Certified Personal Trainer

During my first marriage, I hit 300lbs on the scale. My father was diabetic, my brother was close to pre-diabetic, and I knew it wouldn’t be long before I was right there with them. It didn’t really hit me, until it actually hit me in the fucking face, hard. Walking back from the parking lot at work, I missed a step (there were only 3), and I tried stopping myself from hitting the ground. Negative. I had my arms out but I was not strong enough to stop the momentum of 300lbs falling at a rapid pace. I imagine that if someone would have seen this, they would have thought I didn’t even try to stop myself. Gravity is a bitch when you’re fat. I hit my head on the pavement, luckily not hard enough to do any serious damage.

This really resinated with me. How did I get this fucking huge? I knew I’d always have to manage my weight given my genetics, but I knew the science to fix it. Why did I wait until it got to this point? I’m not alone on this, most people don’t realize a problem until it’s grown out of control. Around this time the company I worked for had built a gym on-premise for employees. I got started right away putting my previous excercise experience from the Army, literature, and the knowledge that I had lost the weight before. It was just down to discipline that would make or break me.

In less than a year, I lost 100lbs, while putting on around 20 lbs of muscle. I did it, right? I should just put it on autopilot and keep an eye on my weight.

Fuck. That.

I studied and obtained my ISSA certification to become a personal trainer. Now I didn’t get this certificate to make any money, or start a new carrier, I just wanted it. And when I want something bad enough, I won’t just meet expectations, I’ll see your ass back on earth when I get back.

And yes, my belly button looks like a vagina due to the excess skin. I had a procedure done a little after this picture that helped some with this, but not completely.