I turned 43 recently, and if I’m being honest, it has been quite the journey getting here—physically, mentally, and everything in between.

The other day I was talking with a friend who is about half my age (which, let’s just pause on that for a second… how did that happen?), and we realized we’re both on our own versions of a GLP-1 journey. Yep, I said it—I’m on the shot. And I’ve been pretty open about that, because I’m not ashamed to admit I needed help. At this point in my life, I’m far more interested in honesty than pretending I’ve got everything figured out.

My body has never quite played by the rules. For as long as I can remember, the advice has been the same: “eat less, move more.” Groundbreaking, right? Truly revolutionary stuff. And look, I get it—that advice works for some people. But for me, it always felt like trying to force a square peg into a round hole and then being told the problem was the peg.

In my early 20s, I did lose about 80 pounds on my own, so yes—it was possible. But what that actually looked like was eating under 1200 calories a day, working out seven days a week, spending hours in the gym, and running five miles most days. I was committed. Relentlessly committed. And also, if we’re being real, I had the time and freedom to do that. No kids, no major responsibilities—just me and my dog, living a very structured, very controlled life.

I maintained that weight loss for a long time, but life has a way of… evolving. Buying houses, getting married, having kids, building a career—all wonderful things, but they come with stress, time constraints, and shifting priorities. And slowly, over the years, the weight crept back on. By the time I hit my 40s, most of it had returned.

And here’s the thing: I’m active. I eat well. I understand that weight isn’t the sole measure of health—but I also can’t ignore how I felt. My joints hurt constantly. Everyday activities became harder. Things I used to enjoy started to feel like a chore instead of a release. That disconnect between “I’m doing the right things” and “why do I feel so bad?” is incredibly frustrating.

Eventually, I found a provider who actually listened. And if you’re a woman reading this, you probably already know how rare and valuable that is. All my labs came back “normal” (of course they did), but instead of stopping there, she acknowledged that “normal” doesn’t always mean “optimal” or “fine.” She heard me. She validated that something wasn’t right, even if it didn’t show up neatly on paper.

We talked through options, and GLP-1 came up. I’ll be honest—I hesitated. A lot. Because somewhere along the way, many of us absorbed this idea that using help equals taking the “easy way out.” That if you didn’t suffer your way through it, it somehow doesn’t count.

But eventually, I decided to try.

Within the first week, I lost nine pounds—and no, it wasn’t fat, it was fluid. And when I say fluid, I mean fluid. I have never peed so much in my life. Not even at the end of pregnancy. The swelling in my legs, my feet, my hands, my face—it started to disappear. My heart palpitations, which had conveniently always been labeled “normal,” began to ease. I could breathe better. Move easier. Sleep better.

That was the moment it clicked for me: this wasn’t just about weight.

It felt like my body had been holding onto something for years and finally decided to let it go.

Around that same time, my friend made a comment that stuck with me. She said she’s frustrated with current diet culture—how even with GLP-1s, it feels like we’ve slipped back into this quiet competition of who can eat the least. And immediately, I thought… oh no. Are we back here again?

Because if you grew up in the 90s, you know exactly what I’m talking about. The era where thinner wasn’t just better—it was everything. It wasn’t about strength, or health, or capability. It was about taking up as little space as possible. And I have zero interest in going back to that.

That’s not why I’m doing this.

I go to the gym to get stronger. I lift weights so I can keep up with my kids, so I can push a snow machine off me if I need to (Alaska problems), so I can move through my life with confidence and capability. Strength—not just physically, but mentally—is the goal.

But sometimes, the weight is the first barrier. Sometimes it’s the thing that makes everything else harder, and addressing it isn’t vanity—it’s strategy. And there shouldn’t be shame in that.

I’ll admit something else, too: I’m a little jealous of people who have a naturally healthy relationship with food. The ones who can eat something “bad” and not spiral into guilt or overthinking. That hasn’t always been my reality. It’s something I’ve had to work on—constantly. Some days are easier than others.

And then there’s the scale… oh, the scale. That complicated little device. People love to say “the number doesn’t matter,” and in a broad sense, sure—but when you’re on a GLP-1, it does become part of the picture. It’s data. It’s feedback. It’s something you track, whether you like it or not. And for those of us who already have a complicated relationship with it, that can be… a lot.

But this journey is about more than just numbers. It’s about how I feel in my body. It’s about reducing pain. It’s about gaining energy. It’s about showing up in my life in a way that feels good and sustainable.

GLP-1 isn’t for everyone, and I’m not here to convince anyone it should be. But I will say this: needing help doesn’t make you weak, and it doesn’t make your effort any less valid. Because despite what people think, this isn’t effortless. You still have to show up. You still have to move your body. You still have to be mindful of what you eat.

It’s not an escape hatch—it’s a tool.

And sometimes, having the right tool makes all the difference.