I haven’t been able to read anything about the diabetes drug Ozempic, and its increasing use (and abuse) for weight loss. I couldn’t bear to read that buzzy New York Magazine cover story — or the one that followed in The New Yorker. I had to mute the word “ozempic” from Twitter. I couldn’t even bring myself to read the heartfelt personal essays or tweets from other fat women that I respect and follow.
There was a moment there, a few years ago, when it seemed our thin-obsessed culture was shifting, ever so slightly.
There was a moment there, a few years ago, when it seemed our thin-obsessed culture was shifting, ever so slightly. We saw plus-size model Tess Holliday on the cover of Cosmopolitan UK and mainstream companies like Old Navy promising more size inclusivity. Conversations about body shaming and the dangers of constant dieting were starting to happen with more frequency in the mainstream.
But, I think we can agree, that moment has passed. Ozempic is not so much a cause as it is a very clear bellwether of this regressive shift.
I was a teenager when the “heroin chic” era of the 90s peaked, with its Calvin Klein ads and low rise jeans and Kate Moss quipping that “nothing tastes as good as skinny feels.” The highest fashion of my youth was designed to highlight just how thin you could (or really, should) be.
So it’s perhaps not a surprise that I also had an eating disorder in my 20s. For me, over-the-counter diet pills and appetite suppressants were a big part of my illness. An even bigger part? Keeping it all a secret. I never told anyone I was taking diet pills. I hid them from my friends and roommates, sometimes even buying them from pharmacies several towns over.
And yet, I didn’t always identify as someone who had an eating disorder. I was never officially diagnosed, because I never asked a doctor if what I was doing was safe. If I showed weight loss at an appointment, I was celebrated not questioned. As Dr. Deb Burgard said in the documentary “Fattitude,” “We prescribe to fat people the same things that we diagnose and treat in thin people.”
Although the thing I wanted most in the world was to be thin, I didn’t want anyone to know I had to diet to get there. This is why the discourse around Ozempic being a “miracle drug” feels so dangerously familiar. Because suddenly, after more than a decade of therapy and hard work learning to love my fat body, I recently found myself considering weight loss again. Late at night during my evening anxiety spirals, I played out the scenarios: What if I secretly started Ozempic? Could I find a doctor who would prescribe it? What if it worked and I dropped tons of weight? I started to imagine how I would keep the secret; how I would talk about my sudden transformation to close friends and family.
It’s been terrifying to have these kinds of thoughts again. And it’s a reminder that I will always be in recovery. And that brings me back to the way the Ozempic discourse, and Ozempic use, is shaping and reshaping the pop culture and celebrity landscape. It’s hard to admit, but one part of how I protect my heart when I am consuming social media is to fill it with positive representation of the fat community. Seeing a plus-size celebrity like Lizzo or Melissa McCarthy authentically being sexy and confident really does make a difference. It makes me feel less isolated as a person who embraces her larger body.
I want to be clear: No one owes us their body. Not even celebrities. I believe in body autonomy in all forms, which includes losing weight if that’s something you choose to do with your body. But when we lose fat representation — when celebrities suddenly lose weight or our fat icons lose the media’s interest — it’s fair to acknowledge a collective loss. I feel that loss right now. That brings me back to the way the Ozempic discourse, and Ozempic use, is shaping and reshaping the pop culture and celebrity landscape. And increasingly, there are fewer and fewer safe spaces available in which we can process that loss. I say this at a time when fat folks also had to watch a film about a disabled fat person, written by thin people and literally titled “The Whale,” win multiple Oscars — including for the design of a fat suit. The year is 2023, and achieving a thin body — no matter the cost or consequence — is still considered the ideal. This, despite plenty of evidence showing being fat isn’t some kind of death sentence, and that fat stigma may actually create worse outcomes for many fat folks than any single number on a scale. (And the more we ignore addressing this stigma, the worse it gets.) Being fat has always been radical in a society that values thinness. Now, for every story I find myself having to avoid, I seek out a story or a post about a fat joy. Most of us are just trying to move about the world in a body that refuses to conform to celebrity beauty standards. And there is no miracle “cure” in the world that will change the fact that fat people are still often paid less, are disproportionately at risk for suicide and depression, and receive terrible medical care. The reality is, we don’t need to be cured, or fixed, or shrunk down to fit a particular body ideal. And we don’t need Ozempic. We just need to be treated with the same dignity and respect as anyone else.
Kate Bernyk
Kate Bernyk is a writer and communications strategist living in Brooklyn, New York. 
