After a lifetime of seatbelt struggles, salad shaming, and chairs that bite back, I’m finally seeing a glimmer of hope—50 pounds down on Ozempic and counting. I’m still fat, still funny, but now… cautiously optimistic. Come for the laughs, stay for the real talk.
Let me walk you through the bumpy, cramped, emotionally exhausting ride that is being overweight in a world obsessed with skinny. Spoiler alert: I’m the one taking up the extra seat.
I’ve tried it all—pills that made me feel like a squirrel on espresso, hypnosis that somehow made me crave donuts more, acupuncture (because clearly getting stabbed repeatedly is the key to thinness), and enough diets to write a tragic, flavorless cookbook. I even went under the knife. Still fat. Still here. Still hungry.
Shopping? An exhausting game of “let’s find something that fits and doesn’t look like a tarp.” Most stores stop at size 18, like everyone over that just vanished into a plus-size Bermuda Triangle. And the sales clerks? I once had one try to steer me toward purses. “These always fit!” she chirped. I nearly hit her with one.
Grocery stores are a minefield. Grab a loaf of bread and a pint of ice cream and you’re public enemy number one. Grab kale and rice cakes and someone inevitably asks, “Trying to lose weight?” Like I’m not allowed to eat anything without a narrative attached.
Eating out? Oh, that’s always a show. Booths in restaurants? Russian roulette. Will I fit, or will I have to awkwardly ask to move to a table while pretending I “just like more legroom”? People stare at your plate like you’re committing a felony with fries. And if you dare to go to a buffet? Take my advice: load up on the first trip. Because the side-eyes and judgmental looks you get if you go back for seconds—or heaven forbid, thirds—could power a small village with shame.
Crowded elevators? Tense silence as people glance at the capacity sign, silently calculating whether the laws of physics will hold. And let’s not forget waiting room chairs with arms that could double as torture devices. I once got stuck between the arms of a chair and had to shimmy out like a trapped raccoon.
Public restrooms? Half those stalls were designed by someone who has clearly never had hips. I’ve had to do the sideways shimmy just to get the door closed behind me. Humbling doesn’t even begin to cover it.
Exercise classes? Oh, those are fun. Nothing like being the biggest person in the room while a peppy instructor with zero body fat yells “You’ve got this!” as I try not to die lunging into a cramp. Even the gym feels like enemy territory—the machines are often too small, and the stares? Oh, they sting.
And the unsolicited advice? Endless. “You should try cutting carbs.” “My cousin lost 40 pounds on this cleanse.” “You know, it’s just calories in, calories out.” Thank you, Karen, but I didn’t ask for your TED Talk.
Doctor visits? A nightmare. I step on the scale fully clothed, boots and all, and the nurse acts like she’s unlocking a bank vault. Then comes the usual: “Have you tried exercising?” No, I’ve just been hoping osmosis would handle it.
Flying? A sitcom setup every time. Wrestling with the seatbelt, pretending not to sweat through my shirt. Once, it flat-out wouldn’t close. The flight attendant handed me a seatbelt extender like it was a scarlet letter. The guy next to me visibly leaned away, like fat was contagious.
And then there are the comments from people who think they’re being kind: “You have such a pretty face.” Which is code for, “If you could Photoshop out the rest of you, you’d be stunning.” My husband says he loves me just as I am—and I do believe him—but even I sometimes wonder if he secretly wishes I came with a sleeker silhouette and less orthopedic footwear.
But the hardest part? Being fat makes you visible and invisible at the same time. People stare, yet they don’t see you. They see your weight. Not your humor, not your heart, not your intelligence—just your size.
And here’s the twist.
After decades of trying everything, I finally found something that’s actually helping: Ozempic. I’ve been on it for six months, and I’ve lost 50 pounds. No miracle. No “before and after” glow-up. But finally, a shift. Slowly. Steadily. I feel the difference in my body, in my clothes, and most importantly, in my hope. For the first time in years, I can actually picture a version of myself who feels physically free.
I’m not chasing some ridiculous fantasy of being a size 2. I just want to sit in a booth, wear something off the rack, and walk into a room without wondering if I’ll fit—literally or socially.
So yeah—I’m still fat. Still funny. Still here. But now? I’m finally moving in the right direction. One injection at a time.
