From 350 to 200: The Cold Truth Behind My Weight Loss

At 3:00 AM, most people are asleep, maybe dreaming about the life they wish they had. But somewhere out there, a man was wide awake, plunging into an unheated backyard pool, water barely above 60 degrees. No fanfare, no Instagram post. Just quiet defiance against the version of himself he no longer wanted to be.

What does it really take to lose 150 pounds and keep it off for more than two years? Not a miracle pill or a viral challenge, but something far less glamorous: repetition, restraint, and a relentless desire to take back control.

This is the story of a man who went from 350 pounds and emotionally dependent on food and alcohol to 200 pounds and, as he humbly puts it, “a slightly less alcoholic.” It’s not a perfect journey, but it’s a real one. And it might just be the kind of story that stays with you longer than any before-and-after photo ever could.

A True-to-Life Journey

In an age of glossy transformation stories and before-and-after photo ops, the real victories often come quietly. They’re not tied to New Year’s resolutions or hashtag trends, but born from solitary, stubborn persistence. This is one of those stories.

A Reddit user, who typically kept to posting about Minecraft and Jailbreak, recently stepped into the spotlight for something deeply personal: a 150-pound weight loss journey that began with a cold plunge—literally—and turned into a two-year battle to reclaim health, happiness, and a sense of control.

"From 350 to 200, 150 pounds lost. And I’ve kept it off for two-plus years now."

It started not with a fad diet or a gym membership, but with a moment of clarity. Years of emotional eating, driven by unresolved trauma and a fractured relationship with food, had taken a toll, not just physically, but mentally.

The Real Turning Point

"I had an unhealthy psychological connection to food... Once I addressed this—once I dissociated food from emotions—everything became simpler, more mathematical."

For many people struggling with weight, the core issue isn’t just what’s on the plate—it’s what’s going on beneath the surface. Food can become a stand-in for comfort, control, or even love. It’s not unusual for people to use eating as a way to cope with stress, grief, or emotional wounds that feel too heavy to confront directly. For this Reddit user, food had become a buffer against feelings of abandonment and loss.

The breakthrough came not with a new diet or workout plan, but with a moment of self-awareness: realizing that food had become a form of emotional currency. Once he saw that clearly, the grip it had on him began to loosen. Eating shifted from an unconscious emotional ritual to a conscious choice based on fuel and function. Emotions were no longer driving the decisions—logic was.

This was the true turning point. Not a number on a scale or a physical milestone, but a psychological one: the decision to face discomfort rather than smother it. In his words, once he broke that association, “everything became simpler, more mathematical.” Meals became data points. Calories became numbers, not therapy. And that clarity paved the way for discipline.

It’s a shift that behavioral psychologists often describe as moving from emotional mind to wise mind—a space where both logic and feeling are acknowledged, but decisions are made with intention. That inner change is what made the physical change sustainable. It wasn’t just about losing weight—it was about losing the need to hide behind it.

The Method: Cold Water, Counting, Consistency

Transformations often start with big declarations, but this one started with a quiet plunge into an unheated, 10-yard backyard pool. It was April 6, 2022. The water hovered in the high 60s Fahrenheit, a biting temperature most would avoid. But in the early hours of the morning—usually between 3:00 and 6:00 AM—he swam. Alone, in the dark, while most of the world slept. No gym membership, no fancy equipment. Just commitment, cold water, and the conviction that this time had to be different.

He started with 60 minutes a day and, with time, nudged the session up to 69 minutes. The number was chosen partly in jest, but the intention behind it was serious: to build a routine that was physically challenging and mentally grounding. The cold water wasn’t just an obstacle—it was a tool. Research shows that cold exposure can slightly increase calorie burn, but perhaps more importantly, it demands mental toughness. Each morning swim became an act of resistance against comfort, complacency, and the pull of old habits.

Parallel to the physical effort came a full overhaul of his eating habits. He didn’t just watch what he ate—he interrogated it. Every food label was read, every calorie accounted for. If an ingredient looked suspicious or sounded like it belonged in a lab rather than a kitchen, it didn’t make the cut. His rule was clear: If I couldn’t pronounce it or it wasn’t fuel, it didn’t go in my body.

His meals became intentionally simple and utilitarian. Protein took center stage: chicken, lentils, beans, tofu, and unsweetened Greek yogurt. These foods weren’t just nutrient-dense—they were filling, functional, and easy to track. Sugary snacks, breads, and processed foods were eliminated, not out of trendiness, but because they didn’t serve his goals.

There were no weekly cheat days or viral diet hacks—just consistency. Progress wasn’t gauged by dramatic weigh-ins or visual milestones. It was measured in reps, in early alarms, in how many days he could string together without breaking the rhythm. Over time, the results came—but they were a byproduct of something deeper: discipline.

In a world that often glamorizes quick fixes, his approach stood out for its simplicity and sustainability. He didn’t chase intensity; he chased repeatability. And in doing so, he proved what many overlook: that consistency, not perfection, is what real change is built on.

A Past Surgery—and a Wake-Up Call

Before the early mornings and the calorie counting, before the backyard swims in freezing water, there was surgery. More than a decade ago, he underwent a weight-loss procedure—one that, at the time, promised a fresh start. And in many ways, it delivered. Physically, he lost weight. But mentally, the foundation hadn’t been laid.

"The surgery wasn’t a failure—I was."

That admission isn’t self-pity—it’s self-awareness. It underscores something many people misunderstand about weight-loss interventions: they can change your body, but they can’t change your mindset. Without addressing the psychological patterns that led to weight gain in the first place, no procedure, no matter how advanced, can create lasting results.

This wasn’t a case of the surgery being ineffective. It was that the internal work hadn’t been done. He wasn’t yet ready to face the emotional triggers, the habits, the reasons behind the eating. And so, like many who undergo bariatric procedures without long-term behavioral support, he regained the weight, plus more.

That chapter in his story isn’t marked by shame, but by perspective. It serves as a quiet but important reminder: real transformation doesn’t begin in the operating room. It begins in the mirror, in the hard conversations we have with ourselves when no one else is around. Surgery can be a powerful tool, but it’s not a cure. It must be paired with long-term commitment, support, and emotional reckoning.

For him, that reckoning came years later, not in a hospital, but in a backyard pool—in the cold silence of early morning, with no audience, no scale, just the weight of personal responsibility and the will to finally carry it.

What Really Changed?

There was no dramatic movie moment. No rock bottom. No lightning bolt epiphany. Just a slow unraveling of old patterns—and the quiet building of a new one. As he puts it, “The monster inside always found its way back.” That "monster"—a metaphor for the self-sabotage, the cravings, the emotional weight—had outmaneuvered every past attempt. Until one night, it didn’t.

“One night, something clicked. I finally saw the root of my struggles.”

That shift wasn’t loud, but it was absolute. He came home, stepped into the icy water of his backyard pool, and swam. It was an act of defiance against the inertia that had defined him for years. And it became the first of many. He hasn’t stopped since.

What changed wasn’t a single decision, but a series of small ones that finally stuck. Where past efforts were driven by desperation, this time felt different—clearer, more deliberate. He stopped chasing outcomes and started building habits. The shift wasn’t external—it was internal. He had stopped negotiating with the part of himself that always wanted out.

What He Learned

With 150 pounds lost and over two years of successful maintenance, he now looks back with clarity on the cost of his former life. There’s pride in how far he’s come—but also grief for what was lost along the way.

“My years of being overweight cost me opportunities and experiences I’ll never get back... But I’m so glad to be rid of it—you can’t imagine how freeing it feels.”

It’s a hard truth that often goes unspoken: being severely overweight doesn't just impact health metrics—it limits moments. Jobs not taken. Trips not enjoyed. Friendships not pursued. And those moments don’t come back. But instead of letting that regret paralyze him, he’s using it as fuel—to protect the life he’s built and to keep showing up for the one he’s still creating.

He’s also brutally honest about another reality: how differently the world treats you based on your size. Before his transformation, he felt invisible-or, worse, dismissed. After losing weight, he noticed the shift: more eye contact, more kindness, more respect. It’s a bittersweet revelation that speaks volumes about our culture’s biases.

He doesn’t dwell on resentment, but he doesn’t sugarcoat the truth either. This journey has been about reclaiming not just his health, but his place in the world. And for anyone still fighting their own version of that “monster,” his story is proof that the fight is worth it.

Final Words

His story isn’t tied up in a bow. He still drinks—“a slightly less alcoholic” version of himself—but he’s honest about it. He’s not perfect, but he’s consistent. And in a world that often demands perfection overnight, that’s far more inspiring.

For anyone navigating a similar road, his message is simple:

“The change has to come from within. Find what works for you, set small goals, and keep moving forward.”