should have been standing. A partner once told me, gently, that my apologizing was the least attractive thing in the room — not my weight, not my size, but the bracing. That stuck with me longer than any compliment about my body ever did.
I want to be honest about something: I haven't arrived anywhere permanent. This isn't a story where I found the secret and now I'm fixed. It's a practice I return to, sometimes daily — noticing the old script when it starts running, and choosing, again, not to let my weight or my size stand in for my worth. Some mornings that's easy. Some mornings it isn't, and I have to do the work again like it's the first time. I've stopped expecting the finish line. The practice itself is the point.
What I've learned in the returning is this: my body was never on trial, and neither is yours. Chubby, thin, scarred, still becoming itself, bigger than you'd like or smaller than you'd like — none of it is a measure of who you are, what you deserve, or how fully you're allowed to be loved. That took me a long time to believe about myself, and I still have to remind myself some weeks. I don't say it to you as someone above the struggle. I say it as someone still in it, walking alongside you.
That's a large part of why this space exists, and why I offer real conversations to men who are somewhere in this same practice. Not as an expert who's solved it, but as someone who knows the terrain — the bracing, the shame that grows in silence, the particular loneliness of thinking your body is a secret you're supposed to be sorry for. If you need to tell that story to someone, I'd be glad to be that person: no judgment, no performance required, no rush.