My go-to meal was three double cheeseburgers, no pickle, large fry, a Diet Coke, and two apple pies. I look back on that now and think: what was I doing? But at the time, it made perfect sense. I had given up. And when you've given up, you eat what makes you feel good, because at least that's something.
I had never really known what it felt like to be athletic. Growing up, fitness never came naturally to me. And so I tried — I really did. I lost weight, got down to around 230 pounds at my best, and worked hard to stay there. But then it would come back. I'd go back up to 270. Then back down. Then back up again. My weight spun like a Ferris wheel for years, and every cycle taught me the same lesson: I didn't know how to keep it off.
After enough cycles, you stop fighting. You figure that if you put in all that work and still end up back where you started, then this must just be your life. This must just be who you are. I didn't see it as giving up. I saw it as being realistic.
I was 353 pounds and I had quietly stopped believing that change was available to me.
"I had failed the cycle so many times that I stopped believing success was even possible. So you might as well eat what makes you feel good. At least that's something you can control."
I understand now, looking back through the lens of my autism diagnosis, why the cycles kept happening the way they did. I don't like being outside my comfort zone. When things feel unsafe or unfamiliar, it's genuinely harder for me than it might be for someone else — not an excuse, just the reality of how my brain is wired. Food was comfort. Routine was safety. And the idea of permanently reshaping my life was the opposite of safe.
So I stayed where I was. And I convinced myself that was fine.
The honest truth is that it wasn't fine. I was unhealthy and unhappy and I had stopped letting myself picture a different version of my life. That's the most dangerous place to be — not when you're struggling, but when you've accepted the struggle as permanent.
I was driving down the road in my truck one day, talking to my dad on the phone. And somewhere in that conversation, I said it out loud: I have to do something different.
What he said back changed everything.
"Son, your mother and I have been praying that you would have this conversation with us. We support you completely."
I didn't expect that. I think somewhere in the back of my mind I expected resistance, or worry, or doubt. Instead I got: We've been waiting for you to be ready. And we're with you.
That was the thing that gave me the courage to walk into the room where doctors described the three surgical options available to someone in my situation. Not willpower. Not a sudden burst of motivation. The knowledge that if I was going to do the work, I wouldn't have to do it alone.
They could take me to the water, but I had to drink. They could take me to the door, but I had to walk through. I was scared of the work ahead of me. But at least I knew someone would be there while I did it. Like bowling with bumpers — you still have to throw the ball. But you're not going to end up in the gutter.
I want to be honest about something, because I think it matters: choosing surgery felt like a failure at the time. Like I was admitting I couldn't do it on my own. There was shame in it. The story I had told myself was that strong people lose weight through discipline and willpower, and needing a surgical intervention meant I had failed at being that person.
I was wrong. But I didn't know that yet.
What I did know — the only thing I was certain of — was that I couldn't keep going the way I was going. The same feeling I would have years later at the bottom of the alcohol spiral. The same recognition: there is only one direction this road goes, and I have to do something drastic to get off it.
Accepting help isn't failure. It's the first step toward the impossible. I wish I had understood that then. But understanding it now is enough.
If you're reading this and you've been on the Ferris wheel — losing and gaining, trying and failing, convincing yourself this is just how it is for you — I want you to hear this: the resignation is a lie. The ceiling you've accepted isn't fixed. And you don't have to figure out how to break through it alone.
Sometimes all it takes is one phone call where someone says: I've been waiting for you to be ready. I'm with you.
Who is that person for you? Call them.
— Simon M. Fisher