Bryan Smith

Shit. In his west Chicago neighborhood of Pilsen, fear was a luxury that could get you killed. Even if you felt it, you didnt show it, didnt admit it, even to yourself. Afraid? Look at him. He was big. Huge. More than 700 pounds. Afraid? Say something. Call him a name. Call him fat. Then get ready. They didnt. Not anymore. They had learned that if they did, he would shut them down real quickeither with fists or through a roast that would leave their cheeks burning.

The mirror, however, didnt play that. The mirror knew his soul. That he was afraid. That he was ashamed. And it knew his darkest secret: that he despised himself. Who he was. How hed let himself get to this point. On the rare occasions he allowed himself a glimpse, those things would crash over him like a wave, so that eventually when he would pass by the mirror, any mirror, he would ignore it, recoil from it, turn away from itanything but look into it.

Maynor at age 24 in 2016, when he was at his heaviest and more than 700 pounds.

BEFORE HE WAS an unlikely Instagram star with 170,000 followers and a deal with Nike, Maynor De Leon was big. For as long as he could remember, he dwarfed his friends and, in girth at least, his three older brothers. By first grade, he was wearing size 10 grown man shoes. Kid shoes were fine lengthwise but way too narrow. Within days of getting a new pair, the sides would blow like an overfilled tire. To make the adult shoes work, he stuffed the front ends with socks. As for clothes, he stuck to triple-XL shirts and sweatpants.

In elementary school, he would have loved to be invisible. But his size not only made that impossible; it made him more conspicuous, a target. He wasnt just bigger than everyone else. He looked older. At age 12, people assumed he was 16 or 17. Damn, you fat was the least cruel thing he would hear, but it wounded him every time.

Deep down he was a thoughtful, smart, empathetic kid who loved people. But on the gang-thick city blocks where he lived, you didnt dare cop to such thingsnot if you didnt want to be laughed at, bullied, or worse. One of his earliest memories was of a teenager being shot and killed right outside his home. He ran to the window when the gunfire rang out and watched the kid bleed out. His brothers, father, and friends shrugged it offlife in the hood. For him, the moment was profound, frightening.

Maynors appearance only compounded the need he felt to come off as hard, especially when gang members would stop and check himask who he was affiliated with. No one, he would answer. Im just a kid wearing baggy clothes. At home, he clashed with his father, his attitude one of rebellion fueled by anger. His mother ached for her son and tried to make peace between the two, with little success.

Once he entered high school, Maynor realized he could go one of two ways. He could be shy and soft, as small as possible, at least with his personality, or he could do the opposite, become bigger, tougher, defiant in his heaviness. He wouldnt wait for someone to call him fathe would do it first and dare anyone to take it further: Yeah, Im fat. I can lose weight, but you ugly and stupid and that dont never go away.

yeah, im fat i can lose weight, but you ugly and stupid and that dont never go away

It didnt help that he lived in a food desert, with few grocery stores offering fresh fruit and vegetables. Instead, it was filled with fast-food places and corner stores. Whats more, the junk food was far cheaper. For breakfast hed often eat a couple cinnamon buns washed down with three or four juice boxes. Far from discouraging Maynor, his family celebrated food, at least in his early years. His mother was from Mexico and his father from Guatemalaand meals, particularly during the holidays, filled the house with the aroma of tamales and empanadas. His nickname, gorditolittle fat manwas used with affection: Mira, gordito, ven a comer un poco de este pollo! (Hey, chubby, come have some of this chicken!) As he grew older, Maynors most cherished memories involved food set out for holiday meals. It represented warmth and love and happiness. Family. Everyone eating, laughing. Food was home.

But by the time he reached high school, food had become, in effect, a comforting drug, one supplemented by a more common form of escape: alcohol. He had started drinking beer at age 13. By high school, he would pour vodka into his Gatorade in the morning. When worry crept in over his drinking, he would default to nihilism: What does it matter? Ill be dead by 25 anyway. Might as well enjoy myself.

When he graduated, the five-foot-nine Maynor weighed more than 600 pounds. He had high blood pressure and severe sleep apnea. He could no longer rise from the couch without help. To get out of bed, he had to heave himself to a sitting position, slowly swing his legs over the edge, then try to stand. Such struggles made him more depressed, which he covered up with more food, which made him more depressed still. He was trapped and, worse, both in denial and stubborn. He was the big guy no one messed with, a star in his own way, made so by his extraordinary size and his I dont give a fuck facade. He thought he would carry this weight forever.

ONE DAY IN 2015, however, Maynor noticed hed developed a leg infection. His parents took him to University of Illinois Hospital, where a doctor said he needed surgery to determine the extent of the infection. If its in your bloodstream, the surgeon explained, we would have to amputate so it doesnt go to your heart. Wheeled into surgery, Maynor started to panic after a breathing tube was inserted. At that moment, a sedative began to take effect. He kept thinking, Im so sleepy and I cant breathe. Im so sleepy and so fucking...tired. Hed accept whatever came next. If I die, his last thought went, I die.

Maynor was swimming. Up through pain, through sadness and anger, churning, fighting, up and out of unconsciousness, a diver pulling his way to the surface. When his eyes fluttered open and the details of where he was slowly sharpened, he felt a tube in his throat. He looked around, at the bed, the IV pole, the green lines oscillating on a screen a few feet away. Directly above him was a light fixture with a reflecting panel. There was no way to avoid looking at it. The thing he would be staring at for the next ten days as he recovered: his own image.

if i would have died, no one would have went, oh, damn, thats a surprise maynors fat ass died, i realized i had a second chance

At first, he was angry. Angry that he was in a hospital bed that he couldnt get out of, angry that he could not eat to cover up those feelings, angry that he wasnt the person he wanted to be. Rage became depression; depression became despair. Maynor wasnt a crier. He wouldnt let himself be vulnerable like that. But several days into his hospital stay, he broke, and all the emotions, the fear, and the self-hate that he had numbed with food over the years flooded out.

His mother, who had come to see him each day, was worried. His dad had stayed at the hospital with him for the first six days, round the clock. They had never seen Maynor so down. The biggest part of his depression welled from how much he despised himself. It had fed his acting out, his rebellion, especially against his father. The two had gone after each other hard.

Maynor was not sure what to expect when his fathermy old man, as he calls himsaid he wanted to talk. Averting his gaze, Maynor listened as his dad uttered words that were as healing as any medication dripping into his veins. No matter what we go through from here, he said, you are still my son. It doesnt matter what you weigh. I love you, and I got you.

The ten days he spent in the hospital were the worst and best days of his life. If I would have died right there and then, no one would have went, Oh, damn, thats a surprise. Maynors fat ass died, he says. I realized I had a second chance.

A couple months after he was out of the hospital, on April 30, 2016, Maynor sat down on a couch in his home, propped up his smartphone, and tapped the video app. I am a little over 700 pounds, he said in a somber yet warm voice. I know I need to make a change, because if I dont, my weight is going to kill me. I have a long and harsh road in front of me.

Maynor couldnt stand social media. Bunch of trolls and haters. Why would people want to put themselves out there to be roasted? But what if he did it differently, created an Instagram account that was raw and revealing, one in which he admitted his struggles as well as celebrated his successes? Yeah, people would hate, but so what? This was his journey, and social media was a way for him to tell his story rather than have people look at him and make up their own. It would also be a way to hold himself accountable. He started going to a local gym, then to a boxing gym, walking on a treadmill, hitting the heavy bag. He began posting at @thatbigguy700. His goal was hugely ambitious: losing 500 pounds

Ten followers became a hundred. A hundred became a thousand. Viewers responded. Not with the hate he expected but with support. You inspire me. Im fat, too, and I want to do this. Man, you have a lot of courage. Much respect.

After a few months, Maynor had built a following of 70,000. When the inevitable troll would weigh inWhy you such a fat assMaynor didnt even need to respond. His fans would do it for him, bombarding the person with angry blasts.

Nike took notice and used him in a short Just do it video that went viral. Suddenly he had trainers pleading to work with him, though he got the sense that they werent really in it for him and didnt understand him. Maynor had lost some weight, but he needed help. He needed someone good and someone who got him.

WITH HIS sculpted, six-foot-seven body and a client list of top athletes, trainer David Carson appears to personify success. But he has endured his own dark journey. As a college basketball player at Purdue University Fort Wayne with NBA aspirations, Carson was driving home to Chicago from Indiana for his graduation party on June 5, 2010, when he was hit head-on by a woman trying to kill herself. She died.

Carson, however, was cut out of his car by emergency workers. He had suffered a broken arm, a broken leg, a fractured sternum, and eight dislocated toes. You were lucky, one rescue worker told him. Lucky? he thought. I was driving along minding my own business and, in a flash, my entire world is turned upside down. My career is over. Im lucky?

Carson sank into a deep depression. Nightmares tortured his sleep. He couldnt be in a careither as a passenger or as a driverwithout fighting panic attacks. He was irritable. He had been on the brink of possibly playing in the NBA, his lifelong dream. That was now dead. Why me? he asked himself over and over.

i know i need to make a change, because if i dont, my weight is going to kill me&quot;

Carson stopped working out for several monthsonly resuming when his mother, who was dealing with health problems brought on by being overweight, asked if her son could help her. He did. After working with him, she lost 150 pounds in one year. Carson had found his calling.

Clients flocked to him, not only because of his skills as a trainer but also because of his ability to connect with those who were struggling, an empathy he admits was born only from the crash. Carson opened 24Life, housed in a hangar-sized gym on Chicagos hot Near North Side. His ethos: Your health is more than the hour or two you spend in the gym. Health encompasses your entire life. How well do you eat? Do you positively affect your community?

Nike originally made the recommendation that Carson and Maynor work together, but friends had also pointed the trainer to Maynors story. He immediately knew: I want to work with that guy. I want to help. But their first session, in June 2019 at Carsons gym, went poorly. To Carson, Maynor seemed not just wary but put off. To Maynor, Carson came off as too super-trainer guy, all platitudes and workout-speak. Carson was so eager to work with Maynor that he forgot what worked for him: sharing his own story. As it happened, another trainer shared it for him, telling Maynor all about Carsons accident, his journey, his sincere desire to help. Maynor was stunned when he heard about Carsons depression. He called the trainer shortly after that first workout and asked, Why didnt you tell me? Carson apologized and then added something that echoed what Maynors father had once said: I want you to know that no matter what, whether you regain a few pounds or struggle, I got your back. Were in this togethernot just as trainer and client but as friends helping each other.

For their partnership to work, Maynor would have to be patient, in it for the long haul. Reality shows like The Biggest Loser were fine as far as they went. Contestants did indeed quickly shed hundreds of pounds and looked and felt dramatically better. But in many cases, they put the weight back on after the season ended. Losing weight rapidly significantly lowers a persons resting metabolism, so they have to eat less and less. At the same time, hormones are battering the brain relentlessly, signaling a feeling of hunger.

Once he mastered basic bodyweight exercises, Maynor moved on to more explosive moves.

If Maynor really wanted this, he would have to change everything about his lifehis diet, his sleep habits, his workout regimenand continue his emotional growth, including confronting the demons that had led to his overeating in the first place. It would be the hardest thing hed ever done, and it would require more strength than he ever thought he had.

But he would also have to be realistic. Carson was not perfect, and neither was he. And that was okay. That said, Carson was not going to baby him. I want to train you like I train an Olympic athlete, he told Maynor. It would be a four-year plan. The initial goal, he said, was for Maynor to be able to own his weightthat is, be able to carry himself with balance and strength, get his body to cooperate when he is given various exercises. Lots of planks, squats, step-ups, and walking. That would take the first year. I want to get to a place where if you lose your balance, Carson said, it isnt Oh, shit but All right. Im strong enough to balance on one leg. The reason, he continued, is that people have a fear of falling, so they protect themselves, but that self-protection prevents them from progressing. Im down, Maynor said. Lets do this.

THE WORKOUT space On Your Mark is a massive landscape of weightlifting machines, walking tracks, heavy bags, and benches. On a Wednesday morning in January, Maynor, now 27, is in the middle of it, as he is five days a week now. Hes bright, confident, quick to smile. He hoists a heavy canvas ball over his head and slams it down with a guttural HUMPH! five times, over and over, the impact echoing through the gym. Boom! Boom! Carson, as usual, stands by his side, spotting, correcting, encouraging. In between sets with the ball, Maynor steps laterally, up and over, back and forth, between two yellow hurdles.

Carson says Maynor is seriously strong, in part because he has to carry around his bodyweight daily.

Ten seconds, says Carson. Give me ten seconds. Maynor marches back and forth, pulling his knees up, setting his feet down. Back to the ball. Give me five more. Lets go. Boom! Boom! Boom! Boom! Boom! Back to the hurdles. Ten seconds. Starting in 3...2...1... His face shining with sweat, Maynor marches, Carson touching his shoulders to help him maintain balance in what looks like a workout dance duet.

Next, Maynor pounds the heavy ball into a nearby wall, flinging it with thudding force, five on the left, five on the right. Two more. Seconds later, with a Kanye West track thumping through the gym, Maynor pulls the handle on a cable, doing biceps curls. And on it goes, for an hour. Maynor is dripping with sweat by the end as he lifts a water bottle and gulps. Carson gives him a light shoulder tap and points. Good job. Smiling through the perspiration, Maynor nods, then claps, then throws back his head and shouts, YEAHHHH!

It isnt glamorous. After some of his sets, Maynor bends at the waist, looking up, sweat streaming, only to have Carson in his ear, urging him on. None of the exercises are easy. Pushing a sled, as Carson rides on it, shouting at him, is a particular dread. He hates it because it sucks. And he loves it precisely because he hates it. Because he isnt here to frontto strut around the gym or stand around shooting the shit. His Instagram video for today wont be filmed from flattering angles to make him look better. Hes here, as he puts it, to get dreams and get there by being uncomfortable, and in order to do that he has to be realwith himself and his followers.

Maynor still loves food. He says his greatest struggle is resisting the temptation to eat. When he feels hungry he asks himself, Am I really hungry? Or stressed? Now he monitors all his meals, following a plan that emphasizes satiating proteins and fiber-rich vegetables. Hes replaced juice boxes with water. His daily target is 2,750 calories. He batch-cooks for the whole week: ground chicken stir-fry with mixed peppers, peas, and broccoli; salmon cakes on red cabbage and green beans; a bean bowl with black beans, chickpeas, bell peppers, and tomatoes.

Maynor has had his share of setbacks. The difference is that if he cant catch himself, he will at least make the food he eats healthy. Gone are the Big Mac bingesinstead, hell grill some chicken and vegetables. If he has an ice cream sandwich, it will be one he made out of high-protein waffle mix and low-fat frozen yogurt. And he remembers that he will have to cop to the backslide on Instagramalthough, again, that makes his story more relatable, meaning he wins more support, which motivates him more.

Maynor is almost 60 percent of the way to reaching his goal. His workouts now emphasize strength training more.

Four years into his journey, and after one year working with Carson, Maynor has lost nearly 300 pounds and now weighs 414. He has 215 pounds to go. The weight fell off quickly at the start, but its slower now. Carson says they have adjusted their weekly goals to focus more on performance than on weight loss. In fact, they no longer do weekly weigh-ins. Were looking for strength gains in the deadlift and squat, says Carson. If we hit the strength goals, well get there with the weight, because muscle burns more calories than fat. His metabolism will do the work.

Maynor feels better physically, of course, but the payoff doesnt end at his increased mobility and strength. Through social media, he has developed a group of close supporters who have become more than just fansthey are friends. Carson is one of his best. When the two arent working together, they have long talksnot about new exercises or progress but about life, where each of them is emotionally.

AFTER A RECENT workout, Maynor felt something strange. He ran his hand over his left arm, then his right. Were they lumps? Nah, on both arms, in the same spot? Standing nearby, Carson watched, smiling. Youre starting to get definition, he said. Muscles. If, in that moment, Carson had walked up to Maynor and held out a lottery scratch card worth a million dollars, Maynor would have been more excited about hearing those two words used to describe him. Muscles. Definition.

Before he realized what he was doing, Maynor found himself standing in front of his old enemy, facing his old monster, that which hed avoided for so much of his life. He allowed his eyes to drop to his body. There, in the mirror, he could see that he was still big. He was still a long way from his ultimate goal. But hell if his trainer, now his friend, wasnt right. Maynor could see outlines of muscle. He looked back up and saw his own face, still round but less so. It suddenly hit him: He was staring into a mirror, and it was fine. And then he knew. It wasnt ever about the mirror. He looked back at his changing body, and then he did something he never thought hed do. Maynor flexed.

Maynor doing a strength workout with his trainer David Carson at On Your Mark gym in Chicago.

IT WAS JUST A MIRROR. Hung on a wall in his familys apartment. It had been there so long it was just another piece of furniture, as uninteresting as a table lamp. Except for him. For him, it almost glowed. It radiated a kind of menace. It taunted him. Look at me. Thats what I thought. You wont. You afraid.

Maynor De Leon Lost 275 Pounds. He's Got 215 More to Go.

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Bryan Smith

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Maynor De Leon Lost 275 Pounds. He's Got 215 More to Go.