Kyle Smedley is a third-year journalism major and writes “Meaningful Conversation” for the Daily News. His views do not necessarily reflect those of the newspaper.
In preparation for this story, I went to 5-Star Nutrition for the first time to get an InBody analysis — a chart that outlines body weight, muscle mass, body fat percentage and more.
I am 6’0”, weigh 184.8 pounds — 93 pounds of which are from muscle — and have a body fat percentage of 12.1. All of these are considered better than average for my height, age and gender.
I felt really good about myself as I walked out of the store, and I texted my friends who are also passionate about being active to tell them the news. Then I sat down in the driver’s seat of my gray 2015 Nissan Altima.
I felt the belly fat we all have — no matter how fit — fold over. That’s when the voice in the back of my head spoke up.
“You’re still not good enough.”
Suddenly, I wasn’t feeling the way I had less than 30 seconds ago. While for some, this mentality can be a helpful reminder that they can achieve greater heights, for me, it’s been a decade-long struggle.
From about third until sixth grade, I was taller than almost everyone my age. I also weighed more, and not just because I was taller — I still had a lot of baby fat.
Once I hit puberty around sixth or seventh grade, I got even taller and most of the aforementioned baby fat went away. I was probably 5’10” and a skinny 140 pounds.
That’s when I started consciously thinking about my weight and appearance. I was never satisfied. Looking back at photos, I was as thin as a rail, but at the time I thought I was “fat” because I didn’t have a six-pack like most of my friends.
I don’t have a six-pack now, I never have and I probably never will. I’m just not built that way.
But my brain tells me that’s unacceptable.
My brain tells me I’m not good enough or no one will find me attractive because of my basic anatomy.
Despite struggling with these thoughts throughout most of middle school, all of high school and the first year of college, it never affected my eating habits until the end of the first semester of my sophomore year at Ball State.
I was going through a breakup at the time, so I was already feeling bad about myself. Naturally, the first thing I went to was how I looked.
I decided I was going to make a conscious effort to try and change my appearance. So, I grew out an Amish-style beard and began going to the gym more consistently.
I have been active my entire life but was never really intentional about immersing myself in consistent weight training and cardio until the months following my breakup.
I weighed about 195 pounds when I first started. I had no idea what my body fat percentage was, but I felt like it was too much.
At least, that’s what the negative part of my brain was telling me, and that was the part of my brain I was listening to more often than not.
I would lift weights for about seven and a half hours, do an hour of ab exercises and run about 18 miles per week.
That became my weekly ritual.
Shedding my body fat and building lean muscle meant I thought I needed to consume around 1500 calories per day. But I was burning close to 600 of those calories during the 100-plus minutes of exercise I was doing every day.
However, I wasn’t accounting for the calories I would burn throughout the day. My InBody analysis showed my resting metabolism burns approximately 1962 calories per day without exercise factored in.
In other words, I wasn’t eating nearly enough. I had a steady diet of oatmeal and a banana for breakfast, a protein shake after my workout, three eggs and an apple for lunch and two chicken breasts with green beans or peas for dinner.
I was practically starving myself. The same thing six days a week every single week for six months.
I was miserable.
As for my physical appearance, I was back to that skinny frame I sported in middle school. But weighing less and looking skinnier came with a price: I had no energy and hardly any emotion.
The best day of my week was supposed to be Sunday when I let myself eat whatever I wanted. According to a study published in the National Library of Medicine, cheat days are not always as “healing” as people think they are.
Every week I looked forward to Sunday so I could enjoy the simple pleasure of eating “real food” and fulfilling the desires of my taste buds. Yet at the end of every Sunday, I felt bad about myself because I was consuming “too many calories.”
If I wanted to visit my family or friends Monday-Saturday, I either ate beforehand or brought my own food. Even at special events like a family birthday party or a night out, I didn’t fully enjoy the experience because I felt like I couldn’t consume anything that wasn’t a part of my diet.
My loved ones tried to be supportive because they knew how much I enjoyed going to the gym. They kept up that façade until one day, my mom couldn’t stand by and see me unhappy and lethargic anymore.
I don’t have many free nights, but on one of them, I went to one of my nephew’s track meets at Delta High School. I wanted to support him in his passion, but I was in a horrible headspace due to my diet and it was weighing me down.
“I don’t think I can eat eggs anymore, Mom,” I said, leaning over the fence to watch my nephew attempt a long jump. “Today I felt like I was going to be sick trying to get them down.”
“You used to love eggs,” she replied.
I planned on joining my parents for dinner that night, but since it was a weekday, I brought my own food. I’m sure it upset my mom I wouldn’t eat the food she so graciously made.
While she was cooking for her and my stepdad, I put my chicken breast in the oven and sulked on the couch waiting for it to cook.
Eventually, the two of them came into the living room, sat down in front of me and told me what I needed to hear.
They told me I seemed weaker and as unhappy as ever. Even more unhappy three years after I called my mom in the middle of the night, asking her to set me up on anxiety/depression medication and schedule an appointment with a therapist.
They asked me what my goal was, and when I told them, my stepdad told me my diet was not going to help me achieve that. Sure, I would lose body fat eating the way I was, but I wasn’t going to build any muscle by starving myself, no matter how much of it was protein.
Deep down, I knew these things. But nothing was going to change until I heard it from someone else.
In the months that followed, my eating habits changed for the better. I was still eating the same thing for lunch and breakfast every day, but I allowed myself to snack on things like almonds and oranges, and I changed up what I ate for dinner every night.
I saw more progress in my early recovery than I ever did before by a long shot. However, as time went on, the negative side of my brain started to slowly speak up again.
I started to fall back into my old habits and eat nearly the same thing every night for dinner just as before. In fact, it wasn’t until recently that I recognized it was happening.
I was sitting at my desk in the Unified Media Lab, trying to choke down two plain hamburgers. All I thought about was that hamburger is high in protein and calories, but low in carbs.
I felt nauseous after I finished the first one. And after eating the second, I looked at a co-worker sheepishly and said, “I can’t do this anymore.”
An article from the Newport Institute provided a checklist with potential signs of muscle dysmorphia — also known as obsessive bigorexia — which is a disorder when someone can’t recognize their improved or “buffer” physical appearance, instead feeling as if they are too under or overweight.
Looking at the list, I realized I could check almost every box.
I’ve known for a long time I struggle with body/muscle dysmorphia. For years, every time I looked in the mirror, I saw a man who didn't look like a bodybuilder, and I felt ashamed.
Even with those thoughts still clashing around my mind, I am determined to beat them.
Recovering doesn’t mean I’m going to stop going to the gym. Putting my AirPods in, blaring my favorite music and working out is a sacred time for me.
I’m dedicated to educating myself on food and eating healthier, and I’m actually mostly enjoying what I’m eating. In my opinion, there are numerous recipes and healthy foods that are better than fast food ever will be.
I won’t say I’m fully recovered, but I’m working on it.
My loved ones are as supportive now as they’ve ever been. Though the motives behind my workouts were sometimes negative towards my mental health, I’ve always been genuinely happy when I have a dumbbell in hand or I’m climbing up the StairMaster.
However, the biggest source of refuge for me when I’m struggling with body image issues is simply talking with a trusted friend or family member. Vocalizing my feelings and listening to what my confidant has to say never fails to be a cathartic feeling.
That’s the real reason for this story. I know I’m not the only male who struggles with these issues.
According to the aforementioned study by the Newport Institute, a quarter of young adult men reported disordered eating behaviors related to body dissatisfaction. And yet, I’ve never heard a male speak out about their struggles, at least not to me.
I have numerous friends and family members of the opposite gender who have shared their struggles with body image issues/eating disorders with me. It’s heartbreaking. However, the fact that men are hiding their struggles for the sake of hiding vulnerability maybe even more so.
According to a 2012 study by Prescott House, “The promotion of an accepted culture, which allows vulnerability in men, may create an environment in which male reporting would improve in frequency and accuracy.”
Though this study has aged, this problem in our society still persists.
I shouldn’t have to feel bad if I eat a tortilla chip or two. I shouldn’t have to feel bad if I consume one gram of added sugar.
But what’s important is I’m working on it. I’m giving myself grace.
The first step to achieving this mindset is reaching out.
Expressing your struggles is always better than internalizing, and I can attest to that firsthand. I’m thankful I have people in my life who not only listen to my struggles but can empathize and relate to them, too.
That’s what allows me to step forward in dissolving my dysmorphia. That’s what allows me to find peace in a gym rather than make it feel like a chore.
That allows me to be happy no matter what I eat on any given day.
It’s what allows me to be me.
Contact Kyle Smedley with comments via email at kyle.smedley@bsu.edu or on X @KyleSmedley_.
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