I Took Ozempic for Two Years

And Here's What Happened

*Today’s post is very personal. I’d been working on it for a while, and wasn’t quite sure what to do with it, so I’m sharing it here, in a space I’ve come to feel is safe, welcoming, and nurturing; where we cheer each other on and support and empower each other about the big things, the little things, and all of the things in between.*

**Content Warning: This post mentions eating disorders, weight loss drugs, and diet culture.**

Ten years ago, I was diagnosed with Binge Eating Disorder. Upon walking into the outpatient treatment facility I’d signed up for, the first thing I was told is the goal of treatment is not to lose weight, but instead, to get to the root of the issue. I thought I did so, until I started binging again a year later.

At my annual physical, I asked my doctor if I was at an unhealthy weight. He responded by asking if I was happy. I wasn’t. I felt sluggish from the constant restrict/binge cycle. And more strangers than I could count had asked if I was pregnant. Sometimes I said no, sometimes I went along with it, one time I scolded the rude man who asked me. A few weeks after my physical, someone offered me his seat on the subway and when I declined, he pointed to my stomach and said, “But you’re pregnant, right?” I quietly sat down, unable to bear the humiliation of saying no. It was on this particular day when I got home that I opened my junk drawer, pulled out the business card my doctor had given me, and called a weight loss clinic.

The irony was, when I gave the clinic my weight, they said I was five pounds too light to be considered obese, therefore I didn’t qualify. Well, guess what I did over the next few days? After about a week, I called the clinic, having officially reached obesity, and scheduled my first appointment.

During my first visit, I was given a meal plan (diet), and a prescription for a medication called Belviq. Here’s how the meal plan conversation went:

Me: “Wow, this is nothing like what I eat now. No carbs, no dessert….”

Doctor: “Well, you just have to eat seventy percent protein and thirty percent vegetables at every meal. It’s easy!"

Me: “That sounds like a horrible life.”

Doctor: Looks at me funny.

I moved on to the prescription bit and asked what the medication would do. The doctor said it would curb my desire to binge. Well, SIGN ME. THE FUCK. UP. The meal plan plus the medication would supposedly be my ticket to losing weight (it was), therefore to happiness (it wasn’t).

I started the Belviq, and ate so much lettuce on the meal plan that I felt like a bunny rabbit. It was miserable. About three weeks in, I started losing weight. And then, the high I got from food was replaced with the high of fitting into smaller clothes. In less than a year, I lost sixty pounds. Any time I wanted to go back to my old ways, I’d just open my laptop and shop, shop, shop away. (This is clearly what they mean when they say, “You’re replacing one addiction with another.”) So, did I lose the weight that had made me so sad? Yes. Did I get to the root of the issue in doing so? Of course not.

In 2021, I was about four years into maintaining my weight when Belviq was discontinued. My doctor suggested I switch to Ozempic.

“What’s that?” I asked.

“It’s a medication that’s used to treat people with diabetes, but it’s proven to be effective for weight loss,” she said. “You’ve seen it on TV. It’s the one with the really annoying commercial jingle.”

And so, my journey began. Soon, Ozempic was officially approved as a weight loss tool. And I could see why. Unlike the Belviq, which curbed my appetite, Ozempic eliminated it completely. I was never hungry - like, ever. I knew I was supposed to be, but I wasn’t. It’s like when you’ve been given a shot of novocaine; you know you should feel what the dentist is doing, but because you’ve been numbed, you don’t. Ozempic was my numbing agent; most of the time, I wasn’t hungry for breakfast until noon or even 2:00PM, at which point, I’d get full after just a few bites. And I wouldn’t desire so much as a snack in the five hours before dinner. Rarely did I finish my plate then, either. I didn’t want to admit something was off - after all, I was thin now and loved my new and tiny clothes - so I didn’t address the situation for two years.

When I finally decided to have a conversation with my doctor, here’s how it went:

Me: “I never snack anymore.”

Doctor: “I know! Isn’t it great that you don’t snack on Ozempic?”

Me: “Well, it’s not just that. I’m barely eating two meals a day.”

Doctor: “Okay, if you want more than two meals a day, we can adjust your dose.”

Me: “Well, shouldn’t I at least be having three meals a day?”

Doctor: Shrugs. “If you want to.”

Like - what planet was I on?!

The encouragement to eat as little as possible for the sake of being thin didn’t sit well with me. I’d changed physically, but one thing remained the same: I still wanted to enjoy delicious food. But because of the Ozempic, these desires were blocked - physically. Emotionally, however, they were stronger than ever. I wanted to be like everyone else and get French toast at brunch, popcorn at the movies, and pasta at an Italian restaurant. Instead, I’d order chicken and steamed vegetables at every dinner out since it was all I could stomach, while simultaneously getting pangs of jealousy at everyone else’s delicious-looking entrees. Oh well, I thought to myself. I guess this is my life now. But hey - at least I’m thin!

Eventually, I came to my senses and realized I didn’t want to live a life devoid of food joy. I called the eating disorder facility I’d been to and said I didn’t think my new lifestyle was sustainable. They connected me with a nutritionist who practiced an approach similar to the one I learned about in treatment. I was very transparent during my first session: I wanted more food freedom, but was scared of going off Ozempic. The nutritionist suggested I ease into more liberal food choices (a big ask since I’d been eating restrictively for four years now) to see how it felt. I started with a few bites of a Twix bar. The thrill! I felt ninety-eight percent guilt, two percent food joy. But I clung to that two percent with a death grip.

Around this time, Ozempic was all over the news because so many celebrities were suddenly taking it (but not admitting it). This led to a shortage, which made getting a prescription filled nearly impossible. After a few months of frustration every time I went to the pharmacy, my nutritionist and I discussed it: This could be the universe’s way of telling me it’s time to stop. Did I want to continue on Ozempic (if I was able to get it) and be skinny and sad, or go off it and be heavier and happy? With a lot of fear, I decided to stop. (Plus, people with diabetes were no longer able access it since it had become so popular for weight loss, and I couldn’t in good conscience take medicine away from people who needed it.)

Slowly (although not that slowly), the weight came back - in a way where I had to buy bigger clothes. This is why people gain weight when they go off Ozempic: We’ve simply gone from not eating to eating. I felt self-conscious about what people thought, since most everyone equates weight gain with poor health. Sometimes, I wished I could wear a sign saying, “I know I’m bigger now!” But I kept reminding myself it was nobody’s business. In fact, I was healthier now than I was in my smaller body, when I was barely eating. Through working with my nutritionist, I started eating in a way that was physically and mentally healthy for me - meaning I got in the proper nutrients each day, and also ate things that gave me the food joy I’d so desperately been missing (a bowl of ice cream, a burger with a bun - a bun!). And because I wasn’t being so restrictive with what I ate, I didn’t feel the need to binge.

I also had to accept I’m not someone who naturally gravitates towards food society deems “healthy.” When I talked about feeling guilty for choosing the ramen place near work for lunch (a favorite) over the salad place (everyone else in midtown Manhattan’s favorite), my nutritionist asked me to tell her what was in my ramen bowls. I listed off noodles, broth, eggs, and veggies. “And why is that bad?” she asked. I had no answer.

This is where the body image piece comes in. I’m still in the process of accepting my new body. I was listening to a podcast on the subject, and the first piece of advice was to delete all accounts from social media that make you feel thinner is better. I deleted so many accounts that Instagram thought I was a bot and blocked me for four days. When I was finally allowed back on - what a breath of fresh air! Different body types! Unfiltered photos! My new favorite influencer eating a cheeseburger in a bikini and living her best life! These pictures made me want to do the same! Chicken and steamed vegetables at every dinner? Not living my best life. A bowl of pasta and a caprese salad? That’s more like it.

Through this journey, my eyes have been opened to the fact that there really are people who believe, “Nothing tastes as good as thin feels.” And what I’ve learned is - I just don’t subscribe to that philosophy.