Many of us have taken our turn as the fat kid in school. I grew up with all the trappings of a lower-middle-class family — I was raised by my mother and grandmother (and a characteristically absent dad) along with my twin brother. We survived on Blockbuster movies, potatoes and onions, and leftovers from my mom’s hectic late-night catering shifts.
During our childhood, my brother and I took turns being the fat kid. In elementary and middle school, I went through a phase of being heavyset, while my brother was on medication for ADHD that kept him perpetually skinny. It didn’t help that my growth spurts arrived faster than most of our classmates’. Some years, I was constantly aware of my size; sometimes, the extra height was a blessing (I rode rollercoasters before anyone else). But when others pointed it out, it brought shame. At friends’ houses, I was cautious to never take a second serving or do anything that could invite teasing about my eating habits. In our teenage years, my brother and I switched roles. I developed an unhealthy obsession with losing weight, while my brother finally gained some.
It’s only been in the past few years that I’ve felt comfortable accepting my gradual weight gain instead of doing everything in my power to stay thin. There were factors that made it easier to put on the pounds. I take testosterone; I worked long shifts in food service that left me craving easy meals afterward; I stopped counting calories. I was fine with the fact that my pants size sometimes went up, and my shirt size occasionally did, too.
I felt little shame in my body — and then Ozempic changed everything.
[I]t’s not my problem that, because of the society we live in, others might be bothered by my weight.
Most people know by now, but Ozempic wasn’t originally intended to be a weight-loss drug. It was developed in the 2000s for its ability to stimulate insuli
