Listen Free: | Apple Podcasts | Castbox | Pandora
In this episode of 7 Minute Stories, Aaron revisits the last conversation he ever had with his pediatrician, a moment that left him angry, insecure, and determined to prove someone else wrong. What follows is a teenage experiment fueled by insecurity, chocolate milkshakes, and the belief that changing the body might fix everything else. Years later, Aaron reflects on what actually changed and what didn’t. It’s a story about growth, certainty, and the quiet realization that some answers can’t be measured on a chart.
*Join Aaron Thursday Evenings for Night Stories LIVE! : A live, audio-first show inspired by classic late-night radio — it features raw reflections, spontaneous storytelling, and unexpected conversations with guests and listeners. Subscribe and hit the notification bell on The Night Stories Live! YouTube Page to tune in live. Or, listen to the on-demand replays as a podcast!
*Dive deeper into the 7MS Universe and connect with Aaron on...
The Team:
Story created & performed by: Aaron Calafato
Senior Audio Engineer: Ken Wendt
Additional vocals: Cori Calafato
Art: Pete Whitehead
Original Theme Music: thomas j. duke
Additional Soundscape Design: Isaac Gehring
TRANSCRIPT
I’ll never forget the last conversation I had with my pediatrician and how I proved him wrong with a tactic not many people know about.
What did he say?
What was my remedy?
And what did I actually learn from all of this?
First, I should say this. My pediatrician was, and I think still is, a great doctor. He was originally from Taiwan. Very serious. No small talk. No real bedside manner. He came in, did his job, and wanted to heal people.
But the last time I saw him, we disagreed.
I was in my teenage angst years, ninth or tenth grade. Which begs the question, why was I still going to a pediatrician? Shouldn’t that change at some point?
I already felt weird walking in. I’m a teenager. I’ve got a little crust-dash growing on my face. I’m sitting in a waiting room full of three-year-olds playing with those bead rollercoaster toys on the wall.
Eventually, I’m called back. I sit down on that paper-covered exam table. The one that always makes that weird crinkly sound when you move.
The reason for the appointment was something I asked my mom to set up.
I was tiny.
I was heading into tenth grade and I was five feet tall and ninety pounds. Just sit with that for a second. Five feet. Ninety pounds. I can laugh about it now, but back then it felt massive.
I had the mind of a teenager. The hormones. The awareness. The self-consciousness. Everything that makes you feel like you’re becoming a young adult.
But I still looked like a small child.
I became so fixated on my height that I considered wearing lifts. I asked my mom to buy me shoes that were slightly too big so I could stuff toilet paper in the bottom to give myself a little extra height.
That’s how deep in my head I was.
It was rough. I was asking girls to prom. Girls who didn’t even know I existed. I’d walk up to them in the hallway and ask, and they’d respond like I was an elementary school kid who wandered into the high school.
“That’s so sweet. Maybe if you were a little older.”
I’m thinking, I’m in your study hall. You think I’m in second grade?
Something had to be done.
So I’m sitting there on the crinkly paper. He walks in. We say hello. And I just put it all out there.
I said, “Look, I’m going to be honest. Am I going to get any taller?”
He smiled a little. Not in a mean way. More like he knew something I didn’t.
He looked at my chart and said, “I can’t tell you exactly. But based on your growth pattern, I can give you a projection.”
I said, “Just tell me.”
He said, “You’re probably going to top out around five foot five, maybe one hundred and thirty pounds.”
That was not acceptable.
I didn’t say it out loud, but that’s exactly what I thought.
Five foot five? Are you kidding me?
No knock on anyone who’s five foot five. I was just an idiot teenager. But to me, it was devastating. I had convinced myself that I needed to look a certain way to be okay. And if I didn’t, something was wrong with me.
I got angry. I stood up and said, “I disagree with you. And I’m going to prove you wrong.”
And then I walked out.
The problem was, I had no plan.
So I did what kids do. I asked around. Friends. Cousins. Friends of friends.
Eventually, I talked to a buddy on the wrestling team. He said, “My brother was the same way. Now he wrestles at one seventy.”
I said, “How?”
He said, “He grew five inches and gained a ton of weight.”
I said, “You’re serious?”
He said, “I guarantee it. And I’ll tell you what to do.”
He said, “Once school’s out for summer, drink eight chocolate milkshakes a day. Every day. All summer.”
I thought, that’s easy.
I just had to convince my mom to keep vanilla ice cream stocked. Whole milk. Hershey’s chocolate syrup.
I’d mix it all in a giant plastic cup with a huge silver spoon. It took forever, but I did it.
Every single day.
Eight milkshakes a day.
The entire summer between my freshman and sophomore year.
And guess what?
I grew seven inches.
I was still light. About one hundred and thirty pounds. But I thought, I did it. I found the cure. I unlocked the thing that was going to change everything.
And the truth is, I did get taller.
But I still didn’t get many yeses from girls. I still felt that same disconnected adolescent angst. I was just a little taller while feeling it.
I had more confidence, sure. But I realized what I was searching for went much deeper than my body. That realization would come much later in life.
I kept thinking about that doctor visit. About how I told him I’d prove him wrong. Which, technically, I did. Probably through sheer luck.
And what I took from it was this.
Even doctors. Even the learned. We should respect their knowledge. Lean on it.
But no one gets to own ultimate knowledge.
We only get to lean toward it. To understand the best we can.
And that kind of growth is mental. Not physical.
It has nothing to do with the body.
I’ll talk to you next week.
