Two middle-aged men embrace in front of a bathroom mirror, one smiling at his reflection as his partner holds him affectionately from behind.

Healthy Body, Not Perfect Body

By Jef Blocker | October 1, 2026

What gay and bisexual men can gain by shifting from a weight-centric mindset to a weight-inclusive approach to health.

I was a skinny kid.

Tall and lanky, with the build of a distance runner, I could eat just about anything I wanted without gaining an ounce. Some people might consider that a blessing. But as I entered puberty and watched other boys develop broader shoulders, bigger arms, and more muscular bodies, I began to feel as though something was missing from mine.

The heroes I saw in movies and on television were usually big and muscular. Advertising reinforced the idea that strong, handsome men had a particular kind of physique. Even popular explanations of attraction suggested that muscularity was somehow hardwired into what made a man desirable.

There were girls who liked me exactly as I was, but that didn't seem to matter. I'd already absorbed the message that my body wasn't quite right.

As I became more aware of my attraction to other boys and men, I started comparing my body to theirs, too.

Coming out didn't free me from those expectations. In some ways, it introduced me to an entirely new collection of them.

Gay magazines, advertising, and erotic films celebrated men with broad chests, muscular arms, narrow waists, and six-pack abs. I couldn't help noticing that the men I encountered in everyday life rarely looked like the men in those images.

Neither did I.

It took me decades to begin questioning why I was using those images to measure the worth of my own body.

The body I kept trying to improve

Over the years, I've tried countless workouts and eating plans in pursuit of two seemingly contradictory goals: building more muscle and losing belly fat.

When I reached my late 30s, I noticed that I couldn't eat whatever I wanted anymore without gaining weight. The changes were gradual, but they were enough to send me searching for another diet or exercise program.

I tried eating less to lose fat and eating more to build muscle. For a long time, I didn't fully understand how nutrition, physical activity, recovery, and sleep worked together.

During the pandemic, something shifted.

I began walking six or seven miles a day, partly to get out of the house and partly because walking helped me feel grounded. I also began intermittent fasting, which helped me establish some structure around eating rather than grazing throughout the day.

As I lost body fat, I became curious about how far I could go.

Eventually, at six feet tall, I reached 145 pounds.

I was delighted with the number on the scale until I looked in the mirror and realized I didn't particularly like how thin I'd become.

I'd achieved something I'd spent years trying to do, only to discover that the achievement wasn't especially satisfying.

Over time, I settled into a weight that felt more comfortable. I began experimenting with eating more protein to support muscle development and more fiber to meet my nutritional needs.

I also became more intentional about strength training, yoga, cardiovascular exercise, and sleep.

My weight went up again.

And despite everything I'd learned about health and wellness, I still caught myself worrying about it.

“So why am I?”

At my physical this summer, I found myself explaining to my primary care provider that I'd been eating more protein and working to build muscle, which was why my weight had increased.

My doctor looked at my results, shrugged, and said something along the lines of, “You're in a healthy range, and your bloodwork looks good, so I'm not worried about it.”

I remember thinking:

So why am I?

Here I was, a board-certified health and wellness coach, trying to justify a change in my weight to a healthcare professional who wasn't particularly concerned about it.

I was exercising regularly. I was eating nourishing foods. My medical results were reassuring. I had the strength, energy, mobility, and endurance to do the things I enjoyed.

Yet some part of me still believed that weighing less would mean I was doing better.

That was an uncomfortable realization.

I'd spent years learning how to care for my body, but I hadn't entirely released the belief that I needed to make it look a certain way.

My mantra these days is simple:

Healthy body, not perfect body.

Because no body is perfect. And even if I somehow achieved what I considered perfection today, would I still feel that way about it tomorrow?

When weight becomes the measure of health

A weight-centric approach places body weight at the center of how we evaluate health.

We may begin to think that losing weight automatically means becoming healthier, while gaining weight means we're moving in the wrong direction.

A number on the scale can become a verdict on how well we're taking care of ourselves.

Of course, weight and changes in body composition can be medically relevant. Certain health conditions may call for monitoring weight or discussing changes with a healthcare professional.

But weight is only one piece of a much larger picture.

A number on the scale doesn't tell me how well I slept last night, how I'm managing stress, whether I'm eating enough nourishing food, how strong I've become, or whether I have the stamina to enjoy an afternoon hiking in the mountains.

It doesn't tell me whether I have supportive relationships, feel comfortable in my body, or enjoy my life.

A weight-inclusive approach shifts the emphasis toward the whole person.

Rather than assuming that everyone needs to pursue a particular weight, it asks how we can support health, well-being, and quality of life across a diversity of body sizes.

That includes access to respectful healthcare, enjoyable movement, adequate nourishment, restorative sleep, emotional well-being, and sustainable habits.

It doesn't mean ignoring medical concerns. It doesn't mean that someone can't choose to pursue changes in weight or body composition.

It means that our health and our worth are not determined by whether we've achieved a particular number or appearance.

And perhaps most importantly, we don't have to dislike our bodies to be motivated to care for them.

Gay men and the moving target of the ideal body

Gay and bisexual men can face a peculiar challenge.

Many of us grow up feeling different because of whom we're attracted to. We may spend years trying to understand, conceal, or make peace with our sexuality.

Then we come out and discover that belonging to the gay community doesn't necessarily mean we've escaped judgment.

We've simply encountered some new standards.

The ideal gay male body has changed considerably over the decades.

There was the rugged, masculine San Francisco clone of the 1970s and early 1980s, with his jeans, work boots, plaid shirt, mustache, and aviator sunglasses.

Then came other popular ideals, including the smooth, clean-shaven, muscular young men celebrated in much of the gay media of the 1990s.

Today, we recognize an entire vocabulary of body types and identities: bears, otters, twinks, muscle men, and plenty of others.

In some ways, I find that encouraging.

We're seeing more diverse bodies in LGBTQ+ films, television, and social media. I've even heard from men who appreciate the wider range of bodies and personalities represented in amateur erotic media.

Men of different ages, sizes, races, and appearances are finding ways to express their sexuality on their own terms.

And sometimes personality, playfulness, and authenticity are more appealing than a carefully sculpted physique.

But the pressure hasn't disappeared.

Dating and hookup apps can reduce a man to a collection of photographs and physical characteristics before anyone has learned much about his humor, kindness, intelligence, values, or personality.

Youth and muscularity still receive enormous attention.

Older gay men may worry that wrinkles, gray hair, changing bodies, or a little extra weight will make them invisible.

Younger men may feel pressure to achieve an ideal physique before they've even finished discovering who they are.

And a man coming out later in life may find himself confronting body expectations at the very moment he's learning to feel comfortable expressing his sexuality.

The irony is that even men whose bodies seem to match a celebrated ideal may feel inadequate because they want to look like somebody else.

The target keeps moving.

At what point do we decide we've spent enough time chasing it?

Are you living in your body or looking at it?

There's a difference between having a body and constantly evaluating one.

When we're preoccupied with how we look, it's easy to become an observer of ourselves rather than a participant in our own lives.

Instead of enjoying a swim, we worry about how we look in a bathing suit.

Instead of feeling the pleasure of moving, we wonder whether we're burning enough calories.

Instead of enjoying physical intimacy, we become distracted by how our stomach looks from a particular angle or whether a partner will notice something we dislike about ourselves.

Body dissatisfaction can make vulnerability difficult.

Some men become so uncomfortable with their appearance that they avoid dating, intimacy, or situations where another person might see their bodies.

And our perceptions aren't always reliable.

I remember being terribly self-conscious about a particular part of my body when I was younger. Yet on several occasions, different men complimented me on precisely that feature.

Apparently, they weren't seeing what I was seeing.

It made me wonder how much of my discomfort came from my actual appearance and how much came from the story I'd been telling myself about it.

For some people, appearance concerns can become severe and persistent. Body dysmorphic disorder is a clinical condition involving distressing preoccupation with perceived flaws, and it deserves appropriate professional care.

But even without a clinical disorder, ordinary body dissatisfaction can steal a surprising amount of joy.

We can become so concerned with how our bodies appear that we stop noticing what it feels like to inhabit them.

What if we listened instead of judged?

One of the most meaningful shifts I've made in my relationship with my body is learning to pay attention to what it tells me.

I notice when I'm hungry or thirsty.

I notice when I'm tired and need rest.

I notice how different foods affect my energy and digestion.

I notice when movement helps me feel more alert, grounded, or relaxed.

And I notice when I'm pushing myself because I genuinely enjoy a challenge versus when I'm pushing because I think something about my body needs fixing.

Consider two men going for a run.

One is running because he's frustrated that he hasn't lost the last ten pounds he believes he needs to lose.

The other is running because he enjoys the feeling of moving across the ground as fast as he can.

They might cover the same distance at the same pace.

But their experiences could be entirely different.

I run because I love that feeling of freedom.

I strength train because I want to remain strong and capable as I age.

I practice yoga because I enjoy feeling flexible, balanced, and connected to my body.

I hike because I love being outdoors, exploring new places, and sharing experiences with friends.

None of those activities needs to be justified by a change on the scale.

Their value is already present in the experience.

What if we measured progress differently?

I still weigh myself.

But I've become more interested in observing trends than assigning meaning to any particular number.

I pay attention to how foods affect my body and how I feel afterward.

With resistance training, I notice how much I can lift, push, or pull and how many repetitions I can complete.

With yoga, I notice improvements in balance and flexibility.

With cardiovascular exercise, I notice changes in stamina, distance, and recovery.

I pay attention to how I feel when I drink enough water, eat nourishing meals, and get sufficient sleep.

Those observations tell me much more about how I'm caring for myself than whether my weight happens to fluctuate a pound or two.

And I can celebrate progress without needing to criticize the body I started with.

I don't need to hate my arms to enjoy becoming stronger.

I don't need to hate my belly to nourish myself well.

I don't need to fear aging to make choices that support my longevity.

And I don't need to wait until I look different to enjoy my body today.

Better, not perfect

If you're accustomed to evaluating your body by its appearance, changing that relationship may take some practice.

I encourage clients to begin with curiosity rather than criticism.

Here are a few small experiments worth exploring.

Notice how your body feels after movement. Instead of asking whether a workout burned enough calories, ask whether you feel energized, calmer, stronger, or more connected to yourself.

Explore what nourishment feels like. Pay attention to hunger, satisfaction, energy, and how different foods support you. Nutrition doesn't have to become another opportunity to judge yourself.

Give your body permission to rest. Recovery is part of taking care of yourself, not evidence that you've failed to be disciplined.

Question the images you compare yourself to. Notice how you feel after scrolling through social media or browsing dating apps. Are those images helping you appreciate the diversity of human bodies, or making you feel inadequate?

Appreciate what your body allows you to experience. Walking, dancing, hiking, hugging someone you love, laughing until your stomach hurts, feeling the warmth of sunlight, or enjoying physical intimacy.

Practice saying something kind to your body. It might feel strange at first. Try thanking your legs for carrying you, your lungs for breathing, or your arms for allowing you to embrace someone.

You don't have to adore every inch of your body.

You can begin by respecting it.

My guiding principle is better, not perfect.

Not because there's something fundamentally wrong with us that needs to become better, but because we can continue discovering ways to care for ourselves that make life more satisfying.

What would you gain by giving up the criticism?

When a coaching client tells me he dislikes his body, I sometimes invite him to explore that feeling more deeply.

What doesn't he like?

What does he believe that particular feature says about him?

Could something he sees as a flaw also be a distinctive part of who he is?

How well does his body allow him to do the things that matter to him?

And then I might ask a question that changes the direction of our conversation:

What would you gain by giving up feeling bad about yourself?

Not what would you gain by losing ten pounds.

Not what would you gain by having bigger arms, flatter abs, smoother skin, or more hair.

What would you gain if you stopped treating your body as an obstacle to living your life?

Maybe you'd feel more comfortable meeting someone new.

Maybe you'd enjoy sex without constantly wondering how you look.

Maybe you'd go swimming again.

Maybe you'd spend less time comparing yourself to other men and more time getting to know them.

Maybe you'd discover that the body you've spent years criticizing has been doing a remarkable job of carrying you through your life.

And maybe you'd begin to recognize that caring for your health can be an expression of appreciation rather than punishment.

Your body is where your life happens

As I get older, I'm increasingly interested in what my body makes possible.

I want to travel, hike, cycle, practice yoga, dance, make love, explore new places, spend time with people I care about, and remain curious about the world around me.

I want the strength to carry my own luggage and the stamina to spend a day outdoors.

I want to enjoy good food, sleep well, laugh often, and feel comfortable in my own skin.

I don't need the body of a 25-year-old to do those things.

I need to care for the body I have.

And if there's something about my health that needs attention, I can work with qualified healthcare professionals to understand my options without turning the situation into a judgment about my worth.

I've spent enough years trying to make my body look like somebody else's.

These days, I'd rather help it become the healthiest, strongest, most capable version of itself that makes sense for my life.

Healthy body, not perfect body.

Because my body isn't a project I need to finish before I can begin enjoying my life.

It's where my life is happening right now.

Ready to build a healthier relationship with your body?

If you're tired of feeling that your body is something you need to fix, health and wellness coaching can help you explore what well-being means for you, identify changes that matter, and develop sustainable practices that support the life you want to live.

You can learn more about my Health & Wellness Coaching and LGBTQ Coaching services by contacting me directly or scheduling a Discovery Call to learn more about working together.

Want to keep exploring? I also write hello, body …, a Substack about developing a more mindful, nurturing, and meaningful relationship with our bodies. You're welcome to subscribe and continue the conversation there.

Posted in Health & Wellness Coaching, LGBTQ Coaching and tagged Body Acceptance, Body Image, Body Shame, Gay Men, Healthy Aging, Intuitive Eating, Self-Compassion, Weight-Inclusive Health