I’ve written more than 200 articles for The Good Men Project since 2016. It’s one of my favorite platforms to speak out about the challenges men face today. And today, I want to dive into something that affects all of us, but often stays hidden in the background—our bodies.
We don’t often talk about what it means to live in a male body that doesn’t meet society’s expectations. But we should. Because it shapes how we show up in the world, how we shrink, and how we hurt.
In my writing, I often reflect on how I process life through stories. Writing helps me make sense of the chaos, the unexpected turns, and the moments of stillness. This particular story? It’s been ingrained in my soul since Bill Clinton was Governor of Arkansas.
Let’s rewind.
It’s eighth grade. Eastwood Middle School. Tuscaloosa, Alabama.
I was twelve when my family made the difficult decision to cut ties with my paternal grandparents. I won’t get into the details here, but the impact was seismic. At an age when your sense of self is still forming, I suddenly felt untethered.
That was also the year I started gaining weight.
If you’ve ever been the “big kid” in middle school, you know what it’s like: the world becomes colder. The teasing. The stares. The little ways you learn to shrink yourself, even as your body grows.
One memory sticks with me. It’s sixth period Band class. Our director was out, and the room descended into chaos. I was sitting quietly when two eighth-grade classmates—built like they were ready for Alabama’s football team—started laughing behind me.
One of them tapped my shoulder and asked, “Yo Ryan, what size bra do you wear?”
I saw red. My voice cracked as I stood up and shouted, “WHAT DID YOU SAY TO ME?”
They stood up too, towering over me. I backed down.
Embarrassed. Angry. Alone.
That wasn’t the first time someone made a joke about my body, and it wouldn’t be the last.
Years later, during my sophomore year of college, I got the call: my maternal grandmother had passed—the same grandmother we had been estranged from. After the funeral, my family and neighbors gathered around a Southern staple: food. Barbecue, fried chicken, mac and cheese. Grief, comfort, and tradition.
As I fixed my plate, a distant relative leaned in and said, “You don’t miss many meals, do you?”
It hit like a folding chair in a wrestling match. But I wasn’t surprised.
Then came 2021. I was working a soul-crushing retail job, selling Chromebooks in a big-box store. One afternoon, an older Italian man strolled in, smiled, patted my belly, and asked, “When’s the baby due?”
Three moments. Different seasons. Same message:
Your body is fair game. Your shame is a punchline.
Look—I get it. Teasing is part of male bonding. I’ve joked with friends too. Mutual, safe, and built on trust with clear boundaries. But these moments? These were different. These weren’t jokes between friends.
This wasn’t friendly teasing. This was shame wrapped in a smirk. Cruelty disguised as camaraderie.
And here’s the part we don’t talk about enough—even in progressive spaces: Men struggle with body image too.
Quietly. Constantly. Often in silence.
We’re conditioned to do. To perform. To run, lift, fix. (And for the record, I ran two miles this morning and felt amazing.)
But under all that action, there’s often a gnawing sense of not being enough. A disconnection from our own bodies. A quiet grief we’re not allowed to name.
Eating disorders in men? Underreported. Body dysmorphia? Common—but rarely acknowledged.
We’re told “health” means looking like the guy on the cover of Men’s Health—but no one tells you what that guy gave up to get there. Or what he might still be battling inside.
Influencers in the manosphere sell a fantasy: Get a six-pack, and your life will fall into place.
But let’s be honest—how many of those guys still wrestle with heartbreak, anxiety, or a gnawing need for validation?
Looking good shirtless doesn’t make you invincible. It just makes you shirtless.
And somewhere along the way, we’ve turned health into a luxury product. I once saw a former NFL player offering personal training—only for men earning $125K or more. What message does that send? That fitness is for the elite?
Even doctors—people trained to help with our health—have made offhand comments about my weight. As if I’m unaware. As if I haven’t stood in front of a mirror, tugging at my shirt, wishing I looked different.
Yes, I need to lose weight. But I’ve also lifted, ran, hiked trails, and cooked clean meals. I’ve grieved too. When Pete died, I turned to food. I numbed out. I hurt.
There’s a scar on my stomach from emergency surgery in 2009 when my gallbladder ruptured. That body? It survived. It still carries me.
And today, I run—not because someone shamed me into it, but because I want to feel good. Because I want to feel alive.
These extra pounds? They’ve made dating harder. They’ve dented my confidence. But they also carry stories—of stress, of survival, of enduring seasons that would’ve leveled someone else.
So before you comment on someone’s weight, pause.
Those pounds might hold pain. They might mark progress. They might belong to someone doing their absolute best to stay afloat.
And there’s another layer to this—one steeped in culture. Growing up in the shadow of Bryant-Denny Stadium, masculinity meant speed, power, and dominance. The linebackers got the headlines. The cheers. The record TV ratings. The girls.
But I think there’s another kind of manhood—one that looks like the chubby guy sitting at his desk, writing this article. Heart wide open. No armor. Just truth.
Because here’s what I know: Men have body image struggles too.
And it’s time we talked about them—with honesty, with empathy, and without turning them into punchlines.
That’s the kind of masculinity I want to live into. That’s the kind of man I’m still becoming.
If you’ve ever stood in front of the mirror, not liking what you see: you’re not alone. You’re my brother, and I love you.
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This Post is republished on Medium.
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Photo credit: iStock
