‘I ended up with an eating disorder’: Paul Craig’s middleweight experiment had a heavy cost
Paul Craig chased a bold goal in 2023: drop from light heavyweight to middleweight and make a run at UFC gold. He did it the hard way—cutting from a walking weight near 220 pounds down to 185. The result was not just a change on the scale, but a slide into an eating disorder, hormone problems, and a run of infections that hammered his body and his confidence.
The move started well. Craig stopped Andre Muniz in the second round and looked energized at 185. Then the slope turned steep. He lost three in a row—Brendan Allen, Caio Borralho, Bo Nickal—while his day-to-day life became a grind of calorie counting, dehydration, and worry over how he looked in front of cameras and crowds.
He says the process to make middleweight was “horrible.” Camps turned into 10 weeks of restricted calories and a tightrope act to hold muscle while peeling off fat. On fight week, every sip of water and every grain of salt mattered. Each weigh-in came with a price: relentless fatigue and spiraling thoughts about food and appearance.
The health fallout was real. Craig says bloodwork showed low testosterone and a drop in white blood cells, which left him catching infections more than usual. That lines up with what ringside doctors warn about extreme cuts—hormones can crater, immune function can dip, and athletes can feel flat when they need their bodies to respond.
The mental side hit just as hard. MMA is a weight-based sport, but it is also a visual one. Fighters pose at media day, hit the scale in front of cameras, and get judged on how “shredded” they look before a punch is thrown. Craig said that pressure pulled him deeper into unhealthy habits: watch the calories, tighten the belt, then worry about the mirror as much as the opponent.
At first, he kept it to himself. Then he decided to speak up, saying he hopes other athletes wrestling with the same thing don’t stay quiet. The National Health Service defines eating disorders as mental health conditions where people use food control to cope—eating too much, too little, or fixating on weight and shape. For Craig, the trigger was the job. The solution, he says, is asking for help and stepping back from a target that was hurting him.
- Middleweight debut: TKO win over Andre Muniz, a promising start to the drop.
- Skid follows: losses to Brendan Allen, Caio Borralho, and Bo Nickal, each fight looking heavier on the body than the last.
- Aftermath: bloodwork issues, infections, and a growing fear of food leading to an eating disorder.
- Decision: move back up to light heavyweight, where his body and mind feel more stable.
Going back to 205 pounds isn’t just nostalgia. That is where Craig did some of his best work. He submitted Magomed Ankalaev at the horn in a wild comeback. He stopped Jamahal Hill in a breakout performance. He beat dangerous names with timing, creativity, and a killer squeeze in grappling exchanges. At light heavyweight, he didn’t need to carve 35 pounds off his frame. He could focus on the fight, not on survival before it.
Why does this keep happening in MMA? Because weight matters. Fighters chase size advantages by cutting down a division, then hope to rehydrate and show up bigger than opponents on fight night. Many can trim 10% of body weight with planning and still perform. But when the cuts creep toward the extreme—15% or more—the risk piles up: slower reactions, foggy thinking, weaker resistance to illness, and a shorter fuse under pressure.
There is also a quiet part people don’t like to admit: the “look” is a currency. Social media loves a shredded weigh-in photo. Fans read into abs and veins. Sponsors see it, too. For someone already dieting hard, that attention can push a fighter into punishing habits that feel like control but shrink their world to numbers on a scale.
On the medical side, the signs Craig described match what athletes often report during big cuts. Low testosterone can sap energy, kill libido, and slow recovery. A dip in white blood cells can leave a person more open to infections. Chronic calorie deficits crank up stress hormones and mess with sleep. Stack all that and then ask your body to perform in a cage under bright lights. It’s a bad trade.
Craig’s callout matters because it talks about the middle of the sport, not the edges. This wasn’t a botched last-day water cut. It was a whole-camp strategy that looked disciplined on paper but turned into something that broke his relationship with food and his own body. Saying “I ended up with an eating disorder” takes aim at the idea that discipline and suffering are always virtues. Sometimes they’re a mask for damage.
For the UFC and state commissions, the problem is hard to fix cleanly. Early weigh-ins and tighter oversight help a bit. Some promotions outside the UFC use hydration tests to blunt extreme cuts. Nutritionists are more common on teams now, and fighters share more data from wearables and labs. But the incentives are still there. If a fighter believes a size advantage wins rounds, many will keep pushing right to the edge.
So what changes as Craig heads back to light heavyweight? First, the camp. Less time starving means more time training. Sparring rounds can be sharper. Strength work can be real, not just maintenance. The last week can focus on timing and nerves instead of salt baths and sauna runs. That alone can put a veteran with Craig’s style in better shape to finish fights late.
Second, the identity. Craig built his name as a creative finisher with long limbs and slick setups—triangles, transitions, traps on the cage. At middleweight, that playbook shrank because the engine behind it was running on fumes. At 205, the energy to hunt submissions and threats off his back returns. That’s the version that toppled future and former champs.
Third, the message. When a known fighter spells out the mental cost like this, younger athletes listen. Coaches and managers hear it, too. You can chase a belt without dismantling yourself to get there. Plenty of contenders have thrived by moving up, not down. The lesson isn’t “never cut.” It’s “don’t cut so hard you lose yourself.”
What about the competition waiting at light heavyweight? The division always has punchers and wrestlers who can make a bad night worse. But the road is clearer when you start camp strong and finish camp whole. Craig’s résumé at 205 still carries weight. He owns signature wins and a style that makes matchmakers curious. He’s dangerous in scrambles and opportunistic in chaos, and he tends to find that chaos when he’s healthy enough to create it.
There’s also the human part. Craig admitted he was embarrassed to talk about an eating disorder. Fighters are supposed to be the toughest people in the room. But toughness isn’t silence. It’s telling the truth before the damage multiplies. It’s choosing a weight class that keeps your mind steady and your bloodwork clean. It’s saying, “I want to be great—but not at any cost.”
If his body responds the way he expects, fans should see the difference: less drained, more aggressive, better cardio in scrambles. Those small edges flip close rounds. At middleweight, he was borrowing energy against high-level opponents and paying interest late. At light heavyweight, he can spend energy earlier and still have a reserve when a finish is there.
The bigger conversation MMA can’t avoid
Craig’s story lands in the middle of a decades-long debate in combat sports. The sport asks fighters to hit a number on Friday and be at their best on Saturday. That can work—until it doesn’t. When a cut turns into a compulsion, when food becomes the enemy, performance follows. And when a veteran says, “This broke me,” it’s a chance for the whole scene to recalibrate where the line should be.
For now, Craig is taking back control the only way that really works: moving up, speaking out, and building camps around health first. He has proof he can win at 205 against elite names. He has a blueprint for a stronger camp without a 35-pound swing. And he has a platform big enough to nudge the sport toward saner choices.
That might not change policy overnight, but it changes conversations in gyms. It gives a young fighter permission to tell a coach the cut is too steep. It puts a spotlight on bloodwork, not just abs. And it reminds fans that the cleanest victories often start months earlier, with meals that fuel, training that sticks, and a scale that doesn’t own the athlete standing on it.
