The meal is over and as I start carrying plates from the table to the sink to begin the washing up, a relative follows me to continue a conversation started during dinner.She has been telling me about a dinner party she’d hosted where none of the guests ate what she cooked or drank any wine with her because they were all on GLP-1s. “I just don’t think it’s the right way to lose weight,” she says plaintively. “It can’t be good for their health”.I keep my gaze focused on the task in front of me: ferociously scrubbing some sugar that had caramelised on the edge of a baking tray. “I don’t know,” I say weakly, as I try to round off the chat. “I think everyone is different and what might work for some might not work for others”.I feel uncomfortable, not only because I am obese and she is naturally very thin – making me feel like the de facto spokesperson for the overweight population in this conversation – but also because I am on the drugs, as only my husband, best friend and pharmacist know.
I didn’t plan on keeping this information a secret, I just wanted a bit of space and privacy to see how I got on before inviting in an audience. It is May 2026, and this is my second time on GLP-1s (I’d previously tried in 2025 and had a spectacularly bad experience that resulted in a mental health crash). I wrote about this in an article and swore off them completely.But after 10 months of trying to lose weight the old-school way — eat less, exercise more — which brought with it many positive changes in my health markers but precisely zero weight loss. I was exhausted and ready to try the drugs again. Yet, I felt anxious about public opinion. More than anything else I was frankly terrified of being called a hypocrite. And so I kept my inner circle small. Since the last attempt quite a lot had changed; my kids were a bit older, I was no longer in the postnatal period, I had had some very good therapy that better equipped me to deal with any anxious feelings that might come up and I wanted to confront my fear of taking them. I was also so tired of living in a body that made it hard to feel comfortable. Not because of how people viewed or judged my size — I let go of that concern a long time ago — but because I was the heaviest I’d ever been and it was having an impact on my wellbeing. I had less energy, my joints hurt, I had a back injury that wasn’t getting better and also yes, I wanted my clothes to fit better.My first and second start couldn’t have been more different. The first time, I was trying to figure it all out on my own, panicking at every side effect and unsure how to respond to my reduced appetite (and so eating nothing at all). The second time I felt empowered, confident and well-resourced, and more importantly, I started to see the results I had been pulverising myself to try to achieve for months on end with no joy. I knew it was time to be honest about taking them to my friends and wider audience, but I couldn’t shake the feeling that I’d be letting some people down — those who may have found my social media account in the heyday of body positivity through my writing in support of fat people.
I never set out to be a ‘fat positive writer’ or even a ‘body positive’ one — it was mostly a case of time and circumstance. In the late 2010s, in the boom of the Body Positivity era, there was huge demand from editors for writing from the perspective of women living in bigger bodies.
‘Being labelled a body-positivity writer brought a responsibility to perform a level of self-acceptance that in truth I had not reached and wasn’t sure could ever exist for me,’ writes Rose (Photo: Gavin Crilly Photography)As someone who had been obese, lost a lot of weight and was adept at writing about the nuance of the conversation around weight, health and bodies, I was soon receiving regular commissions from national papers and magazines.Ironically, at the time, I was the lightest I’d been for most of my adult life, although still a UK size 18 — so still not thin by many people’s standards. I’ve often wondered since then whether being smaller than I am now made me a more palatable voice for this message.I was happy to write on this topic, fighting the pervasive narrative that only thin could mean beautiful and challenging the idea that being overweight was synonymous with unhealthy. At no point did I reject the science of metabolic health, nor suggest loving yourself was an easy or even possible task. I came of age in the late 90s and had acquired the requisite self-hatred expected of women so knew that a few ad campaigns telling us to celebrate our differences, or the presence of bigger clothes in the shops, weren’t enough to update an internal operating system programmed to loathe itself.Having previously described myself as a women’s health journalist, at some point I was assigned a new label: a body-positivity writer. It is a label I have wrestled with over the years, because it reclassifies my science-based journalism as advocacy. And also because at times it brought with it a responsibility to perform a level of self-acceptance that in truth I had not reached and wasn’t sure could ever reach.It also made the notion of trying to lose weight feel more difficult to consider. The watered-down pop-culture version of body positivity painted hypocrites of anyone who wanted to change their size — including me, despite my never having advocated for people to stay heavy or vilified weight loss.The about turn that none of us saw coming? The arrivals of GLP-1s on the mass market and the extreme pivot back to glorifying thinness. This great social shrinking handed body positivity critics the ‘gotcha’ moment they had been craving. And so, many people, who, like me, had been associated with it were carefully monitored for any whiff of hypocrisy. Instead of achieving what we’d hoped — for our bodies to be less scrutinised and for fat people to be treated with a baseline level of respect — we were now painted as defectors for losing any weight at all.I reject that notion outright; wanting people who struggle with their weight to be treated better doesn’t mean that I have to stay trapped within a body that makes me feel uncomfortable. And I don’t think that there is any hypocrisy in wanting to improve my own personal health outcomes while still believing that losing weight isn’t the panacea for ill health it is often painted as.
After five months back on the drugs I am finally closing in on my weight loss goal, something that didn’t look possible at the start of the year. I am certain my more positive experience this time is the result of time moving on and hormones settling, but also because there is so much more advice available now on how to take these drugs well.
I feel more positive than I have in a long time that I can find a healthier way to manage my weight that works for me in the long term and costs me less emotional space. More time and more attention to enjoy my children while they’re young feels like a gift, and one I wont squander.A Matter of Fat launches on September 15 on all platforms
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