No. 112: What I Really Think: GLP-1s
How a personal reckoning changed my perspective on a new wellness economy
My stance on GLP-1s has had its fair share of plot twists.
The first time I heard about them was in 2022. The New York Post published an article titled “Bye Bye Booty: Heroin Chic is Back.” As someone with an eating disorder, I was furious—mainly at the headline—and ended up calling out the writer, explaining why the framing was not just lazy, but actively harmful. After that, I wanted nothing to do with anything related to Ozempic. Back then, the conversation focused almost entirely on the horror stories: the side effects, the worst-case scenarios, and the fear-mongering. Drugs like Ozempic and Wegovy, et al, felt like shortcuts people were glorifying without asking harder questions.
That New York Post article felt like a turning point. GLP-1s weren’t just an obscure medication anymore; they were part of the cultural vernacular almost overnight. And so, my perspective started to shift, not all at once, but in small ways as I kept seeing the conversation evolve.
I started digging into what these drugs were actually doing for people with diabetes and tried to understand why they were so beneficial. The novel terminology, too, kept coming. Suddenly, everyone was talking about “Ozempic face”—a catchy phrase for the hollowness, sagging, and deepening of wrinkles that can come with rapid weight loss.
At the same time, I found myself watching influencers crediting their weight loss to “intuitive eating” or a new Weight Watchers plan. I believed them. But through the grapevine, I learned that wasn’t the whole truth. And so, I found myself circling back to disappointment, once again questioning what was being sold to us, and who was really paying the price.
More recently, I came across a hot take on TikTok (yes, I know it’s not the most reliable source, but this one had some legitimacy) claiming that your favorite pop stars are on Ozempic, so don’t expect them to be dancing and performing full out. They’re giving rehearsal energy, not show energy, i.e., Katy Perry. According to the TikToker, these women no longer have the muscle tone to truly perform because GLP-1s have taken a toll on their muscles and bones. What I’m trying to say here is that I’ve gone from seeing Ozempic as a cop-out, to “do whatever is best for you,” to feeling frustrated by people lying about not using it, and finally back to “do what you want.”
Body acceptance advocate, author, and founder of Megababe
was recently on Lauren Sherman’s podcast for Puck, Fashion People. She said a big misconception is that once you’re thin, body acceptance is no longer necessary. Katie also reflected on how our culture constantly pushes us to strive for “smaller” to never settle into self-acceptance. So when a drug like a GLP-1 comes along and promises to finally help you shed those elusive last five pounds, of course, it’s tempting. But that temptation is also where things get tricky. As she points out, we’re now seeing thin people getting even thinner, returning to that early 2000s aesthetic, which many of us remember as toxic and unattainable. And at the same time, there are people in larger bodies who’ve lost weight and are suddenly centering their new “skinny” selves in a way that can feel either neutral or really harmful, depending on how it’s framed.What makes this even more complicated, she acknowledges, is that these medications do have life-saving benefits for people with real medical needs. And that’s part of what makes this conversation so layered and emotional—for her, for me, and for so many of us trying to untangle what body acceptance means in the age of GLP-1s.
When I began writing this piece, I realized that prior to GLP-1s entering the news cycle, I was offered one in 2019 by my then-functional medicine doctor. I did not take it then, have yet to use one, and don’t plan to. However, instead of using the brand name or term GLP-1, she simply referred to it as a peptide, and I didn’t ask for more information. At the time, I weighed around 150 pounds and based on my intake and consultation, she said I should lose some weight. She recommended I start by working with their in-house nutritionist and if that didn’t work, I could try peptides. That’s where my functional medicine journey ended. Not because I didn’t like the protocol, but it became incredibly expensive between the bloodwork, the nutritionist, the many weigh-ins, check-ins, and scans, so I had to bow out.
The way that GLP-1s are sometimes pitched as a quick band-aid rather than a true long-term solution, and without the proper support, can prove to be a problem. But what I find fascinating is how, once seen as a medical tool for managing diabetes, GLP-1 medications like Ozempic, Wegovy, Zepbound, and Mounjaro are now reshaping the wellness landscape far beyond weight loss. As access to these medications expands, a new breed of lifestyle and wellness offerings is emerging, catering specifically to the unique physical, emotional, and social experiences of GLP-1 users.
For example, at the ultra-luxe Lanserhof Lans clinic in Austria, guests can now book a seven to nine-day GLP-1 retreat. Think of it as a metabolic reboot. The program doesn’t just administer injections; it combines diagnostics, medical guidance, nutritional re-education, and targeted therapies that go beyond the scale, helping users optimize their results holistically. It’s less about weight loss and more about education and transformation.
Meanwhile, Peoplehood, the social wellness startup co-founded by SoulCycle’s Julie Rice and Elizabeth Cutler, has quietly pivoted to meet a very specific need: emotional support and education for GLP-1 users. Their new initiative, Peoplehood Care, offers community-led support circles (online and in-person) guided by coaches who are on the medication themselves. Topics range from food noise and side effects to movement, maintenance, and the stigma still attached to weight loss medication.
It’s wild to me that GLP-1s have become the centerpiece of a new wellness economy, one that’s as much about self-image and emotional resilience as it is about biology. I no longer judge anyone who chooses to use a GLP-1; I just hope you use it responsibly. You don’t owe anyone an explanation if you’re on one, that’s your business. But if you’re promoting a diet or lifestyle without sharing the full story, that can be harmful. As GLP-1s continue to evolve and become cheaper and more accessible, they will only become more common. So do what’s best for you—just come to the table informed.
It’s clear that wellness brands have a role to play in shaping how we talk about and experience these medications. Here are some actionable steps for brands:
Avoid “Before and After” Fetishization
It’s tempting to showcase weight loss transformations, but this can perpetuate the narrative that smaller is always better.
Build Support Systems, Not Just Products
Peoplehood’s GLP-1 circles and Lanserhof’s retreats offer a roadmap: pairing products and services with emotional, nutritional, and movement support for those on GLP-1s. Consider community education, expert panels, or support groups.
Be Transparent About Use in Marketing
If founders, ambassadors, or influencers are using GLP-1s while promoting your brand, transparency matters. While no one owes the internet their medical history, misleading claims around weight loss can cause harm (I’ve seen it, firsthand!). Develop clear brand guidelines on influencer partnerships to ensure your messaging doesn’t perpetuate shame or dishonesty.
Acknowledge the Complex Cultural Context
GLP-1s are entangled in societal body image issues. Brands that step into this space should explicitly acknowledge these complexities rather than ignoring them. This builds trust and positions your brand as culturally literate. This is a topic for another time (stay tuned), but brands that market their supplements as ‘natural Ozempic’ should be doing the same thing, but I’ve yet to see that type of support from a wellness brand.
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