So… Should I Go on Ozempic?
How did we get to this point?
For years now, I’ve been writing about body neutrality and ditching diets. For years, I’ve been getting into fights with doctors at parties about the discrimination fat people face in medical settings (oh yes, I’m the definition of “fun at parties”). For years, I’ve been exposing myself to diverse body shapes online and training myself not to use language that makes fat people sound less-than when describing my body.
But after all that effort, not from me but from the wave of activism I was riding, not only has nothing changed, but we’ve actually managed to go backwards. While most media continue to use body-neutral language and move away from prescribing weight loss, out here in the real world tiny women are still admonishing themselves for “being bad” when they order dessert, and this whole time I’ve been pinching and lifting parts of my body as I look in the mirror, wishing it was all smaller, more compact. I’ve started saying “I feel fat” again, which means I’m taking advantage of that fucked-up thin-person privilege that comes from saying those words, being told “nooo, of course you’re not fat,” and registering prickles of delight at the validation.
We may all be pretending to be above it all online, but I can’t remember the last person I met in the flesh who spoke about fatness as a neutral feature, who didn’t care if they’d personally gained or lost weight, who thought about the impact of their words on people in large bodies over the course of a conversation. Please don’t lie, we’re all still fatphobic as fuck, and we bloody always have been.
Enter Ozempic. Here’s this miracle drug that’s well-ish tolerated by a majority of people who are using it under medical supervision, that’s relatively easy to get your hands on, that gets people to shed the pounds they’ve been trying to get rid of for years in a matter of weeks. Then the celebs take it, heroin chic is back in or whatever, and suddenly half of Instagram plus your mum’s best friend is on it.
Ozempic fixes the diet problem, too. One of the major reasons fat-positive discourse has been such a positive force is that we know that diets don’t work, that willpower is a myth when it comes to food, and that there are many psychological and physical reasons why it might be harder for many people to lose weight that have absolutely nothing to do with laziness, lack of nutritional education, or unwillingness. What happens when diets are culturally pushed on women — of all sizes — is our collective self-esteem plummets, our weight either yo-yos or stagnates, and we develop eating disorders. We become scared of food, obsessed with every bite that passes our lips, lose hours and days to guilt, regret, and control.
But now? We have a golden ticket out of a lose-lose situation. Anyone can lose weight without drastically changing their lifestyle and without the mental torture. And it’s uncovered a very uncomfortable truth: that most of us still want to be thin, and that perhaps we never stopped. It makes sense, right? Pushing size-inclusivity on intrinsically exclusive industries and media like fashion or advertising or Hollywood, and worse yet, pushing size-inclusivity on the average Joe is fighting an uphill battle that’s showing no signs of levelling off.
Nothing could signal the cult of thinness’ triumphant return more aptly than the triumphant return of its formerly annual celebration parade: the Victoria’s Secret Fashion Show, which hurtled back into our lives 15 October after a five-year hiatus. It was cancelled after the 2018 edition due to dwindling ratings and a general feeling that the production was totally out of touch with what was happening in the culture — notably its failure to embrace size inclusivity at a time when everyone else was elevating it.
But now that the culture seems to be conveniently forgetting about all that, the show is back! And sure, this time they deigned to sprinkle in curve models Ashley Graham, Paloma Elsesser, Jill Kortleve, and Devyn Garcia, but the usual suspects were back, and disproportionately so: Gigi Hadid, Adriana Lima, Tyra Banks, Behati Prinsloo, Jasmine Tookes, Taylor Hill. These are beautiful, accomplished women that have many things going for them, and they’re the exact same people I was pinning to my Pinterest board called, like, “body goals” or “stop being fat you loser” circa 2014. And we’re collectively no longer pretending that we don’t want to look like them, I guess.
As utterly depressing as it is, those of us in whatever size body who are unhappy with our weight have the choice between trying desperately, unsuccessfully to convince both ourselves and the world around us that we are perfect as we are, or conforming to the still-hegemonic body ideals by whatever means are available to us — and yes, maybe that looks like taking Ozempic.
For the time being, I’m sticking to adding weight, resistance and circuit training to my fitness routine to feel confident in my body, and I suspect I won’t take a semaglutide in the near or far future — though I will admit I’m tempted by one of those “faux-zempic” supplements I keep getting targeted with on Instagram (which apparently don’t really work, FYI). At the same time, I’m painfully aware that my desire to be — or, let’s face it because we’re not in blooming Bridget Jones, stay — thin seriously undermines my ability to be an advocate for those in bodies different to mine. I will keep trying, and trying to make sense of it all. Sorry I can’t do better than that.
well said!!!