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By Dr. Ryan Burns, Director of Music

"If I can just stay this weight for ten more years, Gran, I will be alright.” These were the hopeful words I used to say to my grandmother on Saturday afternoon visits when I was young. She would nod lovingly. In her eyes, her grandson was just a bit husky, but the truth is, the weight was piling on, year after year. And by that time, all the joy that comes with being overweight was in full swing. You know — the bullying, the hazing, the shame, the guilt — all there.

Addiction is all around us, and my vehicle of choice: food. Yes, I am a food addict. And while I have learned to dance with this demon, it is always there, waiting for me to slip up. Sure, food tastes good, and we need it to survive, but for me, it has always been a respite from having to deal with how I am feeling. Even a few seconds of relief was worth all those extra bites, those extra pounds. Until it wasn’t…

When I was a sophomore in high school, I tipped the scales at 300 pounds. The truth is, it was probably closer to 285, but not wanting to miss the opportunity to be performative, I have always rounded up. It sounds better after all. By then, I became good at getting ahead of the jokes. Laugh at myself before anyone else could. Let everyone know that I could handle it — a self-defense of sorts, but inside, burying the pain deeper and deeper into my body. But I was good enough then.

I remember when my entire eighth grade went to Washington, DC. It was my first time on a plane. We stayed in a hotel not far outside of DC, and there happened to be another school there from California. I hadn’t traveled outside of New England, so at that time, California seemed like an exotic, faraway land. Nonetheless, the hotel planned for a dance that night to bring the people together. You know how this goes in eighth grade. Everyone found their side of the room — like corners in a boxing match. The DJ tried to get the dancing going, or whatever it is that eighth graders do, by selecting a student from both schools to come out to the dance floor. Lo and behold, and to my surprise, I was chosen. Wait, me? Are you sure?

His other choice was from Cali, the cutest girl in the room. And here she was thrust into one of the most awkward arranged marriages. No, she wasn’t the future Mrs., but there we danced for what felt like eternity. And all the while, most of the people in the room were laughing. And then it hit me, halfway through the song: the cute girl and the fat boy. I will never forget how hard that DJ laughed at me. But I was good enough then.

I remember one particular visit to my pediatrician, Dr. A, short for Dr. Athanasiou. By then, his concerns had been noted — many times — about my weight. As he pointed to the height and weight chart on the back of the door, he told me that while most boys my age were “here,” I was currently not even on the chart. Ironically, I can’t tell you how small I felt that day. There I was, some obscure dot on the wooden door, just to the right of the scotch tape. “That’s me, Dr. A?” “Yup, that’s you.” I felt such shame. But I was good enough then.

Have you ever heard of the book, Jelly Belly? Let me fill you in. It is what rockstar fourth-grade teachers, with guitars and earrings, give students with weight issues. Dragging my dear mother in for a parent-teacher conference, who, along with my father, had their hands absolutely full caring for my brother Greg, who has special needs, all while making sure my sister and I had what we needed. They are saints, by the way. But he needed to let my mother know that I had a weight issue and he wanted to help. I was never stealing my classmates’ food — I had a lunch of my own after all — but with my reach across the table, even as a joke, playing, as kids do, I would be forever changed by that yellow-covered book with a husky kid on the front. My own special reading assignment. My teacher’s intention may have been good, but his impact has stayed with me. I was good enough then, too.

It has taken a long road to get here and a lot of work, but today I am happier and healthier than I have ever been in my entire life. But the scars to get here are real. And some still hurt, even today. It is not surprising that I found my way into performing. Until very recently, I have always found it easier to be someone else rather than me. I recently read Robert Glover’s No More Mister Nice Guy and felt like I got sucker punched only a few pages in. As he notes, nice guys, nice people think they are nice, but are actually liars. They aren’t honest with themselves or others. Wait, what? I am a food addict, and a liar now?

I have been a card-carrying member of the People Pleasers for as long as I can remember. I know now how I got there, easier to laugh at myself first, easier to not rock the boat and keep everyone else happy. It’s easy to say, “Nope, it doesn’t bother me.” But I would be lying if I didn’t acknowledge that on some level, I have known what I have been doing for a while now. There is security in knowing the routine even if it chips away at your confidence and self-worth, bit by bit, comment by comment. This year, though, I don’t plan on renewing my membership, and over the past few years, I haven’t been attending as many meetings. The truth is, I am tired of worrying about everyone else’s opinion before coming to terms with my own. I am tired of postering to seem like things don’t bother me. I am tired of not acknowledging what I have had to overcome. Have others had it worse? Of course. But when we deny our own reality, that is a slippery slope towards self-sabotage.

Everything in life is one of three things: a reason, a season, or a lifetime. The rub is when we hold onto a season and try to keep it in our life for longer. When we try to hold open a door that is closing, or bust through one that was never meant to move. What we might have considered a lifetime event may only be a season. Everything comes to an end after all. On June 21, 2014, I walked down this very aisle, yes, this one, to begin what I thought would be a lifetime, but now, the anniversary that is on the horizon for me is three years since my divorce was finalized.

But I can tell you that without a doubt, that was one of the best things that has ever happened to me. This “living death,” as I like to call it, finally forced me to start being honest with myself. About what I believe, and who I want to be. The Stoics tell us there are three questions in life for us to consider, and these have become my anchor: what can I control, what can’t I control, and how do I want to show up to what I can control? And guess what, I woke up today, too. I get another shot at this grand experiment. It might not be perfect, and it might go sideways, but it certainly beats the alternative.

I have come to realize the beautiful and painful duality of life. I don’t wish bullying on anyone, but I am grateful for that experience. It has helped me not to judge a book by its cover. We are all carrying stories, some painful ones, ones that may never see the light of day. Greg Boyle tells us, “No one behaves poorly from a place of wellness.” Let that wash over you. Maybe we can think twice before passing judgment too quickly. We rarely have all the information.

I wouldn’t wish a divorce on my worst enemy, and my heart goes out to all those affected by it. But while that season came to its end, it gave me the incredible gift of fatherhood: first, my daughter, Ellie, and then, my son, Jack. I cannot imagine my life without them.

I have always wanted to throw a baseball around with my brother, Greg, in the backyard, and have dreamed of those iconic adventures brothers often take in life, but I have learned to appreciate the small moments with him and my family. In reality, we have had our own unique adventures. Like just last weekend, when I cut his hair in the back seat of my car with help from my sister, Alison, and her fiancé, Brett, as we all sang and listened to Frank Sinatra, while Greg threw hair clippings around my car like fairy dust. Our family took “Love. It’s what makes a Subaru, a Subaru” to a whole new level that afternoon. But simply put, my brother has been my greatest teacher in life. One doesn’t need a fancy degree to remind you of what is actually important.

I have so much more to learn, but what I do know, with complete certainty, is that I am an artist, a creative, a source of change. You are an artist, a creative, a source of change. How that hits you matters! I am not talking about an artist expressed in a specific medium, but who you are at your very core. Every decision you make, every path you walk, you are improvising. You are innovating. How incredible is that! We are a product of everything that has shaped us, yes. Everything we have encountered in life. Everything that has gone well, bad, or somewhere in between.

Life is about embracing duality. I think at the core of my life, I have sought to be seen and heard. As humans, that feels fundamental, whether as a child, sibling, parent, friend, you name it. But that’s a two-way street, and it starts with us. We have to be willing to be honest with ourselves to show up fully in life. As I have navigated iterations of my own dark night of the soul, I carry those experiences with me now, my scars, my imperfections, and have learned to find gratitude for them. This isn’t a dress rehearsal, after all.

I love quotes and have become quite chummy with Post-it Notes. Above my desk at home, I have added a new sticky note this year. It is the acronym, YAGEAYA (You Are Good Enough As You Are), in my own version of cursive writing. It took me a long time to add this one, but when I look at it now, I smile. I remember when I used to worry if I was good enough.

And while I know I am still a work in progress, I am good enough as I am. I always have been, and so are you. 

 

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This story first appeared in the Summer 2026 issue of Pomfret Magazine.

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