Men over 50 need to Lose the Fat

A Story from an Australian Veteran

I never woke up one day and decided to let my life slide. No one does. It happens quietly, while you’re busy working, providing, coping, telling yourself you’ll deal with things later. I used to be an Australian soldier. Not the poster-boy type you see in ads, just a bloke who did the job, followed orders, carried weight, and got on with it. My body used to do what I told it to do. If I needed to run, I ran. If I needed to push, I pushed. Pain was just part of the deal.

Then life started piling things on.

An injury that never healed properly. The end of my service. A job that paid the bills but didn’t demand much of me physically. Stress that followed me home. A few beers to switch my head off. Late nights on the couch because getting up early didn’t seem to matter anymore. I told myself I’d earned it. I’d served. I’d done my time. I deserved to slow down.

The weight crept on without asking permission. A tighter belt. Shirts that didn’t fit the same. Buying the next size up instead of dealing with it. I didn’t call it what it was. I said I was “out of shape” or “just getting older.” The truth was simpler and harder to swallow. I was fat.

By my forties, it was impossible to ignore. I got breathless tying my boots. I avoided mirrors. I stood at the back of photos. I laughed along when someone cracked a joke, then replayed it later in my head.

The worst part wasn’t how I looked, it was knowing I wasn’t living to the standards I once had. I still talked about who I used to be, but I wasn’t doing anything that matched it anymore.

One night after a shower I stood in front of the mirror longer than usual. No sucking it in, no looking away. Just standing there, towel around my waist, taking it in.

The gut. The slumped shoulders. The tired eyes. And instead of anger or denial, I felt acceptance. Not the soft kind. The honest kind.

This is where I am.

I accepted that I was overweight. I accepted that I was unhealthy. And I accepted something that hurt my pride more than anything else — this was on me. Not the injury. Not work. Not age. Life made it harder, sure, but I was the one making the choices. I’d been negotiating with myself for years and losing every deal.

I didn’t fix it in some dramatic way. I didn’t go out and smash myself at the gym or announce a big transformation. I went for a walk. Around the block. Slow. Awkward. My lungs reminded me how far I’d fallen. My legs complained. My ego took a hit when people walked past me without breaking a sweat. But I finished it. And the next day, I did it again.

The hardest part wasn’t physical, it was mental. Walking gave my head too much space. Regret, shame, memories of who I used to be, fear that it was too late — it all came up. I didn’t try to drown it out. I walked with it. I stopped telling myself I was getting back to my old self. That bloke had his time. I needed to become a better version of who I was now.

I cut back on drinking because I wanted proper sleep. I started eating like someone who respected his body, not someone punishing it. I moved every day, even when it felt pointless. No motivation speeches. No hype. Just decisions.

Some days I wanted to quit. Some days old habits crept back in and told me how easy it would be to stop trying. On those days, I remembered something the Army taught me — motivation fades, discipline doesn’t.

You don’t do the work because you feel like it. You do it because you decided to.

Slowly, things changed. I slept better. My head cleared. I had more energy. The weight came off, but that wasn’t the biggest shift. The biggest shift was respect — for myself. I wasn’t perfect, but I was honest. And that mattered.

My family noticed before I did. I was calmer. More present. Less defensive. My kids saw effort instead of excuses. They saw that admitting you’re not happy with where you are isn’t weakness, it’s the start of change.

Opportunities started opening up once I stopped hiding. Work roles I would’ve avoided before. Conversations I used to dodge. Younger blokes asking how I did it. I didn’t sugar-coat it for them.

I told them the truth. I admitted I was fat. I admitted I was unhealthy. And I stopped lying to myself.

I didn’t turn back into the soldier I was at twenty-two, and I don’t need to. I became something better — a man who understands his limits, respects his body, and knows that strength isn’t pretending nothing hurts. Strength is doing the work anyway.

I still open the shed sometimes and look at my old uniform. Not with regret, but with perspective. That man didn’t disappear. He grew up. He adapted. He carried different weight.

The weight I lost changed my body. The weight I dropped in my head changed my life. The excuses. The entitlement. The belief that the past bought me a free pass.

I’m not finished. I still have bad days. I still have doubts. But I stand taller now. I own where I am.

And when I look in the mirror, I don’t see a bloke who gave up.

I see a man who faced the truth and chose to live better while he still had time.