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I've lost weight my whole life. I've also gained weight my whole life, a phenomenon as dismaying and apparently unstoppable as the crushing advance of a glacier.

Childhood photos show that I was a big boy who became a big man — two inches over six feet and 298 pounds at my peak.

Veteran losers will recognize the many fad diets that attracted me: Scarsdale, cabbage soup, grapefruit and the "7 Day All You Can Eat Diet," which on Thursdays allowed five bananas and five glasses of milk.

Any visible reduction in my weight resulted in quick and gratifying applause, at least from most people. A notoriously obnoxious editor once asked me, "Have you lost weight?"

I eagerly replied, "Yep — 10 pounds."

His comeback: "Don't look behind you — it found you again."

My appetite for approval spurred my first weight loss era. Employed by an international aid organization, I presented workshops on world hunger. After one presentation, a man accosted me: "How can you expect people to take you seriously?" he challenged me, poking my belly.

That launched me into serious calorie-counting and weekly treks to meetings to weigh in and hear dreary testimonials. Attending with friends from my office made it bearable. But what helped me succeed was making my goal public: I recruited sponsors who gave money to hunger relief for every pound I lost.

So for a year, while travelling for world hunger, I visited church basements and community halls for weekly weigh-ins. On a cold, wet February night in Grand Falls, Nfld., I reached the magic official goal weight.

Flush with success, I bought a new wardrobe, donated old clothes to charity and collected pledges. I basked in praise from friends and co-workers and began sharing free advice. For as long as my weight was mentally linked to my professional credibility, I kept it off.

How naive. As soon as the spotlight was off, I started gaining. Over the years I expanded through several clothing sizes until I was only a dozen burgers away from 300 pounds — and there I hovered for a long time.

Few people ever would have guessed that high: I'm told that I "carry it well." But eventually I could not stand the embarrassment and self-loathing of being both noticeably overweight and apparently powerless. I revved up the dieting, joined a gym, consulted a trainer and started driving off the pounds.

I welcomed my new levels of energy and recovered some of my old confidence. I also learned more about nutrition and exercise, so my advice to others could be much more beneficial.

My family was enthusiastic. Partners and clients congratulated me. Friends I had not seen in some time were impressed.

Again, out with the old clothes, in with the new. I graciously advised anyone who asked, "How did you do it," and inwardly felt smug and superior.

And even sooner than before, I started regaining weight. My second major era of weight loss was over.

But the setback wasn't total. I also gained valuable insight: If I lose weight only to gain praise, then when the compliments stop, I regain weight. The compliments inevitably must stop: The new normal of a skinnier me is only briefly remarkable, but I remain essentially unchanged. And once the compliments cease, the cupcakes begin.

Decades ago, American minister Charlie Shedd published a self-help book titled The Fat is in Your Head. He was ahead of his time. Today, my office fax machine spits out messages such as: "Emotional eating … Do you eat when you're tired, lonely, bored, worried or frustrated?" Well, of course.

Clearly something other than hunger or pleasure drives me. That's why today, in my third great era of weight loss, I'm working on understanding the emotional side of eating.

I have made other discoveries, too. Fear for my health as I head into my late 50s is more powerful than vanity. Nothing like the heart attacks to the right of me and bypasses to the left to get my attention. And everyone my age has seen the shocking decline in quality of life for people who cannot move well.

Grandchildren are another motivator. I have none but they are theoretically possible, and for as long as I can I would like to be able to play in the ways kids love, with energy, breath and flexibility.

Flattery remains welcome. But I'm learning to give compliments their proper weight and give far less advice.

Today, two good suits hang in the back of my closet — one colossal and one only a couple of sizes too big.

What seems wise to me now is to keep the big suits and lose the fads, the arrogance toward others, the simple-minded sense of having "arrived," the hunger for approval and the self-recrimination for failure.

Dropping that psychological dead weight is every bit as hard as shedding fat, but it's an equally important goal.

Larry Matthews lives in Toronto.

Illustration by Tara Hardy.