Las penas con pan son menos. Your sorrows become lighter with bread. I discovered this deep folk wisdom at 12 and ran away with it. I was a healthy boy, just a bit lonely, struggling to get along with other kids, and slightly overweight. Everyone, including myself, thought I’ll grow up and lose all the baby fat.

University years began, parties, beer, fun, friends, sex, love… breakups. Food was always there to help. One day, in the aftermath of a particularly bad breakup I had 2 liters of beer, 2 liters of milk, a box of breakfast cereal (thanks Tony Tiger!), and a hamburger. Soon, my weight will go from 80kg to 100kg. I didn’t look that fat yet, at 180cm.

I moved abroad, far from my friends, to a different culture and different language. I was alone again. Pressures of the working adult life piled up, and so did weight. So, I ate, and ate, and then more. I couldn’t hide my weight, but at least I tried to hide my eating. Pre-dinners, hidden chocolates, a secrete slice of pizza (or two) on the metro, you name it. I started binge eating to cure loneliness, and, ironically, I was now looking forward to being alone, so that I could binge in peace.

Loneliness is a nasty bitch that comes after every immigrant. Being a brown foreigner in an ethnically monochromatic country with complex issues around both brown people and foreigners was not helping. I made it all the way to 127kg. I drank a lot, because it would help me eat more. To a nation of alcoholics in deep denial, that didn’t seem much of a problem, and, at least from time to time, I could be one of them, too.

I tried to embrace happily my fatness, inspired by the “body positivity” movement. It turns out my body doesn’t care about politics. No matter how much I told myself I was a love-deserving creature regardless of my size, I still got erection issues, dead sperm, high cholesterol, high blood pressure and knee pain.

The solution? Just eat less. The same bullshit advice I heard countless times from nutritionists and sports coaches who have never been fat. Jesus fucking Christ, shut the fuck up or I will smash your head on the wall. Like that never occurred to me. Guess what, smarty pants? If I don’t want to die, I need to be taking the very drug I depend on. Every. Fucking. Day. No one would suggest an alcoholic to take only a glass of whiskey three times a day.

Slowly but surely, I crawled out of my isolation, found hobbies, friends, went to therapy, and got better mentally; combat sports made me better physically. Boxing gave me the final reason to put my act together. For years I’ve been a fat-but-fit kind of guy, too fat for boxing but too slim for sumo. I would like to get better at boxing, but my body holds me back. Sure, I don’t expect to become the new Canelo. Fighting in an amateur tournament without being booed out of the ring will do. Ok, but how am I going to make it happen?