In November of 2024, I posted “Taking My Shot”—a deeply personal (worth the read) story about my lifelong tango with the scale and the GLP journey my husband and I had just embarked on. It’s now been a little over 18 months of injections, and I figured it was time for an update because, well… things have happened.
At the time of that post, I was down 16 pounds. After four months of shots, that felt like a solid win—confetti-worthy, even—but I was still nowhere near my ultimate goal. Not even in the same zip code.
I’d always had a number in my head: the weight I was when I graduated college sounded good to me. Sure, I was still technically overweight back then, but listen—anything was better than where I was currently living, weight-wise.
So, instead of dancing around the proverbial bush, let’s just rip the Band-Aid off and talk numbers.
At my highest weight (ever, and the only number that counts), I was 240 pounds.
Until recently, the only person who ever, ever knew that number was my sister. Not even my husband knew. But now I’ve gone and said it publicly (deep breath, tiny scream) because I’m genuinely proud of how far I’ve come. Hang tight—we’ll get there.
My original goal was 170. I knew there were female athletes out there who weighed 170 (I am not an athlete, nor have I ever pretended to be), but it felt attainable. Reasonable. Like a stretch goal, not a fantasy.
What’s really blown my mind over the past year and a half—and you’ll hear this echoed by many of us GLP converts—is how completely my relationship with food has changed. I’m talking rewired. Sometimes I actually have to force food down my gullet because I’m just…not hungry. Ever. And I know I need fuel, not satisfaction—which, let’s be honest, has never come from gorging and then saying, “Wow, that was so worth it, I feel emotionally fulfilled after all that garbage.” Never once.
I’ve been trying hard to up my protein intake (mostly by sneaking powders into my coffee—if you have recommendations, I’m all ears). Vital Proteins has been the least offensive so far…in chocolate, obviously. When I go into the office, I’m a salad-for-lunch person. At home, I usually skip lunch altogether. Dinner hasn’t changed much except for one tiny detail: I eat less. Or I don’t finish. I KNOW. Who even am I?
Case in point: last night we had pizza. Two observations here. One, we eat 2–3 small slices instead of 4–6. Two, we’re…not that happy afterward. Same goes for Chipotle burritos, which used to be a twice-a-week love affair. Now we cut them in half and magically turn one burrito into two meals. We split a bag of chips instead of annihilating one each. We almost never finish a meal. We eat until we’re satisfied and then we…stop eating. Absolute sorcery.
What I’m trying to say is this: while this may sound deeply depressing to some people, I just…don’t care about food that much anymore. Like at all. Food used to live rent-free in my brain. Now it’s more of a casual acquaintance. We nod politely and move on.
I need less of it, I don’t obsess over it, and when a questionable choice pops into my head, I’m usually able to talk myself down like a rational adult instead of a raccoon in a dumpster. Progress.
I now preview restaurant menus before we go out—not to see what looks the most indulgent or mouth-watering, but to identify the healthiest option that won’t make me feel like I need a nap, a confession, and sweatpants immediately afterward. Who is this person?
I also don’t find myself jonesing for my former greatest hits—steaks drowning in extra butter, stuffed pizza that could double as a doorstop, or basically anything smothered in cheese. Have I mentioned I love, LOVE, Mexican food?
Do I still eat those things? Absolutely. I am not a monk. But the moderation? Frankly, it deserves a plaque. A trophy. Maybe a slow clap. Because I can now enjoy a few bites, feel satisfied, and stop—without mourning the loss of the rest of the plate or plotting my next meal like it’s a heist.
Honestly, if this is what “normal” feels like, I’d like to formally apologize to myself for ever normalizing my past behaviors because I was absolutely out of control.
All of this said, this is not me telling anyone what to do with their health. Talk to your doctor. Put down the fork. Pick up a fork. Work out. Don’t work out. Do whatever is right for you. This is my story, and I’m sharing it because—say it with me—yay me.
As of Friday, January 2nd, I didn’t just hit 170. I blew right past it. In fact, I’m…gasp…139.
I know. I don’t remember ever being in the 130s. Or the 140s. Or the 150s. Or the 160s. I only remember hovering around 170 in my 20s, like it was my assigned parking spot. And now I’ve dropped 30 pounds past my goal? Unreal.
That’s 100 pounds total. So far.
Of course, everyone asks, “Do you want to lose more?” And sure—part of me would love to get to the weight I used to boldly list on my driver’s license: 125 (hilarious, I know). But I’m also genuinely okay if this is where things land. Another popular question: “How long will you stay on the shots?” And that is where it gets tricky. I already played that game once, stopped after six months in 2023, and promptly gained back half the weight. Hard no. Not doing that again. So we’re talking about microdosing this year—cutting back, seeing how it feels. Will I still be injecting myself at 60 (which is horrifyingly close)? Probably not. My official answer is: we’ll see.
One thing I do want to focus on in 2026 is strength training and getting back into yoga. In fact, as I type this, my yoga mat is sitting there, judging me, because I’m officially starting again today. I absolutely loved doing yoga last year, found myself weeping at the end of most classes (it’s a mental release more than a physical one), and I’m excited to get back into it.
To say I’m pleased—happy—relieved—with my current weight, doesn’t even cover it. Yes, I’ve had to purge my entire closet (including bras, much to my husband’s dismay). Yes, I’ve bought and rebought clothes more times than I care to admit because I kept losing in 2025. And yes, I’ve splurged at stores I never thought I’d shop in, while following a suspicious number of fashion influencers (on a budget, thank you very much).
Because OMG—I can finally wear cute clothes.
And I’m doing it in my mid-50s.
Anyway, there it is—my full, no-filter, coming-clean moment to the entire internet.
This is me owning every number, every struggle, every injection, every hard truth, and every hard-won victory. I spent years hiding, minimizing, joking it off, and pretending I was fine when I wasn’t. And now? I’m proud.
This came from finally choosing myself, finding help, sticking with it, and not quitting when it would’ve been easier to slide back into old patterns.
Putting this out there feels vulnerable as hell. But it also feels freeing. No more secrets. No more shame. Just honesty, progress, and gratitude for a body that finally feels like it’s working with me instead of against me.
I’m not done. I’m not perfect. But I am healthier, stronger, lighter—in every sense of the word—and wildly proud of how far I’ve come. And if sharing this helps even one person feel less alone, more hopeful, or brave enough to start (or restart), then putting it all out here was more than worth it.
This is my story.
This is me.