I was 23, standing at the body fat scanner HR had put in the hallway at my biotech campus, and I told a colleague I was probably around 15 percent, and he laughed at me, and I was realistically somewhere around 23 or 24. A few weeks later the two of us set out to climb Mount Shasta, and the night before I was in a dive bar in Dunsmuir drinking cheap beer until about 12:30, buzzed and bloated and not remotely ready for it. I got to camp around 10,000 feet in pain and out of breath, so in the morning I talked up the storm to plant doubt about whether it was safe to continue, and we turned around and went and got a burger. Years later a guy who was five years sober told me that rock bottom is where you stop digging, and what I'd done on that mountain was decide this was mine, before I'd gained another 20 pounds or let anything get genuinely bad. That's the part I want you to have, because you don't need a disaster to earn the right to change, and I eventually went back and climbed it in my father's hiking boots with my grandfather's ice ax.
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Flint
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