Sam Paul, 30, Brooklyn, NY

A pile of clothes was accumulating underneath my dresser as I planned my outfit for the next day at school, towards the end of 8th grade. I was talking to Nick on the translucent purple cordless phone I had begged my parents to let me have in my bedroom. I told him that I was going out with Justin, a freshman, but that we could still be friends.

"He only likes you for your fat ass and big tits," Nick said. I don't remember what my reply was before hanging up, but I do know that I proceeded to examine myself in the mirror, pouring over my thick thighs, small potbelly, and too-round butt. I couldn't imagine getting into a bathing suit and going to the pool that summer.

So, I resigned myself to a diet, countless crunches, and a Billy Blank Tae Bo workout I'd ripped out of a copy of Seventeen. I obsessed over my weight through high school, and my relationship with food and my body was complicated and troubled. It was the start of a cycle that lasted several years — one where my self-worth was tied to my body and various comments boys and men made about it.

I eased up on myself when I started college and moved into an apartment in Brooklyn. I binge drank, and ate countless dollar slices of pizza. I quickly put on the weight I'd worked to keep off in high school and a little extra. One night, I stood smoking outside of a bar, and a man eyed my beer gut and asked if I was pregnant. I had hardly noticed my clothes growing tighter before that. Once again, I found myself meticulously keeping track of my calories, and punishing myself with long walks.

When I was 19, I bought an old bike for $50 and started riding to and from class and work. Soon, I rode my bike everywhere all the time. One of my close friends took a job as a bike messenger, and I started spending my nights with a group of messengers at the bar. There was a rebelliousness and a deep sense of community among them that I was undeniably drawn to. Then, a friend offered me a couple of shifts delivering food in Williamsburg. The money was decent, and I got to spend my down time hanging out in the nearby bars. I couldn't believe how lucky I was to get paid to ride my bike.

I grew muscular, and my appetite was voracious.

"You look like Lara Croft," a man at the bar told me. I had never felt so strong, or had such an easy relationship with food. I rode my bike through college and when I graduated and had trouble finding other work, I continued earning money by delivering food in Brooklyn and packages in the city. I loved the friendships I developed, and the freedom.

Somehow, five years passed. The job became lackluster. I hated riding in the rain and snow. I had broken my arm at one point and had been unable to work for two months. I returned to work. I was afraid of quitting a job that had become so intertwined with my identity, but I was equally as afraid of gaining weight. It is not surprising that the majority of people who quit riding a bike for 8-10 hours a day tend to put on some pounds. It's such a joke for the community that there are T-shirts based on the FedEx Logo that read, “FatEx Messenger.”

I finally quit messengering two years ago. It took a long time for me to come to the realization that continuing to work as a messenger was keeping me from other dreams, and the benefits weren't worth forfeiting my goals anymore.

Through that job, I gained a love for physical activity, and a healthier view of food. I didn't lose those things by quitting, thankfully. My desire for movement carried over into my post-messenger life, but I move for pleasure and not for punishment. I don't beat myself up over missing a workout, or organize my life around fitness. I aim to eat well, but I stopped moralizing food.

It's a learning process, and I still don't have all of the answers, but I've learned to view and treat my body with kindness, and to be thankful to it for propelling me forward.