After my son was killed when struck by a car outside his high school, I sat on the sofa for five months. I was medicated. I loathed life itself. I hated myself, I hated happiness and positive thoughts. I craved comfort foods - I mean if it was chocolate cake, it wasn't a slice I wanted - I mean I wanted the whole 3-layer deep chocolate icing with drizzled topping. One day my daughter took a picture of me at the mall during Christmas. I looked at the mall Santa and his jelly belly. I was on the cusp of fifty years old, and something had to begin. A friend one day looked at me and asked, "What happened to you?!" I wasn't as heavy before my son's death. That summer I started had a few false starts going to the gym, then after Christmas of 2011, everything started to click. I started to feel better. I started to emerge from the abyss that the loss of a child can drag a man into and never let him go.