I'm Brian Murray, And This Is My Journey - Motive Training

Hi, I’m Brian Murray. Back in 2006, I was like many of you: lost, hopeless, and clueless about where to direct myself.

Here’s my story.

Spring, 2006

It’s a few weeks before high school graduation. I’m lumbering through fluorescent hallways filled with the usual suspects.

The suck-ups and brown-nosers are glued to the history teacher’s side.

The shy brainiacs are already five chapters ahead.

And, of course, the Joes, Brads, and Chads are working overtime to charm a cheerleader.

Then there’s me—the heavier kid with long, curly hair that covered my neck and bunched up around the collar of a North Face jacket two sizes too big.

I mostly kept to myself. While most of my classmates were stressing over ceremony speeches and planning for college, I was stuck in one thought loop:

How will I leave this place without having a first date, kiss, or even a steady girlfriend?

If I liked a girl, I didn’t talk to her. My teachers were the only women who seemed vaguely interested in anything I said.

Didn’t Believe Me?

I was 260 pounds of self-loathing, to put it lightly. I struggled to find clothes that fit, avoided mirrors, and felt invisible in social situations. Is it any wonder girls didn’t look at me like I wanted?

After barely graduating, I had to face reality—and my first real self-assessment:

I didn’t like Brian Murray.

I was everything a low-effort therapist could bill for: overweight, insecure, disconnected. I had good friends, sure—but I still felt alone.

And the worst part? I had no idea how to talk about any of it.

So I didn’t. I turned it inward.

I wasn’t proud of it, but I vented my frustration at others who were struggling just as much as I was.

But I hated that version of myself.

So I pulled it all back in and turned it on myself instead.

From 13 to 18, I chased comfort in Burger King, McDonald’s, and Totino’s Pizza Rolls. I ate to hide the sadness and numb the depression. The result? I gained 70–90 pounds and spiraled into what felt like my final form (see above).

There was no quick fix.

No movie moment. No big kiss at graduation. No late-night neighborhood walks filled with hope and possibility.

I gave up, became isolated, moved away from everyone who knew me, and dropped out of college before attending a single class.

At 18, I was a dishwasher in a local restaurant, technically an adult and more alone than ever.

It wasn’t just loneliness—it was detachment. I’d wake up, go through the motions, come home, shut the door, and disappear into games or late-night reruns. I wasn’t living—I was buffering.

If you know me now, you might wonder why I’m writing something that sounds like the intro to a bad coming-of-age script. But here’s the thing:

It’s all true.

And if you’re waiting for a magic plot twist or a mystical mentor to sweep in with some ancient truth like “wax on, wax off,” I’m sorry to disappoint.

Eighteen Months Passed

I spent my days washing dishes and my nights hiding in my room, lit only by the glow of the World of Warcraft login screen. I barely spoke to my parents. I left the TV on to cut through the kind of silence that only 3 A.M. brings.

That’s when it started.

Tony Horton’s P90X

That infomercial haunted me: Tony’s voice, Tony’s abs, and Tony’s relentless optimism.

At some point, I caved. I spent my dishwashing money and ordered the DVDs.

What did I have to lose?

Well… my ego, for starters.

I didn’t make it past five minutes. Jumping jacks were torture. So I ejected the DVD and threw in the towel.

But then something happened.

A few days later, motivation crept in—one of those fleeting windows we all get and often ignore. This time, I didn’t. I put the DVD back in.

I lasted eight minutes.

Progress.

Then ten. Then fifteen. Then I started getting through entire workouts—my version of them, anyway (pull-ups at 240 pounds weren’t happening).

Here’s The Part That Matters

P90X didn’t save my life, but it did give me structure when I needed it most. For the first time, I started confronting reality. This was the turning point in my journey. It wasn’t a sudden transformation but a gradual process of self-discovery and growth.

But it did give me structure when I needed it most. And for the first time, I started confronting reality.

Slowly. Consistently. On my terms.

I had to:

• Learn to like myself before expecting anything from anyone else.
• Celebrate the small wins—and forgive myself when things didn’t go as planned.
• Seek people who’d already been through what I was going through.
• And most importantly, I had to take responsibility, without making it all about blame.

No one else put the food in my hands or gave up on my dreams. That was me. So, fixing it had to be me, too.

That’s when things really started to shift. It wasn’t an overnight transformation, but I was building a process. And that process was making me stronger.

In 2009, I became a personal trainer.

Ten years later, I opened Motive Training—because I wanted to help other people do what I did: take the next step, even if that step feels impossibly small.

I got my first kiss at 21. She eventually became my girlfriend.

Not because I was shredded.

Not because I had it all figured out.

But because I was moving forward.

I was showing up. I was trying.

Progress is attractive.

And when you start making progress, your story shifts. You’re no longer the victim of your past—you’re the author of what comes next.

And that’s not the end of the story.

It’s just the beginning. Today, I continue to work on myself, both physically and mentally.

I’ve learned that personal growth is not a destination but a lifelong journey.

And I’m excited to see what the future holds.

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