Adam Dalva| Longreads | April 29, 2026 | 2,084 words (9 minutes)
This essay, from Steak Zine, is copublished with Cake Zine.
Every Sunday evening, I open the fridge, reach into the vegetable crisper, grab a pen, screw in a needle, pinch my stomach, and inject Ozempic. It hurts a bit, but I’ve gotten used to it. Twenty-five pounds down, 20 to go. I put on the weight after my brother died—the distortion in the mirror, random heavy breathing, strange hunger panics around 4 p.m., the constant need to self-soothe—and I wanted to let go, move on, heal.
That’s one rendition of truth, the one I wish I could sell you. Claiming I’m injecting to recover from grief deflects simple humiliation into potential empathy, rendering me unmockable for taking a medication that I’ve seen called “easy mode” and “stolen valor” online, a workaround for people lacking the willpower to lose weight the old-fashioned way.
Really, though, my bereavement was internal and external justification for something I would have wanted to try anyway. I’ve trended toward heaviness my entire life, and food has always been a font of shame. When I eat in public, when I order in restaurants, I feel overly visible, fearing that every bite could contribute to the perception that I lack self-control. And so I sneak food. Mine is the panicked late-night nibble, then the easing of the fridge door closed. Mine is rearranging the contents of the garbage can to conceal wrappers and cores. It had been unclear to me, pre GLP-1, how to write without something salty or sleep without something sweet, and the theory that the medication might quiet “food noise” particularly appealed to me.
