#2424 - Jelly Roll

I came in with notes because I really think we can help some people today, so forgive me if I sound like a nerd—I want to get this right.

You dropped about three hundred pounds, man—look at you; that’s incredible.

I don’t want to get too spiritual right away, but it truly feels like God didn’t just fix the old me—He handed me a new heart, a whole new creation wrapped in the same body.

Your body does renew itself over time, but in different ways; some cells turn over fast, some barely at all, and you look like a guy who’s been putting in the work.

First time I visited your club I had to stop every few steps going up the stairs, and yesterday I finished my first 10k; today I jogged a few easy miles while you swung kettlebells and I felt like a different human.

Your pace looks natural now—your body’s adapted, and it shows.

People overestimate ninety days and underestimate a year, so if you’re severely overweight, think long game; I turned forty-one three days ago and started this push before forty because I’d never met a five-hundred‑pound forty‑year‑old who was okay.

That’s usually when the clock runs out.

I’d had heart scares, my ring size dropped five times, and I’ve got roughly thirty‑five pounds of extra skin now, which still beats carrying five hundred.

So what was the real turning point?

My past “turning points” were all emotion and yo‑yo; this time I slowed down, got honest, and treated food like an addiction—because unlike drugs, you have to use your drug to live.

I started small—cold plunges and short walks—then kept my word despite a pouring‑rain Monday while my family gently tried to protect me from more letdowns, and when I came back up the hill they were cheering; that gutted me and lit the fuse.

My addiction hurt the people I love—my marriage, my presence as a dad—so I asked for help, went off-grid to work with a food‑addiction therapist, and learned I wasn’t failing discipline so much as running lifelong biological and emotional loops.

Eighty to ninety percent of the battle was in my head; I used to scan rooms like a predator for sugar, so we shifted me to real food, cut processed stuff, and I even stopped eating bread completely except for one holiday.

After months off sugar my color vision sharpened in a way I’d never known—I started noticing bright purples and greens I’d missed for years, like waking up in a new world.

Sugar likely had your whole system inflamed and starved of nutrients, so your body probably said, forget beauty—just keep this guy alive.

That was me—I didn’t plan on a long life; I was trying to build enough success that my kids wouldn’t be ashamed when I died young.

Then we dug into labs: standard bloodwork plus insulin, because A1c alone can lull you; my A1c was 6.4, but my fasting insulin was over forty, which meant I could fast and never reach fat stores.

I passed on GLP‑1s because of gut issues and reflux; we tried a slow, low‑dose metformin approach while I kept fasting and moving, and over a year my insulin dropped to 4.6, A1c to 5.4, C‑reactive protein from the sixes to about 1.2, vitamin D from twenty‑eight to a hundred, and my free testosterone went from 2.3 to 149.

Those are massive changes, and if someone needs to munch, lean on things like radishes, celery, or good fermented pickles—basically fiber and crunch without consequences.

Early on my nutritionist bulked up plates to satisfy my brain, but now I chase density and protein and avoid trigger foods like bread the way an addict avoids the bar.

People say money makes it easy, but money can’t run six miles for you; the only cheat is consistency.

Exactly—don’t aim for ninety days, give yourself a year, build momentum, and stack little wins until the habit cravings replace the food cravings.

Your environment matters; surround yourself with people who are addicted to good things and avoid the folks who want to pull you back into negativity.

New playground, new playmates—you can’t heal where you got hurt, and I prayed for friends who would pull me forward, which led me to guys like Cam Haines and David Goggins.

I waddled through the Two Bears 5k and Cam and Phillip walked it with me for ninety minutes; he kept telling me we’d bowhunt one day, and now we actually are.

As a felon I can’t touch firearms, so archery became my lane, and I’m applying for a pardon; even if that never restores every right, I hope to at least earn the right to hunt because it’s changed my mental and physical health.

Redemption is real, but public safety complicates it; on the outdoors side, public lands and wildlife management are a uniquely American conservation success and we have to protect them.

Bear hunting in Alberta is over bait because the forest is so dense, and if you cook it right it tastes like a rich, beefy meat; early settlers even prized bear and buffalo tongues while wasting the rest, which is wild to imagine.

First sits in the blind with Cam taught me hard lessons—like how slipping one arm into a hoodie at dusk can spook a whole field, and how every sound counts when the main predator is us.

Bowhunting flips rifle logic; when you spot the animal you slow everything down, get close, manage wind and sound, and accept that patience beats impulse.

Shooting daily became a moving meditation—when I draw, everything quiets and it’s just breath and that tiny pin floating, which clears my head like nothing else.

Focus on process, not outcome; even after a decade I still make mistakes, and each one becomes the lesson I needed for the next encounter.

Cam praised me for passing on shots I didn’t love; I want my first kill to be clean, and I’m soaking up wind, pressure, and patterns like a happy beginner.

When you finally get one and cook it, the taste carries the whole journey with it, and wild game is the most nutrient‑dense, athlete‑built meat you can eat.

For anyone starting out, set tiny goals and choose the hard path first; I used to avoid hills, then one day I turned right into the steep one and slapped the pole at the top, and that became the new story I tell myself.

Pick your hardest task and do it voluntarily so everything else feels easier, which is vital when fame throws weird pressures at you.

On days I run, I eat clean without fighting myself; the workout drowns out the negative loop, and it helped me show up for my son when he froze at the hill where he’d crashed his four‑wheeler.

I rode behind him for courage, then let him do it solo, and he learned he could face it; moments like that happen because I’d already done the hard thing and had space to be the dad he needed.

Real peace doesn’t come from comfort—it grows out of struggle, challenge, and the resilience you build by sticking it out through hard things and failures.

I quit telling myself I can’t and started loving the work; even leaving the blind empty‑handed, I’m smiling because I know I’m getting better and the moment will come.

Stay persistent and you’ll get that breakthrough, then you’ll salt that backstrap and realize it’s the best bite you’ve ever had because it came with a story.

I haven’t tasted elk yet, but I’m ready for that day.

Once you truly hunt, you’re in; my first mule deer—guided by a friend—made wild game feel like sacred food with a story, and it woke up something ancient in me.

It’s the same instinct you see when a kid lands a first fish, but bringing home meat that feeds you for months is that feeling multiplied, and doing it with a bow is another level entirely.

I keep picturing the old days—heading out with a simple bow to feed a village—and wanting to honor that by doing it right.

I’ve got an old point a friend found on his ranch—likely Comanche—hand‑lashed to a shaft with sinew; someone made that, fed a family with it, and lost it to the dirt.

I took my daughter bluegill fishing and she loved it, but I made the mistake of taking my wife to wrangle a catfish and it turned into a brutal unhooking that ruined her vibe.

She might try deer hunting though; Cam’s assistant is a hardcore bowhunter and that could make it approachable.

Shooting far with a bow is tough—wind, animal movement, all of it—but I once put an arrow in an elk at sixty‑seven yards after years of practice.

You grind until form lives in your nervous system—same anchor every time, even down to a little nose button so the peep and housing line up exactly.

I’ve dropped about eighty pounds and even my bow setup shifted; clothes swing between too loose and too tight, I’m in the two‑sixties now, and I want to see one‑ninety‑nine at least once.

You may stay in the two‑hundreds as you add muscle, but it’ll be a different body, and you already carry yourself like a new man.

I saw it with Ralphie—massive legs from hauling weight, a beautiful soul—but surgery didn’t fix addiction and it wrecked his ability to eat; it was heartbreaking.

That’s why I’m open about this; I want people at three, four, five hundred pounds to hear me say you can do it, and the real fight happens at the table.

Small steps, telling the truth, keeping promises—then therapy to find the roots; I carried shame from being a kid in the “husky” aisle and it drove a lot of my patterns.

My wife Bunny is my anchor; I asked the family for grace while I learned to communicate in real time, and even turned the pantry from a hiding spot into a place to reset and get honest with myself.

Sharing the work keeps you accountable, and it helps if you don’t bathe in comments; a lot of online negativity is people dodging their own reflection.

Crowd reactions don’t guide me; like the old man and the donkey, someone will always complain, so I stopped chasing approval or even happiness and started aiming to be useful—and that made me happier.

It’s beautiful, and you’re still in motion; when you say “transformation,” what are you aiming for?

Top shape—running, kettlebells, the whole thing—and next time I’m here I want to do your workout and surprise you; I’m coming for a fast five‑k.

People who love you worry when you’re five hundred pounds at forty; bodies just can’t carry that forever.

I felt it at night—terrified I’d roll and suffocate—and now I can drop and do push‑ups, which sounds small but it’s huge from where I started.

Tom turned a challenge into a lifestyle and never went back; Bert rides the rollercoaster, and booze is a big driver—it’s not a game you can win.

I love Bert and pray for my friends; I want to show him what’s possible at that five‑k, and I had to quit drinking because a night of tequila plus late food wiped out progress.

Alcohol wrecks you and fuels inflammation, but that obsessive streak that once fed bad habits can be pointed at health, discipline, and truth.

I’m craving deeper talks with my wife and friends, pouring into people instead of skating on small talk.

Phones wreck attention and real listening; hosting this show taught me how to sit for hours and let a conversation breathe, which makes shallow exchanges painful.

Disconnection breeds addiction and loneliness; screens trick us into thinking we’re close, but I grew up at a kitchen table with long stories, and therapy pushed me to go past the surface again.

People are starved for depth; that’s why I won’t do canned, forty‑five‑minute political chats with handlers—I want three hours so the real person shows up.

That’s why I come here; this is where people reveal who they are beyond the quick promo circuit.

We’re a hive species, and social media is like processed calories—tasty but empty—so long talks help fill the need for connection when you don’t have it nearby.

On the day of the Dove Awards, I was thinking about all this and remembered singing a faith song with Brandon Lake; months earlier I’d performed at St. Peter’s Square and was already shrinking.

I was the only solo slot, terrified, then they told me Jennifer Hudson would close with a hallelujah; I said, let’s give them Jesus, and it turned into a full praise moment before a massive crowd, which wiped out my impostor syndrome.

Let’s pull up that Craig Morgan Grand Ole Opry moment you told me about, where you once sat in the seventh row and dreamed from a jail cell.

Quick shout to my wife’s book, Strip Down, coming in February; and yeah, I scraped together money for that Opry ticket with an ankle monitor on, bawled when Craig sang, and decided I wanted to move people like that.

You did it—and you’ve done it for a lot of folks.

Your show was on my vision board for years; I honestly thought I’d die young or take myself out, so sitting here as your friend means the world.

You’re figuring it out, slowly and honestly, and others are changing with you because you’re doing it in the open.

I’m a member of the Grand Ole Opry now, with my name on a plaque I never imagined I’d touch, and it still shakes me to say it.

Amazing things happen when you live true.

I know you don’t leave Texas much, but come see me at the Opry—I even get mail there now—and if you’re dreaming, dream bigger because I didn’t dream big enough for this.

Love you, brother.