The Sun'll Come Out Mounjaro

Bet your bottom dollar that I'm using my new diagnosis to get a GLP-1

I got the results of a blood test this morning, and it had this little gem in it:

Uh oh….

Um, yeah. So I’ve got diabetes. Weirdly, I’m not surprised, and I’m not 100% verklempt about it.

I know I should be in a panic. I do understand how serious and life-changing this is. However, I knew something was up with my body, and this makes the most sense.

For the last couple of months, and the last two weeks in particular, I have exhibited the symptoms to a tee. Constant thirst. Constant peeing. Sweet smelling pee (and sweat, ewww.) Always hungry, never satisfied. Terrible sleep, nonstop exhaustion. And the big clue: unexplained weight loss of nearly thirty pounds.

When I spoke to my doctor, he was like, “Hey, you have diabetes. I don’t need to see a test, because I’m certain based on your symptoms, but the insurance company will, so let’s get a blood draw.”

And today I learned—yup, I’ve got it.

My confession is that I’m silver-lining kind of stoked for one reason: it means he can prescribe me Ozempic or Mounjaro to treat it, and the insurance will cover it.

I realize that I am lucky—I have health insurance to submit the claim to.

I've been overweight my entire life. Never disastrously, but enough that it has impacted everything about my life. I survived the ignominious clothes-shopping trips in the “Husky” section of the store. I came out as gay in an age obsessed with Twinks. I fit naturally into the Bear community, a strange sort of win.

And, like many others, I've chased every diet known to humanity. Keto, Paleo, Mediterranean, and yes, even the infamous Grapefruit Diet of 1998 (I'm still owed an apology by the entire citrus industry). Each attempt ended predictably: initial enthusiasm, short-lived success, eventual defeat, and a deeper sense of shame than before. Rinse and repeat, sprinkled liberally with self-loathing.

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Then along came drugs like Ozempic and Mounjaro. I watched from the sidelines as these medications—originally designed for managing diabetes—started creating headlines for weight loss. Friends whispered about miraculous transformations. Celebrities dropped pounds effortlessly, while insisting they just discovered "mindfulness and yoga." Doctors started murmuring cautiously optimistic phrases like "potential game-changer."

Of course, without a diabetes diagnosis, these drugs were luxuries, prohibitively expensive, or morally complicated. "No doctor," I joked bitterly to friends, "will prescribe me this drug just because I'm fat."

So I found access to compounded semaglutide from a testosterone shop—one of those clinics set up for men who want a diagnosis for TRT, testosterone replacement therapy. Only this guy could get me a GLP-1, a year before HIMS and Ro and all the other online pharmacies were able to do it.

The crazy thing is—it worked. It didn’t just work, it worked. In the nine months that I was on compounded semaglutide, I lost sixty pounds without trying.

More amazingly, it changed my relationship to food at a fundamental level.

One of my dear friends is a fitness and health nut. Like, legit, she knew about sunscreen when we were in high school. She knows everything about cooking light and staying fit. She used to talk to me about “listening to my body” to learn how to eat for myself. The thing is, she was earnestly describing a thing she could do.

I never had any fucking idea what she was talking about. Until the GLP-1.

And then I GOT IT. I could actually hear my fucking body tell me what it wanted. And I shit you not, it was cool, good stuff. A piece of salmon and some asparagus. A little dab of hummus. No ice cream for me, please, I’ll have this delicious Pink Lady apple!

I was like I was cured of blindness. I could see how to feed myself and be happy. I had literally never felt better in my life.

And then I lost my job, and just like that, I couldn’t afford the compounded semaglutide anymore.

And for the last eleven months of unemployment, I have lived on such a shoestring budget, I gained all the weight back and more.

People talk about how hard it is to eat healthfully in America, and I am here to tell you, it’s completely true. On a limited budget, I was buying the cheapest, healthiest things I could find, and it was stuff like Campbell’s chili mac or Kraft Mac-and-cheese.

America’s cheapest foods are carb and sugar bombs.

And, indeed, I did not try excessively hard to eat well. I was unemployed and depressed as fuck.

Getting an appointment with my doctor was one of the first things I did with my second paycheck (the first kept my lights and internet on).

Well, today I officially got the "real disease" badge. Type 2 diabetes. Diagnosis: legit.

My doctor is a great guy—the kind of doctor you hope to have, who knows his patients and doesn’t bullshit anything. He was serious when we spoke about what this meant, for sure. But internally, I was already picturing myself six months down the road—striding confidently into rooms, healthily smaller, gracefully accepting compliments I pretend I don’t notice. My excitement wasn't about having diabetes, obviously. It was about what diabetes now unlocks for me: treatment. Insurance-covered, medically approved, life-changing treatment.

Is it messed up that getting a chronic, serious condition feels like a win because it gives me access to weight loss drugs? Absolutely. Welcome to America’s healthcare carnival, where the prizes are bizarre, the entry tickets absurdly expensive, and the funhouse mirrors reflect our distorted priorities.

But here’s the serious part: diabetes is no joke. I understand its gravity. It means vigilant blood sugar monitoring, dietary restrictions, regular doctor visits, and an ongoing relationship with potential complications. It means facing head-on the sobering reality that my body, as resilient as it’s tried to be, has limits.

But it also means a pathway toward genuine change—medically supported, science-backed change that might let me claw back some health, dignity, and a few more vibrant years.

And that's precisely why I'm weirdly joyful tonight. Not because I have diabetes, but because for the first time in memory, the fight against obesity feels less hopeless. Less isolating. Less steeped in moral failure. Finally, I have allies—doctors, medications, and insurance coverage.

So yes, tonight I toast my newly diagnosed diabetes, ironically raising my sugar-free Pedialyte to stay hydrated. It's not a lottery ticket anyone should aspire to. But since I’ve got one, damned if I won’t cash it in.

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