I’ve never been “the skinny one.” Not in childhood photos, not on high school teams, not even in college when metabolism was supposed to be on my side. There was always at least one girl in every group who was effortlessly slim — the kind of person who could split fries at lunch and still look delicate in the yearbook picture. I wasn’t her.
Instead, I was “strong and sturdy”(according to my dad). At the time I didn’t know if it was supposed to be a compliment or if it was just his polite way of saying I wasn’t thin. Pretty sure the latter, but the phrase stuck in my head the way only parental throwaway lines can. Strong and sturdy. Built for function, not for beauty.
I grew up playing soccer, basketball, softball. Sports gave me a reason to move my body, but also an excuse for its shape. Thick legs? Must be from running drills. Broad shoulders? That’s just basketball.
But underneath all that rationalizing, I still compared myself to my teammates in the locker room. They wore spandex like it was a second skin. I wore oversized t-shirts and tugged at the waistband of my shorts, pretending I was only modest, not self-conscious.
Fast forward to September 2024. Labor Day weekend. A close friend’s wedding in Newport, Rhode Island. I packed two dresses, one safe and black, the other floral and risky. I ended up wearing the black one.
We extended the trip until Tuesday — a little vacation, a last gulp of summer. And because we were all together, because we were dressed up and happy, we took photos. More photos in four days than I’d taken all year.
When I scrolled through them that Sunday night in the hotel, my stomach sank. My friends looked glowing, windswept, celebratory. I looked… huge. Not “curvy in a good way” or “just a bad angle” — I looked uncomfortable in my own body. I couldn’t crop, tilt, or filter my way out of it.
I was 28, five-four, and about 220 pounds. For the first time, I couldn’t trick myself into thinking it was just the camera. It was me.
The minute I got back to New York, I opened my laptop and started searching. Weight loss, GLP-1s, Ozempic, Mounjaro. I’d heard people whispering about them, mostly celebrities and coworkers who had suddenly “gotten healthy.”
I found an online provider who would prescribe it. Insurance wouldn’t cover it, but desperation has a way of loosening your budget. I entered my credit card, knowing I was about to spend a little over $1,000 a month just to stop hating myself.
Three days later, I got the text: "your order is ready for pickup." I stood in line at the pharmacy with sweaty palms like I was buying something illicit. The bag was small, discreet, like it could have been allergy medicine.
I rushed home equally excited and nervous to start something I knew would be the beginning of a different version of me.
For anyone who doesn’t know: GLP-1s mimic a gut hormone that tells your brain you’re full. You start on a tiny dose, then step up every few weeks so your body adjusts.
The first week, I felt almost nothing. The second, I noticed I wasn’t grazing between meals. By the third, it was like someone had turned down the constant static in my brain that always hummed eat something, eat something, eat something.
People on TikTok call this "food noise" and I think that's the perfect way to describe it.
Food didn’t disappear — but the urgency did. I’d plate half of what I used to and feel satisfied. My fridge stayed stocked longer. I realized how much of my eating had been boredom, anxiety, or habit, not hunger.
By mid-November, the scale showed 195. By New Year’s, 175. I hadn’t seen that number since college.
Clothes that had been crumpled in the back of my closet finally made an appearance and zipped up easily.
Friends noticed before I even said anything.
“You look amazing.”
“What’s your secret?”
“New workout plan?”
I didn’t hide it. “GLP-1,” I said. Half the time, people leaned in and whispered, “Oh my god, me too.” Other times I got the pushback — the “just diet and exercise” crowd, as if I hadn’t spent a decade trying. But to my surprise, plenty of people were already on one or quietly considering it.
By spring, I truly felt like a different person. I was wearing dresses and jeans in sizes I hadn’t touched in over a decade. My 29th birthday was coming up, and I decided it was time to go back on the dating apps.
I’d had a boyfriend in college, and we dated until I was 23. After we broke up, I had a hard time. I tried the apps with very little luck. A few dates here and there, but nothing ever really went anywhere. When I went out with friends, I was so quickly glossed over. It wasn’t even rejection — it was invisibility.
This time, it was different. Matches poured in. People swiped on me first. Strangers messaged me out of the blue, calling me gorgeous, asking me out. In bars, men tapped me on the shoulder to buy me a drink. The difference was undeniable, and I hadn’t changed anything but my body. Same hair. Same humor. Same me. Just less of the physical me.
It was thrilling, and admittedly, a little unsettling.
The shift wasn’t only in dating. At work, colleagues complimented my “new energy.” A manager told me, “You seem so much more confident,” like it was a revelation. Invitations came more easily — to client dinners, after-work drinks, brainstorming sessions that somehow now “needed” my input.
Was I performing better? Probably. Confidence is real. But I also knew people were responding to something else: the body I was in. The smaller one. The one that made them lean in instead of look away.
The most disorienting part was the way strangers treated me.
Baristas remembered my order. Bartenders lingered in conversation. People smiled back when I walked down the street. I even noticed cars slowing at crosswalks. Tiny, everyday courtesies that I hadn’t realized were missing until suddenly they were there.
It felt like stepping into an alternate version of the same city. A world where doors opened faster, lines felt shorter, people seemed softer. The only thing I’d done to access it was shrink.
Most mornings, I pause in front of the mirror. I see collarbones where there used to be roundness. I zip jeans without lying flat. I lift my arms and there’s less jiggle. But my brain hasn’t caught up. Sometimes I still angle my phone down for a more flattering shot, then realize I don’t need to.
Friends say I’m glowing. Some days, that’s true. Other days, I catch myself wondering: was I really that unworthy before? Or do people just treat you that way if you don’t fit the right size?
I don’t really know where this journey ends for me. Maybe I’ll keep losing. Maybe I’ll plateau. Maybe I’ll gain it back. I don’t know if people will keep being kind if I change shape again.
All I know is I can’t unsee the difference.
And I’ll never stop wondering whether I’ve actually changed, or whether I just became easier for everyone else to look at.
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