“Are you using any drugs?”
With my backstory, this has been a common question from healthcare professionals over the years.
I’ve always said no. And I’ve been proud of that fact—weirdly proud.
Proud that I’ve raw-dogged trauma treatment like EMDR and talking about shit I want to bury somewhere near the core of the Earth without needing drugs or alcohol.
But here’s the twist: that pride was just shame in a fancy hat.
Because while I wasn’t self-medicating with substances, I was comfort eating myself into pre-diabetes, fatty liver disease, and obesity. None of which featured in my “dream life” as a homeless teen trying to rewrite her future.
THE INJECTION:
So there I was: needle in one hand, antiseptic wipe in the other, alone in my studio, feeling a cocktail of failure, shame… and hope.
No, I wasn’t in a crack den shooting heroin into a collapsing vein—but I still paused.
I wondered: Next time a therapist asks if I’m using drugs… what do I say?
“Aye. I’m on the gear.”
Except the gear is called Mounjaro, and it arrived in a tidy, ice-packed parcel from MedExpress, hand-delivered by a smiling postie who told me to have a lovely day.
I smiled back, awkwardly trying to hide the low-level panic I get whenever someone knocks on my door.
“Look at me, ahead of the curve and already shitting myself before I’ve even shot up,” I muttered, trying to be kind to myself as my amygdala freaked out over a normal, human interaction that absolutely did not require a fight-or-flight response.
THE FIRST JAG:
(Jag = jab, for non-Scots.)
I don’t know how long you sat there with a needle in hand, ready to wrestle your food demons.
For me? It was 30 minutes. (Okay, 40. I’m not proud.)
In the end, I injected myself out of sheer boredom—and because I’d already twisted the pen to the number 1 and wasn’t about to waste £50 of the good stuff.
It was surprisingly painless. But I won’t lie—it felt like I was injecting a litre, not 0.6ml. What is it with that plunger being miles away from the pen?
WEEK ONE:
After a year of stalking Mounjaro TikToks, I was fully prepared to projectile vomit while shitting myself.
I even bought chicken soup in anticipation.
But nothing happened.
Well—except the absence of hunger. And that? That was delicious.
I still wanted to eat, which was a relief—I was terrified I’d turn into a robot with zero appetite. But instead of craving chips like a feral raccoon, I was calmly making meals and enjoying them.
I avoided pizza. I avoided cheese. I’d done my homework.
Week 1 weight loss: 6.6lbs.
THE FIRST MONTH:
Here’s where sh*t got weird.
By week four, I’d lost 12lbs—nearly a stone.
And I started sabotaging myself.
Seriously? After paying to feel better, I was screwing it up?
I had no food noise. No migraines. No cravings. I was cooking nourishing, high-fibre meals and genuinely enjoying small portions.
So what the hell was going on?
THE SABOTAGE:
Thankfully, I’ve been to therapy. (A lot.)
I knew the drill: when I start acting like a self-destructive goblin, it’s time to journal.
And what poured out was surprising.
I wasn’t sabotaging out of laziness or rebellion.
I was scared.
Weight loss was making me feel vulnerable.
Something in me was freaking out about shrinking. About changing. And so, I was quietly forcing myself to eat past full—again.
The old pattern, showing up in a shiny new chapter.
So I decided to slow down, feel it, and—this time—not bail on myself.
I also switched providers—from MedExpress to Voy—after looking into coaching support. I knew I needed more than just meds. I needed a space to unpack this sh*t.
FEAR VS REALITY:
I’d prepared for the side effects.
Nausea. Bloating. The potential for explosive regret.
But what I didn’t prepare for was the emotional impact.
I thought losing weight would be all yay me! and fresh start vibes.
But instead, it’s been:
- Anxiety
- Vulnerability
- Emotional whiplash
This isn’t just about eating less.
It’s about feeling more.
And honestly? That’s scarier than weight loss.
But I’m not going back.
I’ll keep walking forward—even if it’s more of a wobble than a strut—because progress is still progress.
And this?
This is The Weigh Back.
If you’re in week one, or week twenty, or if you’re just staring at a pen wondering if it’s time—know that you’re not alone.
I’d love to hear your story, too. Drop a comment, send a message, or just breathe and keep going.
We’re all on the weigh back together.
