Gabriel Rimando

Tag: lived experience

  • Choosing to Move Slowly

    There was a time when I rushed everything.

    Decisions. Plans. Corrections.

    Speed felt like progress.

    If something was unstable, I tried to fix it quickly.

    If something was unclear, I forced clarity.

    I believed movement itself was improvement.

    Over time, I noticed the pattern.

    Rushing created new gaps.

    Quick corrections required more correction.

    Momentum replaced reflection.

    I began to slow down.

    Not because everything was stable.

    Because speed was no longer helping.

    I delayed fewer decisions.

    But I allowed more time before speaking.

    I allowed time before reacting.

    I allowed time before declaring something fixed.

    Slowness does not feel impressive.

    It feels ordinary.

    Days pass without visible change.

    Adjustments happen quietly.

    I stopped announcing internal shifts.

    I stopped looking for visible proof.

    Some things cannot be hurried.

    Trust.

    Stability.

    Consistency.

    These require repetition.

    Repetition requires patience.

    I began to accept unfinished progress.

    I allowed work to remain in progress.

    I allowed days to feel incomplete.

    Moving slowly did not mean stopping.

    It meant removing urgency.

    Urgency often hides anxiety.

    Slowness reveals structure.

    I chose pace over speed.

    I chose steadiness over display.

    Not everything needs acceleration.

    Some things need time.

    I am still moving.

    Just not quickly.

  • Collapse Without Noise

    There was no single day when everything fell apart.

    No announcement. No public moment.

    Things did not break loudly.

    They loosened.

    A delay here. A missed follow-up there.

    Small gaps widened quietly.

    From the outside, life continued.

    Work moved. Conversations happened. Days passed.

    Inside, structure weakened.

    Not suddenly.

    Gradually.

    I relied on memory instead of systems.

    I relied on intention instead of consistency.

    I assumed tomorrow would correct what today postponed.

    Tomorrow kept moving.

    Responsibilities did not disappear.

    They accumulated.

    Pressure did not explode.

    It settled.

    I adjusted outwardly.

    I minimized internally.

    When something felt unstable, I focused elsewhere.

    When something required structure, I delayed.

    Collapse does not always look dramatic.

    Sometimes it looks like ordinary days repeating without correction.

    I did not feel a crash.

    I felt strain.

    Strain became normal.

    Normal became heavier.

    By the time I noticed, nothing was fully broken.

    But nothing was steady.

    Stability requires maintenance.

    Maintenance requires discipline.

    Discipline was still forming.

    Collapse did not arrive as an event.

    It arrived as absence.

    The absence of follow-through. The absence of correction. The absence of structure.

    There was no moment to point to.

    Only a pattern that had been building quietly.

  • Fatherhood as Exposure

    My first son, Fadi, was born on November 5, 2016.

    I held him carefully. He was small. He was quiet.

    The room felt still.

    I did not feel fear. I felt responsibility.

    Responsibility does not speak loudly. It settles.

    I understood that someone would now grow by watching me.

    Not by listening. By watching.

    That changed how I saw myself.

    I could no longer describe who I wanted to be. I had to become visible.

    Fatherhood did not accuse.

    It revealed.

    It showed where I was steady. It showed where I was inconsistent.

    Children do not ask for explanations.

    They respond to patterns.

    I began to notice my patterns more clearly.

    The way I reacted. The way I delayed. The way I avoided small discomforts.

    These things were no longer private.

    They were being observed.

    Years later, on October 9, 2022, my second son, Ford, was born.

    By then, I had changed in some ways. In other ways, I was still forming.

    Holding him felt familiar. Responsibility returned, but heavier.

    Not because of pressure. Because of repetition.

    I now had two lives watching.

    Fatherhood did not make speeches.

    It made mirrors.

    I saw myself reflected in small behaviors.

    Patience or impatience. Discipline or delay. Presence or distraction.

    Exposure does not humiliate.

    It clarifies.

    I did not become different overnight.

    I became aware.

    Awareness did not fix everything.

    It removed excuses.

    Fatherhood did not demand perfection.

    It required consistency.

    Consistency takes time.

    I am still forming inside that responsibility.

  • When Waiting Became a Way of Living

    At first, waiting felt temporary.

    I told myself it would pass.
    I told myself I was just between things.

    I was waiting for the right time.
    Waiting for things to settle.
    Waiting for clarity.

    Waiting felt reasonable.

    I did not call it avoidance.
    I did not call it fear.

    I called it patience.

    Days passed without change.
    Then weeks.
    Then years.

    Nothing broke.
    Nothing collapsed.

    Life continued.

    That is how waiting works.
    It does not announce itself.

    It blends into routine.

    I postponed small things.

    I delayed decisions.
    I answered later.
    I followed up slowly.

    I said “soon” often.
    I said “after this” a lot.

    Soon became a habit.

    Waiting did not feel heavy at first.

    It felt safe.

    While waiting, I did not have to choose.
    I did not have to fail.
    I did not have to explain.

    Waiting kept things open.

    Open things feel less painful than closed ones.

    Over time, waiting stopped being a pause.

    It became the default.

    I waited before speaking.
    I waited before acting.
    I waited before committing.

    Even when nothing stopped me.

    I learned how to stay in place.

    I learned how to delay without noticing.
    I learned how to live inside unfinished plans.

    Waiting filled the space where action should have been.

    Life around me moved.

    People decided.
    People changed.
    People closed doors and opened others.

    I stayed available.

    Availability felt like flexibility.
    But it was still waiting.

    Waiting shaped my days quietly.

    It shaped how I ate.
    How I worked.
    How I responded.

    It shaped how I carried time.

    Time did not move differently.
    I did.

    There was no single moment when I realized this.

    No event.
    No turning point.

    Just a pattern that became visible later.

    Waiting became a way of living.

    Not dramatic.
    Not painful.

    Just slow.

    I did not stop living.

    I delayed living fully.

    That difference took years to notice.

  • Waking Up With a Heavy Body

    January 26, 2026

    I woke up today and my body felt heavy.

    Not painful. Just heavy.

    Getting out of bed took longer than usual. I sat for a moment before standing.

    My legs felt slow. My back felt tight. My breathing was fine, but I noticed it more.

    I did not rush. There was nowhere I needed to be early.

    I drank water. I stood by the window. I let the morning pass.

    I did not feel strong. I did not feel weak.

    I just felt the weight of my body.

    I did not try to fix it. I did not judge it.

    I carried it.

    That was enough for today.

  • The Weight I Lived Inside

    I arrived in Dubai in 2007 weighing 50 kilos.

    Gabriel Rimando in Dubai in 2007 before weight gain
    Dubai, 2007.

    I was light then.
    Not just in my body, but in how life felt.

    I walked fast.
    I stood straight.
    I did not think much about my body.

    I thought weight was only about size.
    I did not know it could be about pressure.

    At that time, I believed being thin meant being free.

    Years passed.

    Life became louder.

    Work became heavier.
    Responsibility grew.
    Expectations followed.

    I ate when I was tired.
    I ate when I was stressed.
    I ate when I did not want to think.

    Food became a pause button.

    I did not notice the change at first.
    The body does not change in one day.
    It changes quietly.

    A little more weight.
    Then more.
    Then enough that I stopped checking.

    When I reached 120 kilos, it did not feel sudden.

    It felt normal.

    That is how weight works.
    It becomes part of the room.
    You stop seeing it.

    But you feel it.

    You feel it when you sit.
    You feel it when you walk.
    You feel it when you avoid mirrors.

    You feel it when you choose loose clothes.
    You feel it when you stop running.
    You feel it when you rest more than you move.

    The hardest weight was not on my body.

    It was inside.

    It was the weight of avoiding things.
    Avoiding silence.
    Avoiding questions.
    Avoiding responsibility.

    It was easier to carry weight than to face discomfort.

    The body became a place to hide.

    People often think weight is about food.

    For me, it was about pressure.

    Pressure to succeed.
    Pressure to provide.
    Pressure to hold things together.

    Pressure does not ask if you are ready.

    It just arrives.

    And when you do not know how to release pressure,
    it finds a place to stay.

    In my case, it stayed in my body.

    As the weight increased, my world became smaller.

    I said no to things without explaining why.
    I stayed home more.
    I moved less.

    I spoke less about how I felt.
    I joked instead.
    I smiled instead.

    Smiling is easier than explaining.

    I was not lazy.
    I was not careless.

    I was disconnected.

    Disconnected from my body.
    Disconnected from discipline.
    Disconnected from discomfort.

    I lived inside the weight, not just with it.

    At 120 kilos, I did not hate my body.

    I simply stopped listening to it.

    That is more dangerous.

    When you stop listening, you stop learning.

    This story is not about losing weight.

    It is about how weight can carry meaning.

    It can carry stress.
    It can carry silence.
    It can carry things left unfinished.

    The body remembers what the mind avoids.

    I arrived in Dubai at 50 kilos.
    I reached 120 kilos years later.

    Between those numbers was not just time.

    There was pressure.
    There was waiting.
    There was avoidance.

    And there was a quiet lesson I did not yet understand.

    That weight is never only physical.

    Sometimes, it is the shape of what we do not face.

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