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Listen, I’m not proud of everything.
Last year, I got this idea in my head: if I could just fix my body—get ripped, look like those guys in the gym ads—I’d finally feel like I belonged. Like I wasn’t still that kid who got jumped for being too skinny, or that man who spent years chasing validation in the wrong places. So I went full throttle. Six a.m. workouts, protein shakes at 3 a.m., skipped my daughter’s piano recital to hit the gym. I thought muscle would be my be-vulnerable:The Armor We Wear.
It failed. Hard.
I wasn’t just tired—I was brittle. Snapped at my wife when she asked about dinner. Missed my son’s soccer game because I was “just finishing my set.” Then, one Tuesday, I walked into the gym, saw my reflection in the mirror, and realized I’d been chasing a ghost. I wasn’t stronger—I was just another guy trying to outrun his own shadow. I showed up late to my own kid’s recital, sweating through my shirt, and my daughter just looked at me like I’d forgotten her name. My wife didn’t say a word. Just handed me a glass of water and walked away.
The aftermath? I went to a bar. Not to drink, but to not feel—to numb the shame of Accepting Failure my family. I called a contact from my old crew. Just to talk. For five minutes. Then I hung up. But the damage was done. My daughter asked, “Daddy, why do you always leave?” I didn’t have an answer.
Here’s what I learned:
I thought I could build a new self out of sweat and protein. But I was just trading one cage for another. My body wasn’t the problem—it was the The Stories We Tell Ourselves I told myself about it. I was still trying to buy my Self Worth with something I could control, instead of just brave:The Courage To Be Seen for the people who already loved me.
You’re not too far gone. But you can’t fix yourself with a gym membership. You fix it by brave:The Courage To Be Seen—sweaty, tired, and real. Even when it’s hard. Even when you mess up.
— Francisco Meyer, walking a different path
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Written by Francisco Meyer — 05:22, 02 January 2026 (CST)