PicoBlog

A few months ago, my co-workers asked me if I thought Serena Kerrigan was on Ozempic. A TikTok (594.2K+ followers) and Instagram influencer who blew up for her commentary on dating and self-confidence during the pandemic, I raced to her Instagram page as we compared the glammed-up photos from November to those from the week prior. Moments later, one of my co-workers determined without hesitation that she definitely had Ozempic face. 

Truthfully, I don’t care if Serena Kerrigan is on Ozempic (and neither should you). I hadn’t heard of the drug, originally approved by the FDA in 2017 to treat obesity and Type 2 diabetes. But suddenly, Ozempic started popping up everywhere I looked. Since 2021, several iterations of the drug have hit the market at varying costs, and you can now get a month’s worth of generic Ozempic for $98 a month online (a monthly supply of Ozempic can cost up to $900 and is not usually covered by insurance). In studying the increasingly sharp jawlines and gaunt faces on the influencers I follow on social media, watching the Kardashians on Hulu, or even staring back at me from my friends’ fridges, there it was. On my way to work, I was assaulted by 10 foot ads from Telehealth company Ro showing me a ‘Weekly shot to lose weight’ on the subway platform alongside advertisements for StreetEasy and Tinder. In my group-chats, we started lovingly tossing around the term ‘Ozempy,’ and I couldn’t seem to escape the conversation.

My mom is a therapist who used to specialize in eating disorders, so I always considered myself to have a healthy relationship with food and my body. But in the pandemic and the months that would follow, I turned to exercise as a way to thwart increasing feelings of anxiety and restlessness amidst the global crisis.  

In my senior year of college and in graduating, applying to and attending law school, and then subsequently dropping out of law school, my anxiety became so severe that I lost my appetite. I alternated between states of nausea and light-headedness, went on 2 or 3 walks a day, and never sat still to let my body rest for more than a moment’s time. I would have never called it an eating disorder because I wasn’t thinking about my body (just the craziness going on in my brain), but that doesn’t mean that my eating wasn’t definitely disordered. During that period, I lost probably 20 pounds, though I barely noticed amidst the spiraling thoughts and chaos of my everyday life. 

When the dust settled from the whirlwind that was graduating in a pandemic, moving across the country, dropping out of law school, and starting a new job, so did the anxious, racing thoughts. I started to feel a lot better. My appetite returned as well as my zest for life (cue: impromptu rendezvous to Ralph’s Italian Ices for soft serve ice cream, penne a la vodka dinners with my friends, and not freaking out if I couldn’t workout that day because I no longer relied on exercise as my primary coping mechanism). My body was changing (for the better), and I noticed it. Drawing on my therapized upbringing and my classes in feminism, gender, and sexuality from college, I started considering how I might build a healthy relationship with exercise and with my body, now that I didn’t have the metabolism of 16-year-old me nor (thankfully) the anxiety of 21-year-old me. 

Coincidentally, the same time that I was thinking about how my jeans fit differently and comparing my body to the other girls at Pure Barre (I later stopped going and opted for more body inclusive work-out spaces), Ozempic wouldn’t stop popping up. I never considered the drug myself for so many reasons, but still, I couldn’t help but make what seemed like harmless jokes with my friends about ‘needing to go on Ozempic’ or looking back on old photos of myself where I thought I had ‘Ozempic face.’ Jokes aside, I definitely had a part in feeding into a conversation that was anything but body-positive. 

With Memorial Day Weekend behind us, summer is officially in full-swing. I’ve spent far too much time over the past few months thinking that an extra SoulCycle class or skipping the second helping of birthday cake would make a difference before donning my first bikini of the summer. I’ve been trying hard to, instead, thank my body for everything it’s been through and all it does for me. For being strong through three infections of COVID-19, for being able to run a mile after not running for years, for giving me the opportunity to work, write, spend time outside, socialize, and enjoy life. 

Last weekend, I headed to Connecticut for the first pool day of the summer. I tried not to look too long in the mirror beforehand and instead focus on how grateful I was for perfect weather, my friends, and Connecticut’s re-energizing suburban charm. As I looked around at my group of friends cannon-balling into the pool and laying out in the sun, I realized I was actually having (for once) an affirming experience with my body. My friends, who go to yoga and [solidcore] and run half-marathons, also eat ice cream and drink sweet cocktails and have been known to enjoy a hot dog or two. Our bodies are normal — meaning they look like we all enjoy our lives. I told my friends how refreshing it was to feel normal in my body, to accept rolls or pimples or unshaven parts as opposed to the unattainable womanly perfection we’re fed online around the clock. My friends, also wearing their first bikini of the summer and digging their jean shorts out of the bottom drawer, were having the same experience. “I gained a new roll this winter!” a friend exclaimed, clearly with an air of humor but predominantly acceptance, that our bodies shouldn’t and won’t be perfect, because perfection is not our priority.

Over appetizers and cocktails, my friend Catherine reminded me that our relationships with our bodies are lifelong. Through adolescence, child-rearing, and menopause, we’ve got a long road ahead of us. My body won’t look like the Instagram influencers and it would certainly look different on Ozempic, but I’ll continue to make peace with that. It’s easier said than done, but I’m happy to have a body that allows me to center joy, and I’m grateful to have a body that works. 

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