Matt Joseph Diaz

Being asked about my weight-loss “secrets” make me uncomfortable. It feels very different from people wanting to know about my story. It feels like being asked to provide a shortcut.

I was definitely what you might consider a “late bloomer.” When I was younger, I was exceedingly shy around women and insecure about my weight, and I put no effort into my appearance whatsoever. I didn’t have a decent haircut until 2013, and even that’s debatable.

I’m about to be in the midst of a depressive episode. At times like these, I’ve learned to take a step back from social media. While I do ultimately believe social media is a force for good, a means through which we can connect to, learn more about, and inform one another, there’s a real problem with how mental illness is portrayed there.

There’s a big difference between talking and communicating. One exists to relay messages, ideas, and feelings: the building blocks of being a person. The other exists to fill time. I’m by no means here to tell people how to approach their relationships — I just don’t want people to feel pressured to fill silences with noise out of the fear their partners won’t think they care.

I know that the world can seem like a scary and terrible place, where it feels like the threat of judgment and exclusion is constantly looming. That’s because it is; but there’s so much more love and kindness on this planet than evil and suffering. There is generosity and spirit in every human being that runs so deep, you’ll find it hard not to fall a little bit in love with each and every one of them.

In the spring of 2013, I met a woman on OKCupid. She was petite, with a kind smile and a voice so soft that it could melt all your troubles away. Her shock of red curls went down to her shoulders — and because of this, and the fact that we no longer speak, let's call her Ann.

Ann was a few years older than I, wise and mature. She also, it turned out, spent her professional life beating up strangers for their sexual satisfaction.

I promise you, people living with depression are acutely aware that things probably aren’t as bad as they could be.

For a long time, passing privilege made me feel like I didn’t deserve to call myself latino.

This week, Matt shares what he wishes he learned in high school.

How embarrassing is this story, and is the value in it (be it entertainment, educational, or both) enough that the benefit in sharing it outweighs how mortifying it is?