I can’t believe I’m here today. This is as far from what I thought I’d be doing six years ago. I still pinch myself at every meeting to make sure this is real. I’m so grateful to be a food addict—grateful to know it, accept it, and work this program like my life depends on it.
When I came in, I weighed 225 pounds (about 102.2 kilos). Today I’m around 175 pounds (about 80.4 kilos), give or take a couple of pounds, and I’ve been there for almost six years. That’s a miracle. I walked into these rooms arrogant, stubborn, angry, resentful, a lot heavier, and feeling totally inadequate. I don’t feel like that anymore. Back then food was a drug I could get anytime, anywhere. Now I don’t have to do that ever again.
My story starts early. I had two parents who were morbidly obese. I told myself I would never look like that—how ridiculous that sounds now. My father was a workaholic who used food the way I later learned to use it. I was the oldest of four and felt constant pressure to achieve what my parents hadn’t. Nothing I did seemed right—the way I walked, shut a door, even how many friends called the house. I felt inadequate and useless. I tried so hard to please my mother, and it never worked for long. My father left before dawn and came home late, and as a little kid I’d wait by the back door just to see him. He wanted dinner and sleep and to start again the next day. I told myself my mother hated me; I even convinced myself I must have been adopted because there wasn’t a newborn photo of me like there was for my siblings. I craved my father’s love. Once he drove me to a game. I thought I played well and asked how I did. He said he’d fallen asleep in the car. I didn’t remember that day until I put the food down. It’s amazing what flows when I don’t have a drug to mute my feelings.
I carried unspoken feelings—jealousy, being hated, not being good enough. At school I had gaps in my teeth, a cowlick, and a pudgy body. I told my mother I thought I was ugly. She said I was beautiful and moved on. I had nowhere to take my emotions. If I was excited about an A on an exam, I’d hear, “What about the next one?” The ups and downs were cut off. So I found a place to take my feelings in something that grows on trees, comes out of the earth, and is manufactured: food. For me it’s a drug. Certain foods give me a rush when I’m low; others sedate me when I’m too wound up. They create a false calm where I don’t have to feel.
Home felt scary, and expectations got harsher as I got older. My bedroom became my haven. I’d take food upstairs, turn the music up, and make the world go away. I was very active, so for a long time I could eat whatever I wanted and exercise it off. Friends thought it was a party trick that I could down enormous amounts of soda. Eventually I was so hooked that I’d wake at 2:30 a.m., go to the refrigerator, and take a hit of sugar. It made me feel invincible for a moment, even though inside I felt totally broken.
My first clear sign there was a problem came around age nine, when a classmate mocked the creases in my stomach after swim practice. I ignored it because I could still “work it off.” For years I used extreme exercise and programs to manage my weight. A trainer made me write down my food; it worked for six months. When the oversight stopped, the weight came back. A practitioner introduced me to “healthy” snack foods and five meals a day. A “handful” for me became a heaping palm, then a bag. That’s me with food: I cannot be trusted around it. I can white-knuckle for a while, but I’m powerless over food.
Life rolled on. I married, had children, and chased a corporate career while feeling inadequate in my skin. I wanted people not just to like me or love me, but to revere me. That’s exhausting. I tried to control everything at work, then went home to a family I wasn’t sure I knew how to love. No wonder I relied on a drug I could get whenever I wanted.
My body image meant everything. The scale ran my life. I weighed myself constantly, calibrated the tiles under the scale, and let the number dictate my day. If it was up a fraction, the day was ruined. If it was down, I “won” and could eat whatever I wanted. Someone once told me to throw away the scale and leave a little food on my plate at every meal. I couldn’t do either. I never left food. I needed it to manage fear, insecurity, inadequacy, and self-hatred. A sponsor asked me how I have fun. I didn’t know. Impressing people isn’t fun; it’s work. My cycle was simple: binge to feel better, hate myself, binge again to numb the hate. I wasn’t the biggest person in the room, but the extra 45–50 pounds felt like 200 on my soul.
I found these rooms through the power of example. Someone I love changed—first on the outside, then from the inside out. I went along to support them and heard stories that pierced me. I pretended the room felt cold, but I was really just terrified. After a series of small nudges I spoke with someone who became my first sponsor and went to a meeting the next day. That’s when the bravado and arrogance began to crack. I let the sunlight in and allowed authenticity to come out.
I still don’t know how this works. I only know what to do. It isn’t an intelligence test; it’s an action test. This program is about what I do, not what I say or know. The doing—weighing and measuring, abstaining, writing, calling, praying, reading, serving—connects me to a Higher Power and helps me grow into who I’m meant to be.
Life is different now. I have four children—treasures I once experienced as “terrorists.” I used to leave before dawn, come home late, and avoid them. Now I miss them when I’m away. That’s a gift. My relationship with my spouse isn’t perfect, but it keeps getting better because I keep showing up and working this program. With my parents, I went from estranged to calling just to say hello with no agenda. It took time for them to believe that.
Twelve months ago my worst career fear came true: I was fired without warning. I walked out with my abstinence intact. It was hard, but I knew I’d be okay. Today I’m in a role I couldn’t have dreamed of, and being authentic is actually useful. After being berated by an owner, I set a boundary—twice—and walked out. The next day I told my team what happened and cried in front of them. They cried too. That’s recovery at work.
There’s so much more I could say, but the essence is this: this program is sacred. Early on, a sponsor told me these are the keys to the kingdom. I didn’t understand then. I do now. I’ve crossed oceans for this more than once because every time I’m with this fellowship I get an injection of authenticity, calm, serenity, love, and humility. I’m grateful.