It doesn’t happen all at once. Just a few pounds at first. Nothing dramatic. Nothing anyone would even notice. Your shirts still fit — kind of. You’re still you, just a bit… softer, maybe. A little less sharp around the edges.
You tell yourself it’s not a big deal. Because it isn’t. Not really.
So you unbutton that top button and leave it open. Switch to a looser cut. Buy swimwear with a higher waist or a darker color. A subtle shift. No one needs to know, and honestly, maybe no one would care if they did.
Besides, life’s been busy.
There’s the job — the one that bleeds into evenings. The partner — who doesn’t mind how you look, not really. The house that needs fixing, the errands that keep stacking. Maybe even the sense that, by now, you’ve earned the right to relax a little. To not obsess over abs or salads. To not be one of those guys.
So you start telling yourself that’s why. That’s why you’ve let it slide. Because you’re responsible. Committed. Settled. Priorities shift. Things change. You’ve just been living. But deep down, you know.
You know that’s only part of the truth. The more convenient part. The version that lets you off the hook without quite saying it out loud. Because if you’re honest — really honest — those excuses? They’re just soft landings for hard realities.
You didn’t let go because of work. Or love. Or time.
You adapted. You adjusted to discomfort so gradually, so skillfully, that it started feeling like comfort.
You turned down the beach invitation. You said no to the last-minute hookup. You started sleeping in that same stretched-out t-shirt. You learned angles, filters, ways to look “just right” without looking like you’re trying. You became fluent in avoidance.
And the strange thing is—it works.
Life continues. No alarms go off. No one stages an intervention. You’re not unhappy. You still laugh, still flirt, still get attention. But somewhere, deep down, a quiet version of you wonders how you got here. And how long you’ve been making room for the new normal.
Because that’s what it becomes. A new way of being. A redefined version of you, built gently over time through small choices. Each one so minor, so reasonable, so justifiable, that you barely noticed it was happening. Until one day you look in the mirror — or don’t — and wonder when you stopped recognizing the person looking back.
Not in a dramatic way. Just in a slightly turned down way. A version that takes up the same space but with a different kind of presence. A little more invisible in some places, a little more insulated in others.
You didn’t give up. You just made it easier to stay still than to move. And you gave that choice a name: responsibility, maturity, balance. But call it what you want — it still comes down to this:
You made room for less of yourself.
And maybe, just maybe, that quiet version of you is still watching. Still hoping. Still remembering what it felt like to move through the world without that extra layer. He keeps your gym attire at the bottom of the closet. Ready for you.
Give me one hour of your so busy and responsible schedule and I will start peeling you down to him. Step by step we will make him alive and kicking again.
