Start With the Man You Actually Are

The biggest lie at the start of change is not usually “I can’t do it.”

It is “I’ll start properly when I’m ready.”

Ready is a very convincing little bastard. It sounds responsible. It sounds mature. It sounds like planning. It lets you sit there with your calendar, your notebook, your new app, your inspirational playlist, your saved videos, your grand mental blueprint and the comforting belief that change is just around the corner, probably Monday, possibly after the holiday, definitely once life calms down.

And then, while you are waiting to become ready, the days keep moving.

The body keeps ageing. The weight stays on. The pain gets louder. The doubt gets more comfortable. The mountain does not shrink. It just stands there, quietly judging you like a PE teacher with a whistle and unresolved issues.

That is why the final thing I want to say before Lactic Fire really begins is this:

Start with the man you actually are.

Not the fantasy version.

Not the perfect version.

Not the version who wakes up tomorrow with discipline, clean arteries, a working sleep routine, a fridge full of sensible options and knees that do not sound like someone walking over bubble wrap.

Start with the actual man.

The tired one. The overweight one. The funny one. The ashamed one. The capable one. The one who knows more than he does. The one who has tried before and failed before and still, somehow, has that annoying little ember inside him that says there might be more.

That is the man we start with.

I don’t know if I ever had a completely detailed fantasy plan for myself. Not in the way some people describe it. I have had belief, definitely. I believe strongly that I can change, transform, improve and become far more than I have been. But I would be lying if I said there was no doubt. There is always a bit of doubt creeping around the edges, like a cat trying to get into a room it has already been told not to enter.

I have tried to do this so many times. I have failed at it so many times. I have wrestled with food, weight, pain, age, shame, insecurity, excuses, starts, stops, restarts and the deeply offensive reality that knowing what to do does not magically make you do it. It’s hard to see all the way past that.

It’s hard to stand at the bottom of the mountain, look up, and say, “Yes, that’s mine.”

But maybe that is the point. Maybe I do not need to do this without doubt. Maybe I need to do it in spite of doubt.

The fantasy version of me now is not the same as the fantasy version from 15 years ago. Fifteen years ago, I probably imagined some dramatic physical transformation where everything changed, everyone noticed, and I walked through life with the quiet confidence of a man whose T-shirt had finally stopped negotiating with his stomach.

Now, the vision feels different.

I want to be able to referee a full game with speed, power and stamina. I want to feel my body working with me instead of dragging behind me like a badly maintained caravan. I want to see the muscle I have built. I want to feel mentally energised and carry that into the rest of my life. I want to be successful beyond the physical. I want to be proof.

Not proof that transformation is possible in the abstract. We already know that. We have all seen the before and afters. We have seen the abs, the smiles, the lighting, the captions about becoming unrecognisable. Good for them. Honestly. But sometimes what you need is not the polished man at the destination telling you it was hard while standing there looking like a Greek statue with a protein discount code.

Sometimes you need the raw back catalogue. You need the man still in the fight, still figuring it out, still carrying too much weight, too much shame and too much sarcasm, but refusing to leave himself behind. You need the messy evidence. The honest map. The moments where someone says, “This is hard, I am not pretending it isn’t, but I am still climbing.”

That is the space Lactic Fire is meant to fill.

Not fantasy. Not perfection. Not guru nonsense.

Proof in progress.

The real version of me has things to work around right now. Doubts. Insecurities. Fears. Pain. Weight. Health. Time wasted. Time used well enough in some areas, terribly in others. There are enough hours in the day for me to achieve a lot of what I want, which is deeply inconvenient because it removes a favourite excuse.

Physically, I am in pain. That is real. But it is also true that being overweight and unhealthy makes that pain worse. I know I feel physically better when I exercise and eat well. I know movement helps. I know consistency helps. I know better choices help. And yet there is still a belligerent little part of me that says, “I shouldn’t have to exercise every day just to keep pain at bay.”

Maybe I shouldn’t.

But until something else is found, why the fuck don’t I?

That is the madness of it. Not theoretical madness. Practical madness. Bloody lunacy. The sort of madness where you know the thing helps, but you still resist it because some stubborn part of you is offended by the terms and conditions of being alive.

We lie to ourselves at the start of change because the truth is hard.

The truth can be cold. Harsh. Unflattering. It can sit across from you, open the file, and start reading out the charges. Exercise? Check. Eat better? Check. Sleep properly? Check. Moderate your mood while doing all of this? Check. Rewire your entire brain after 46 years of habits, cravings, comfort, fear and self-sabotage? Fucking check.

There is nothing easy about change.

It’s not even mildly difficult; it’s really fucking hard. The swearing is necessary here, because this is not a scented candle problem. It is not solved by a motivational quote, a new water bottle and a man on Instagram telling you to want it more. Some days it means going against patterns that have been part of your life for decades. It means telling your brain that its emergency comfort system is no longer in charge. It means building standards when the old default is still alive, still clever, still persuasive and still knows exactly where you keep the snacks.

So yes, sometimes lying to yourself at the start can feel like kindness.

You tell yourself it will not be that hard. You tell yourself you can sort it quickly. You tell yourself the first few weeks will be fine. You tell yourself you will suddenly become the sort of person who loves early nights, vegetables and emotional regulation. It feels softer than the truth.

But for me, the lie doesn’t help.

I think the truth helps. Even when it is ugly. Especially when it’s ugly.

Because once you admit the difficulty, the difficulty loses some of its mystery. The demon becomes visible. You can stop pretending the mountain is a hill and start packing properly.

That does not mean making change sound miserable. It will feel terrible at times, especially at the start. There will be frustration, boredom, cravings, pain, embarrassment, jealousy, doubt and days where you would happily trade enlightenment for pizza. But the value of change is far higher than the discomfort. Extra years. Extra energy. Better health. More confidence. More freedom. More proof. Maybe even the ability to look down and actually see your dick.

That is not shallow; that’s logistics.

You can only start where you are. Starting where you are does not mean being soft on yourself. It does not mean lowering the bar until you can step over it while holding a doughnut. It does not mean making peace with every bad habit because self-acceptance has been badly translated into giving up.

Starting where you are means refusing the lie that a better time is coming.

Life does not stop so you can get everything perfect. It doesn’t pause while you sort your meals, your mindset, your back pain, your diary, your wardrobe and your emotional damage. It keeps moving. If you are reading this and you have waited for the perfect time, you already know this. The days passed anyway. The months passed anyway. The years passed anyway.

Tomorrow is not easier just because it’s tomorrow.

In many ways, tomorrow is harder. You are older. The pattern is deeper. The excuse has had another night of sleep. The mountain hasn’t moved, but you have lost another day pretending it might.

So start today.

Not with everything perfect. Not with a grand declaration. Not with a plan so detailed it becomes a hiding place. Start today by doing something that points in the right direction.

Going on holiday next week? Start today. Still enjoy the holiday, because life is not a punishment, but do not use it as permission to waste the week before. A week of better sets you up for better when you come back. Not perfect. Better.

That is the word that matters.

Better.

Create your standard and commit to it. For me, we are at rescue more than repair; you don’t wait on a rescue.

I am 270lbs. I am diabetic. I have high blood pressure, cholesterol, pain and a litany of physical damage that feels a bit dramatic until I remember it is my actual body and not a guest speaker at a medical conference. I am not the illest man on the planet by any stretch, but I am further from the best than I am from the worst.

That sentence is not there for pity. It’s there for reality.

I need to remember this stage clearly. I do not want to look back later and romanticise it. That’ss a dangerous thing we do with the past. We soften the edges. We forget the exhaustion. We underplay the pain. We say, “Maybe it wasn’t that bad.” Then, quietly, slowly, dangerously, the old door opens again.

No. I want to remember.

Not to punish myself bu to honour the distance.

If I change this, if I really change it, the pain and exhaustion become part of the badge. Not because suffering makes me special, but because I will know what I climbed out of. I will know what it cost. I will know I did not glide from unhealthy to healthy on a gentle breeze of good intentions. I fought for it.

So yes, I need to rescue myself.

And to rescue myself, I need to fix the leaks. The food leak. The time leak. The excuse leak. The pain management leak. The “I’ll start properly later” leak. The “I’m just a lazy bastard” leak.

Although even that last one probably needs challenging.

There are lazy moments, certainly. I have produced some world-class lazy moments. Museum quality. But there is no actual reason I cannot do this. No magic hero is coming. I do not need Mitch Buchanan charging across a beach in slow motion to drag me out of the water while a dramatic soundtrack plays and my stomach tries to get its own screen credit.

I can rescue myself.

I am my own Mitch Buchanan.

Possibly with worse hair and less chest oil, but the point stands…humour helps me say all of this without being crushed by it.

Humour is a shield. It is a distraction, a defence mechanism, a way of getting ahead of the insult before someone else throws it. It separates me from the obvious physical presence people may see first. It lets me control the room a little. It lets me breathe.

If I did not have humour, I am honestly not sure I could deal with life. It has become a constant companion. Maybe it is more charming from the fatty than it will be from me if I get fitter. Maybe I become obnoxious when I am no longer the odd little round man. Maybe that is one of the shitty little mind gremlins I need to get past.

That is the strange thing about change. It is not only fear of failing. Sometimes it is fear of succeeding.

Who am I if I am not this version of me? Who am I without the jokes used as armour? Who am I without the body I have learned to apologise for before anyone mentions it? Who am I if the thing I have struggled with for decades stops being my defining fight?

Part of me wants to know and part of me is terrified to find out.

That doesn’t mean I stop.

It means I bring the fear with me and keep moving anyway.

If you’re embarrassed by where you are starting from, I understand that more than I wish I did. Embarrassment is heavy. It has history. It is not always about the gym today, or the walk today, or the football pitch today. Sometimes it is about the schoolboy you remember. The chubby kid who took abuse. The one who learned to be funny because funny was safer than exposed. The one who still flinches decades later because some things echo.

That does not excuse where I am, but it explains some of the weight in the backpack, and part of this journey is working out which boulders I can finally put down.

The truth is, most people do not care about what you are doing in the way you fear. Social media can make the world look crueler than it is. Yes, there are people who mock overweight people trying to exercise. There are always tiny little emotional goblins looking for someone else to laugh at so they do not have to look inward. But look closer and you often find far more support than ridicule. Far more people cheering than sneering.

And the ones who mock you are not holding the rope on your climb anyway.

So ask yourself what you would say to someone else who was embarrassed. Really ask it. If your friend, your brother, your son, your dad, some bloke you barely knew, told you he was ashamed to start because he was overweight, unfit and scared of being judged, would you tell him to hide?

No.

You would tell him to go. You would tell him you were proud of him. You would tell him the embarrassment is lighter than regret.

You would tell him the journey is easier than premature death, easier than increasing pain, easier than living smaller because some old fear still thinks it gets a vote.

Then turn that inward – say it to yourself.

And believe this too: I will be proud of you for doing it. I will be your fan. So will millions of other people, whether you see them or not. There is a quiet army of people who know exactly how hard it is to start again, and they are not laughing. They are watching for evidence that they can start too.

That’s why honesty is more useful than motivation.

Motivation is fleeting. It comes and goes like a cat who only likes you when you feed it. It has a cute head and purrs when it is there, but it can quite often saunter away showing you its hairy butthole. And everyone does look. Everyone pretends they don’t, but they do.

Honesty is different.

Honesty can always be there, if you choose it. But we need to be careful, because honesty and criticism are not the same thing. We often dress them the same. We call cruelty truth. We call self-attack accountability. We confuse being honest with beating ourselves senseless and then wondering why we do not feel inspired.

It says what is wrong, yes. It names the weight, the pain, the habits, the fear, the food, the procrastination, the damage. But it also notices what is working. It gives credit where credit is due. It learns from successes as well as failures. It holds you accountable without pretending you are a lost cause.

Honesty says: this is where I am.

Not where I wish I was.

Not where I hoped I would be by now.

Not where the fantasy version of me lives.

Here.

And from here, I take the next step.

That’s why the idea that you need to become someone else before you begin is such dangerous nonsense. Give yourself a shake. The whole journey is about becoming someone else, but not in the way people think. It is not about deleting yourself and installing some smug upgraded personality who says “fuel” instead of food and owns too many sleeveless tops.

You do not need to become a completely different person.

You need to become a better version of who you already are.

That matters, because the person you are is not a total write-off. You are not a failed product waiting to be recalled. You are a person with some areas of life that need serious work. Maybe drastic work. Maybe urgent work. But not all of you is broken. Not all of you needs burned down. Some of you needs rescued. Some of you needs sharpened. Some of you needs forgiven. Some of you needs challenged.

If some magic pill appeared and turned you instantly into a totally different man, you might not even like him. He might be fit, but insufferable. He might have abs and the personality of a damp spreadsheet. He might never laugh at the wrong time, never eat chips, never swear at his knees and never understand why humour kept you alive.

I don’t want that. I want to change, but I want to remain recognisably me.

Just better.

Healthier. Stronger. More disciplined. More honest. Less trapped. Less governed by cravings, shame and fear. More useful to the people I love. More willing to try while embarrassed. More capable of doing the next right thing without requiring a national holiday and a new notebook first.

That is what Lactic Fire is.

It is not a place for pretending we have conquered everything. It is not a place to perform perfection. It is not a place to complain about everyone else while avoiding ourselves. It is not a shiny safe space where nothing difficult can be said. I hate the term safe space, to be honest, because it can sound like a padded room full of herbal tea and people nodding too much.

But in the best sense, that is partly what this is.

A place safe enough to be overwhelmed.

Safe enough to tell the truth.

Safe enough to say, “I am struggling.”

Safe enough to ask for support.

Safe enough to be yourself, even if you are a bit of a dick.

Maybe the new you will not be. Let us stay hopeful.

We all need to see a reflection of ourselves sometimes. Not just the final form, standing there with abs and a caption about discipline. We need to see people in the middle. People who have not arrived yet. People who are still negotiating with food, still managing pain, still trying to move, still embarrassed, still hopeful, still funny, still flawed, still climbing.

That is the gap we are here to fill, with humour and honesty rather than a jam doughnut.

Although let us not pretend the jam doughnut does not have compelling arguments.

So start with the man you actually are.

Start with the doubts, the fear, the weight, the pain, the insecurity, the history, the humour, the excuses, the hidden belief, the battered hope and the part of you that still thinks, despite everything, that you might be capable of more.

Do not wait to become ready.

Do not wait to feel confident.

Do not wait for Monday.

Do not wait for the fantasy man to arrive and save you.

He is not coming.

But you are here, and that is enough to begin.

Disclaimer: This article reflects personal perspectives and experiences relating to food, weight, fitness, mindset and wellbeing. It is intended for informational purposes only and is not a substitute for professional medical advice, diagnosis or treatment.