I Took the Shot. I Didn't Expect It To Heal So Much More Than My Hunger.

A GenX woman on what her family taught her about food-and what semaglutide helped her unlearn.

Me in 2017, at my goal weight. Still curvy. Still hoping I can get back to it. Photo by Libby Lewis and used with permission.

I’m on a Zoom call at work when I notice my iPhone vibrate and light up with “Dad Nurses” on the screen.

“Oh shit,” I mutter as I step away from my desk and slide to answer it. But I’m not too worried.

This happens a lot.

“Hello Dana,” the nurse croons, her lilting Caribbean accent assuring me this can’t be anything too serious. “Your father fell out of bed again so we’ve called the EMTs.”

I sigh. This happens a lot, too.

At 80, my father is nearly immobile and dependent for most daily activities. He also weighs well over 300 pounds, so the nurses at his memory care facility aren’t able to lift his inert weight from floor to bed. When he falls out of bed, they dial 911 to send several strapping men over to hoist him back in.

I can only imagine how humiliated he would feel if he could recall the incident once he’s deposited back in his bed.

Dementia can be a blessing.

But obesity? It’s a burden — for him and his caregivers.

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My mother, on the other hand, is a knockout, the image of health and fitness.

“I just got back from my annual physical, and I must be the only 78-year-old with a perfect record,” she crows. And I’m happy for her. I’m grateful. Caring long-distance for one parent is a burden on my brother and me; caring for two might break us both. But more importantly, getting to spend these healthy, active years with my mom is such a gift.

And also: I know the restraint it’s taken her to maintain her size-2 status.

The dedication of her morning multi-mile walks, yes. But also the self-inflicted food denial. The self-flagellation of food guilt when she’s “bad” and eats half a croissant. The consistent drone of stories about shared meals and small salads and light dishes. Dining isn’t about satisfaction — it’s about discipline. About how she stares a meal down and wins.

This discipline, too, is a burden.

Or at least, I find it so, when I’ve tried to pick it up and put it on.

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My family-of-origin relationship to food is a seismic clash, equal parts restriction and gluttony, guilt and gorging. And it all began with a two-word rallying cry.

“Diet tomorrow.”

This was the mantra of my female forebearers, a prayer that still rings in my ears as a half-promise sing-song that accompanied family meals, performed in two-part harmony by my mom and grandmother. It was a commitment of restraint no one asked of them, uttered for accountability that my younger brother and I could never provide. It echoed through my childhood like a matrilineal atonement, with women counting calories instead of rosary beads.

With this cry, they preached that enjoyment of food was a vice, and the physical manifestation of its excess — fatness —was a moral failure. “Diet tomorrow” was their repentance for the sin of gluttony, realizing they’d face down their God, their judge — the scale — come morning and be displeased with its numeric judgment.

I never questioned that I had to do to the same, lest I be smote with the curse of fat.

My father was the sinner to my mother’s saint. He was pure appetite id, all innate impulses to indulge. He never ate as if he relished food, but as if he were filling a void. I watched his gruff table manners and over-the-top excesses with horror as he stuffed his face with anything and everything with equal abandon. There was no sense of discernment.

But more impactful still was his condemnation of fat women.

Irony had no place here. His body was huge, his appetite endless. For a man to be fat was fine, blameless, neutral. But for a woman to be fat? That was an affront to his sensibilities and his eyes. And he had no filter in expressing it, even around me, his young daughter.

It didn’t have to make sense: women just had to be thin.

My mother’s denial was my first clue. My dad’s disgust sealed the deal.

This was how I grew — with a genetic makeup flailing between fit and obese, denial and excess, hunger and satiety — into a young adult body that didn’t quite conform to the paradox of these forces.

I had an innate sense of food for pleasure, one that wasn’t easily suppressed, battling with a body that required more vigilance to stay slim than I was willing or able to provide.

I’ve always been curvy.

Even as a skinny child, I had a round face and tummy. Then I hit puberty, and by age 12 blossomed past a My First Training Bra into C-cups seemingly overnight.

My body was never intended for skinniness.

I couldn’t starve myself into the Kate Moss waif status of the 90s It Girls. I never quite lived up to the food repudiation of my mother and grandmother. But I mostly held my own, neither skinny nor fat, without fighting my natural form too much.

I spent my formative years eating SnackWell cookies and Lean Cuisines, hoping for the best.

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I’m GenX, and as such I’ve experienced diet culture norms across decades. I’ve seen countless recommendations for weight loss: low-fat, low-carb, high-protein, vegan, keto, fasting, cleanses, grapefruits, Atkins, South Beach, and if you can pinch more than an inch — you need to lose weight.

Then I watched in amazement as the body positivity movement took hold and insisted we not measure health nor beauty by BMI. And now, I’ve witnessed the pendulum swing back with the rise of GLP-1 injectable medications, like semaglutide, tempting like a modern-day magic muse for weight loss.

The norms by which we’ve measured health dizzy me.

And my relationship with my own body, and how it dictates both my self- and external worth, well, that baffles me as well.

I’ve long accepted my looks don’t 100% align with beauty norms. I recognize my value comes from far more than my appearance. I’m grateful for my relative health, and for all my body has done for me. It’s carried and sustained me through five decades on this earth. It conceived, grew, birthed, and fed two beautiful babies. It’s known pleasure and anguish and has taken me across states and continents and worlds.

My body is amazing.

I love my body, truly.

But sometimes, self-love isn’t enough.

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I’m kissing a man goodnight on our third — and, unbeknownst to me at the time, final — date. With his arms encircling me, his lips brush my neck and make their way to my ear as he murmurs, “and people say I should like skinny women.”

Even as I drink in his compliment, I think: that isn’t quite the flattery flex you think it is.

I know plenty of men prefer women built like me. I’ve noticed those who swipe me on dating apps tend to like “thicc girls” or “curvy” bodies. And that’s great! I’m an endomorph with a strong proclivity for ectomorphs.

We all get to like what we like.

But perched here, single and seeking in my mid-50s, I can see how my body may be holding me back from meeting a partner. I mention the idea of weight loss to a couple friends, and they balk at the suggestion.

“You’re gorgeous just the way you are!” exclaims Jenny.

“Dana, you are the complete package,”

Sunny Hong

adds. “You just need to be more confident.”

I value their opinions implicitly. They want the best for me. But I feel to my bones this isn’t an issue of self-confidence. I know my worth and what I have to offer. And I also know, from extensive anecdotal research, that when my body is slimmer, more men are interested.

And more options means a greater likelihood of a match.

I know what I need to do.

I need to lose weight.

But that familiar pull toward thinness comes with great weight.

I don’t want to buy into “diet tomorrow” culture. I love everything about food. I love nurturing my family, filling my home with delicious aromas. I love gathering friends around my table to dine. l love the discovery of neighborhood eateries, sharing meals with loved ones. I love exploring foods when traveling, exploring new cultures through my taste buds.

I decided years ago to take my food with joy, not guilt.

I want to break the matrilineal cycle of food deprivation I inherited.

But whispering behind this wish, the other half of my genetic makeup lurks and sometimes rears its ugly, hungry head. Unhealthy habits like excessive snacking in front of my laptop and late-night sugary treats also feel familiar, eating my feelings in response to life’s stresses.

And lately, life has been stressful.

As I ponder my stressors, body, and habits, I realize: I also need to break a patriarchal food cycle that borders on binging.

But most of all, I want to change the narrative I inherited from both branches of my family tree: of fatness as a moral failing. I’ve reckoned with this most of my adult life by ignoring it, by choosing not to care. Was I a few pounds heavier than I should be? So what, I’d think. I’m just relishing life, including the foods I get to enjoy.

My life was mostly active enough to maintain a healthy equilibrium, my weight fluctuating but always within a manageable range. I’d get a bit heavier here, a bit lighter there — but always maintaining a balance, more or less.

Then my body got knocked a bit off kilter. And that range trended higher.

Then higher still.

Maybe it was perimenopause. Or perhaps it was the pandemic. Certainly my sedentary lifestyle, fueled by a day job in tech and a prolific writing habit, didn’t help. By late 2024, I found myself facing a new reality: I weighed more than I ever had, by a decent margin. My curvy zaftig self had become even more of a niche taste.

With fewer men interested, I knew I had less chance of finding a romantic match.

My weight had become a burden.

In dating, yes — and also, to my health.

During my annual physical, my long-time physician eyed my bloodwork and noted weight wasn’t the only thing that had peaked. I had elevated HDL and LDL cholesterol levels to match. The numbers weren’t anything too crazy or worrisome. But it was a new trend — in the wrong direction.

My doctor looked at me kindly yet knowingly and simply said:

“Dana, you know what you need to do.”

I sighed. I knew I did.

It was time to drop weight — yes, from my body. But also the weight of my family-of-origin relationships to food. This wasn’t just about numbers on a scale. It was about the war over food I’d unwittingly inherited from both sides of my family.

It was time to call a truce.

I no longer wished to view my weight through a binary of “diet tomorrow” or overindulgence. I didn’t want to lose my healthy love of good food and all it represented.

I also knew the pace of my life. Between work, writing, and family obligations, I was concerned I couldn’t — or at least, wouldn’t — find the time or discipline to carve out healthy habits for myself.

So I accepted I needed help, and enlisted support from my doctor.

I wanted to manage my weight loss as a medical issue, not an emotional one.

And I knew just the medical help I needed to face this challenge.

So I unboxed a needle, alcohol swab, and small vial of clear viscous liquid, and began my weekly journey with semaglutide self-injections. I took a deep breath, filling my chest with what felt like equal parts trepidation and hope.

To my health, I cheered silently. And to my looks!

Then I plunged the medication into my abdomen.

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Semaglutide makes its presence known quickly: the occasional mild queasiness. An unexpected fullness. A late-night bout of acid reflux when I increase my dosage.

I ramp up slowly, to minimize negative side effects. My first impression is how it feels like a promising hum, a presence in my gut that murmurs, enough.

It’s strangely serene. My body still feels like me. I’m just more easily sated.

I know for some, GLP-1 drugs are like an elixir; from the moment of first injection, all cravings for junk food pass, and the weight falls off. This isn’t my experience — not at the beginning, not now, six months in.

I still crave delicious foods, including sweets. I just eat a bit less of everything, most days. Sometimes, I still indulge, especially when stressed out. But when I do, I feel the consequences. So I try to avoid going there.

Semaglutide awakens a sense of control around food that feels peaceful in a way food restraint never has before. My food choices feel driven by my body’s needs versus emotional eating, most of the time.

Semaglutide hasn’t been a panacea for me. The medicine isn’t a savior.

But it quiets both of my ancestral calls around food and dieting. I don’t feel like I’m denying myself. I have more agency around my hunger and appetites.

In short: it’s not my mother or grandmother’s flavor of diet tomorrow.

It’s a tool I use, for me.

And that feels good.

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A few months later, I’m in Dublin with my family, and I glance out our “aparthotel” window to a dreary, wet mess. Since I’ve brought just one rolling bag, my fashion options are limited. I reach for my one clean pair of pants — cranberry-colored leggings. They’re not the most stylish, but they’ll keep me warm today, and they’re easy, cozy and stretchy.

Only today, I notice it’s not-so-much on that final modifier.

I can feel loose fabric folds in the legs, where my thighs once stretched them taut, testing the bounds of elasticity.

The change is subtle, but undeniable — and long-awaited.

It’s been 93 days since my first shot of semaglutide.

I feel my shrinking stomach leap as I realize: it’s finally working.

Throughout the day, my waistband slides downward repeatedly. It’s annoying, but I marvel each time I yank the leggings up before they slip past my hips.

“Mom, I’m hungry.”

My eldest daughter pulls me out of my somatic revelry. We’re walking back toward the hotel and I glance at my phone. It’s nearly 6pm, so her hunger makes sense — it’s time for dinner.

“Can we get beef stew?” she asks me. The stew in Dublin has been a favorite: savory, dense, indulgent. The meal is a gut-bomb, and we’ve both loved it this trip.

I can still relish all the yummy things.

“Sure, let’s do it,” I reply, excited to delve into dinner, to show my daughter the joys of exploring a new culture through her taste buds.

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It’s now been six months.

I’ve lost about 20 pounds, give or take, depending on the day. At $1,500 for the medication, it’s not a great return on investment — about $75 per pound, so far.

It’s slower and more expensive than anticipated.

But it is working.

I realized this week that all my jeans were so loose, I looked unkempt. So I purchased a new pair, just one, one size down. They fit perfectly. But I’m hoping my weight loss doesn’t stop here, so I don’t want to buy more than a single pair.

I’m dating someone new, someone I really like, who seems to really like me — including my body. Maybe especially my body, to my delight.

I haven’t yet scheduled a follow-up appointment with my doctor, but I’m hopeful my cholesterol numbers will show a similar positive decline alongside my weight.

Semaglutides haven’t been transformational for me as they are for others. The medication has helped me recognize hunger. It’s limited my portion sizes, almost without me realizing it. It’s been weight loss without taking up the mental space of dieting and exercise. I’m certain I couldn’t have maintained the pace of my life and lost this weight without its influence.

A bit more exercise would probably hasten the weight-loss process. I know I can add it, should I decide to hit the gym.

I’d like to lose another 30 or so pounds. Will I? That remains to be seen. I’m reluctant to even wish for it aloud, especially online. Those old family-of-origin habits still die hard.

I never wanted to be a woman talking about weight loss, especially on the Internet.

But this feels worth sharing: semaglutide didn’t “fix” me. They just quieted the noise I’ve carried for decades around diet and weight loss, so my own voice could emerge.

Now I know I’m not dieting as a form of punishment or penitence. My choice to lose weight is rooted in self care, not self control. And my goal to change my body doesn’t mean I love the body I had, and still have, any less.

It’s all done out of love for my body. For myself.

I can maintain this diet tomorrow — and for all the days to follow — not as an atonement, but as a benediction.

Caring for my physical self feels like less of a burden.

And that’s a weight I’m happy to put down.

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Greetings!

I’m Dana DuBois, a GenX word nerd living in the Pacific Northwest with a whole lot of little words to share. I’m a founder and editor of three publications: Pink Hair & Pronouns, Three Imaginary Girls, and genXy. I write across a variety of topics but parenting, music and pop culture, relationships, and feminism are my favorites. Em-dashes, Oxford commas, and well-placed semi-colons make my heart happy.

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(Make mine an iced oat milk decaf mocha, please and thank you.)

Me, with my delicious birthday cake. Down 20 pounds and with aspirations for more. Photo from author.