I am a relatively large man.

I say “relative” only because I have friends who, when we dap, swallow me up; my head rests squarely in their chest. But to the rest of the world, I am massive. I stand six-foot-four and weigh 471 pounds. Most people see me and assume I am the poster child for disease. I am, clinically speaking, obese.

I don’t particularly like the label, but it isn’t the headline of my mental state. My mind is usually elsewhere—occupied with world freedom, love, and peace. I spend my days strategizing how to gather resources to liberate people. I don’t really care about my weight, until my Achilles tendinitis flares up. Then, and only then, do I think: Man, I need to drop some pounds.

My wife and children, conversely, range from athletically built to thin. My two youngest are obsessed with fitness. My daughter trains like an Olympian, weighing her protein and tracking her macros. I joke with them, “Y’all saw how your daddy looks, and now you’re doing everything to make sure you don’t end up here.”

It’s a joke, but it’s heavy with truth. I am the anti-example.

They worry. They watch TikToks, read health blogs, and recite the jargon of internet fitness influencers. I appreciate the concern—I love that they love me—but I try to explain that the stereotypes don’t fit the suit I’m wearing.

For years, my health numbers have been bafflingly stellar. My blood work is clean. I’m not even pre-diabetic. My cholesterol is historically great, with off-the-charts HDL. My blood pressure flirts with the high end but never enters the danger zone. I am flexible. I have energy. When people ask what my doctor thinks, I tell them her diagnosis is usually a variation of: “You are pretty healthy, but you are FAT.”

She doesn’t say it exactly that way, but that’s what I hear. My stubbornness has kept me off medication for years. Being an old athlete, I know how to train. Shoot, I’ve jumped in to school some of my personal trainer friends. I frustrate them because I know what to do, I just choose to do it sporadically. They all say the same thing: “Lamar, you need to get that weight off.”

For a long time, their words went in one ear and out the other. I’d look at my charts and say, “Why change? The engine is running fine.”

My response to their frustration is simple: “Everyone isn’t a Greyhound. Some people are St. Bernards.”

I delivered this line to my children today. Biology is not one-size-fits-all. We wouldn’t look at a St. Bernard and demand it look like a Greyhound—its head would topple it over. We wouldn’t tell a Chow Chow to be as skinny as a Whippet. If you took a skinny Chow to the Westminster Kennel Club Dog Show, it would be laughed out of the ring.

Yet, Western culture pushes a “Greyhound” aesthetic on a public full of diverse breeds. It breeds insecurity. It convinces young people they are lesser-than. It drives depression.

I have been abased and abound regarding my weight, but I have kept my confidence. I even took on the moniker “Bigmarh.” My size defines me. I was an eight-pound premature baby; the family joke was that I was holding up the walls of the incubator. “Big” is not just my physical size—it is how I think.

But for many, “big” is treated as a pathology.

Stress is a leading killer. The body floods with cortisol in response to threat. What is more stressful than believing you are fundamentally wrong—that the only way to be “right” is to go under the knife? Compound that stress with the physical labor of carrying weight, and a metabolism passed down through DNA that is built for snow rescue, not racing tracks.

It is a tough journey. For years, I fought the assumptions. People would lecture me on my diet, assuming my pantry was stocked with soda and junk, only to find we keep only water and cranberry juice. They’d say, “You must eat a lot,” only to see me take one plate at dinner so my kids could have seconds. We fry food maybe five times a year.

People would say, “You must not exercise,” not knowing I was up at 5 a.m. playing basketball, or walking loops from my office to my daughter’s school and back. I once took two friends—a personal trainer and a D-1 athlete—to do an aquatic workout with me. It was so strenuous they told me afterward, “Never again.”

Yet, here I am. Gaining or maintaining.

And it doesn’t bother me. I am still sexy to my wife, and that is the only metric that matters. I am a big, sexy St. Bernard whose little Chihuahua loves him to the ends of the earth.

If you are reading this, feeling heavy and out of place: yes, see your doctor. Yes, move your body. But do not let the world convince you that you are a failed Greyhound. Be confident in your breed.

Besides, your head is probably too big for that tiny body anyway.