This Is My

Story

Hey, what's up?!

My name is Michael.

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The Breaking Point

253 pounds. A decade without running. Perpetually exhausted and watching my goals slip through my fingers like sand. My eyes glued to a screen instead of the world around me.

This was me at 28. Miserable.

Have you ever looked in the mirror and barely recognized the person staring back?

Then came the moment that changed everything—my mom asking if I'd run a half marathon with her for her 60th birthday. In just 9 months.

Of course I said yes. Who disappoints their mother?

But there was one glaring problem: I didn't run. I couldn't run.

When was the last time you told yourself you couldn't do something? How often has that thought held you back?

Growing up, sports were fun but never my calling. I was cut from JV lacrosse in 10th grade. I settled for club hockey because travel teams were out of reach. In high school, I maintained a healthy weight only because of my Adderall prescription.

College hit me like a freight train—freshman 15? Try 30. By sophomore year, I was spiraling, on academic probation with no sense of direction. Food became my escape. Sometimes I'd eat five meals a day just to avoid classes or assignments.

By 19, I weighed 230 pounds. Lost and convinced no one could help me.

We all have our escapes, don't we? Those comfortable habits that slowly become our prisons.

After dropping out (or being pushed out) of college and failing at several business attempts, I chased my childhood dream of becoming a pilot. In flight school, I earned the nickname "Big Mike." Harmless, right?

Except I didn't just accept the nickname—I became it. I embraced being big as my identity. And that was the most dangerous thing I could have done.

Think about the labels you've accepted about yourself. How have they shaped who you've become?

Fast food. Chicken wings. Rum and beer. I was the life of the party on the outside, but inside, I was dying.

During this time, I learned something crucial: accepting a fate is the most dangerous thing anyone can do. Once you accept that you can't change something about your life, you won't. Words—spoken or unspoken—fuel negativity, growing more powerful until they consume you entirely.

At 23, I hit 270 pounds. I'd try dieting, lose 50 pounds, then give up and bounce right back to 255. Still proud of those 15 pounds I'd kept off, as if that were some victory.

How many times have you started something with enthusiasm, only to settle for far less than what you truly wanted?

My mental health crumbled under my eating habits. Depression gave way to crippling anxiety. As an airline pilot in my mid-20s who'd also become a father to three children, I constantly worried: Who would want to fly with someone like me? How could I handle these responsibilities?

At 27, I recognized something had to change. I was having nervous breakdowns regularly, failing at work and at home. A tiny spark of desire to change flickered inside me.

I started eating healthier—at least one good meal a day. Nothing changed, but that spark remained, waiting for something to catch.

There's a spark in you too. Can you feel it? That quiet voice saying there could be more to your story.

Then came my 28th birthday. The same day, my mother asked if I'd run that half marathon with her in 9 months.

My mom, the lifelong runner who'd completed marathons throughout her 40s and 50s. The woman who taught me everything about healthy living that I'd stubbornly ignored.

How would I possibly run 13.1 miles when I couldn't even make it down my street?

The answer was painfully simple: by running.

It was brutal. When I first started, I couldn't run a single block. But I created a simple first goal: Get outside every day. Run when possible, walk when necessary, but finish every workout.

What simple daily action could transform your life if you committed to it?

Seven days a week, no exceptions, I stepped outside.

Within a month, I was hooked. Fifteen pounds vanished in those first 30 days. Confidence grew as I conquered a 5K without stopping—slow at 38-40 minutes, but complete.

Month two brought injuries. Shin splints. Knee pain. Hip problems. As soon as one healed, another appeared. But I found inspiration in the image of my 60-year-old mother running 13 miles uninjured. I pushed on.

We all face obstacles. What matters isn't the setback, but how we respond when pain arrives.

I devoured every book on running and nutrition. I sought recovery advice from my physical therapist brother. I kept moving forward.

After three months, I weighed 225 pounds and completed my first 5K race in 29 minutes. Not breaking records, but my sights were set on the half marathon.

Something awakened in me—my competitive spirit. I didn't just want to finish the half marathon; I wanted to compete. I ran farther and faster than ever, pushing physical limits on wilderness trails, which led me to my second revelation:

Food is fuel for performance, not comfort.

I learned to eat for what my body needed—more carbs on intense training days, intermittent fasting and low carbs on lighter days. Suddenly, I felt good. Inside and out, things aligned.

When was the last time you truly felt aligned? When your actions and aspirations moved in the same direction?

My anxiety disappeared. I slept soundly. I played with my kids again. My marriage flourished. I was... happy.