Photo-Illustration: The Cut; Photos: Getty

When I started writing my novel Cherry Baby three years ago, I kept having to explain what Ozempic was. First to my agent, then to my editor. Then to anyone who would listen to me talk about the book.

Cherry Baby isn’t about GLP-1s, but it’s about fatness and bodies in a way that my other books aren’t — and it’s set in our present moment, so semaglutide sort of simmers beneath every scene.

I’m not sure how GLP-1s got on my radar early, but I’d become almost obsessed with them. I brought them up with everyone. Half evangelist, half Cassandra: These drugs are going to change everything. Everyone is already on them, and everyone who isn’t will be. There will be no rich fat people in five years — none!

If I said all this to a thin person, they’d usually respond in horror. (Maybe because thin people like living in a world where they are “thin people.” Or maybe because it really did sound like the plot of a science-fiction movie.) If I was talking to a fat person, they’d say, “Wait, let me write this down.”

At least three of my friends walked away from conversations with me and immediately got prescriptions. They look great now. And they feel good.

Everyone looks great now. Have you noticed?

My mom — who is fat, but not as fat as me — never wanted me to lose weight. She cried when I was in the sixth grade and I told her I was going on a diet. She waited half an hour, then brought me a turkey sandwich.
“We’re just big people,” she told me. “I’m big, your dad’s big, you’ll always be big. It doesn’t matter. You’re a wonderful person. God loves you and sees you. And boys will still like you.”

My mom and I have had rough years and bad times — but she said some version of this to me over and over. And it was the best gift she ever gave me. Because she was right.

I am bigger than other people. I’ve lost weight over the years. I’ve worked out. I’ve counted points and carbs. I’ve followed the advice of Oprah Winfrey’s trainer and chef. In my 20s, I lost so much weight that my face hollowed out at the temples. I was still a size 16. I was still fat.

I understood then — I’ve understood all along — that I didn’t really have a choice in all this. The science was with my mom: Almost no one loses weight and keeps it off. Fat people don’t turn into thin ones.

My fight has always been to be less fat and more healthy. That’s still a worthwhile struggle. I breathe better at size 18 than size 22. I move better. My heart has an easier time of it.

My mom was also right (I swear I’ve never used this phrase so much in one sitting) about boys. They liked me. You only really need one to like you, if he’s a good one. I fell in love, I got married, I had kids. I got the jobs I wanted. I found clothes that sort of fit. I spent a lot of time and energy trying to lose weight, but I didn’t spend a lot of time hating myself when I couldn’t.

In my novel, the main character, Cherry, is married to a famous cartoonist. They’re making a movie out of his autobiographical comic strip — but they can’t find anyone to play Cherry because there are no more fat actresses. “Hollywood only ever had three.”

That was a joke when I wrote it. It’s not a joke anymore. It feels like all the famous fat people are gone. Along with all the fat doctors. And executives. There are only a few fat authors left. My fat friends are just my friends now. And even family gatherings look different these days. (Not so big. Not so hungry.) I find I’m constantly trying to reacquaint myself with familiar faces.

“It’s creepy,” a thin person said to me recently. Thin people feel like they can confide in me about this, because I’m still fat.

I am still fat.

This fact shocks me more than anyone. I’ve known about these weight-loss drugs for years now, and I believe they work. My doctor is onboard. I can afford it.

I could do it. I could lose weight. I could be thin. Even typing that makes my eyes water. Makes my hands shake a little. I could be thin.

I could change myself from a fat person (gross, disgusting, loathed, incompatible with life and airplane seats and New York City restaurant tables) into a regular person (good, clean, moral, can wear designer clothes, never worries about pull-down bars on roller coasters).

I could lower my blood sugar and my blood pressure and my cholesterol. I could probably live longer? And have more time with my kids? And grandkids someday?

I could have a life where I don’t think about being fat every time I move. Every time someone looks at me. Every time I put something in my mouth.

My mother was wrong (now there’s a familiar phrase) — I can change. I have a choice. I have a choice, and I’m not making it. I am continually not making it.

I write love stories. Not exactly romances, but sort of. My specialty is yearning. My characters tend to want something so badly it makes their stomachs hurt, and I’m good at sustaining that stomachache-y feeling for 200 pages.

That’s what I write, because that’s how I am. I want things. I long. I lust. I relentlessly pursue. I look forward.

For example, every night I go to bed looking forward to breakfast — genuinely excited about breakfast. “If I go to sleep now, it’ll be here immediately.” After breakfast, I’ll have an iced coffee. I love an iced coffee — nothing’s better than an iced coffee. Then I get to have lunch. Love lunch. Then my family will come home, and we’ll have dinner. Maybe we’ll go out. Dinner’s a party, I love dinner, and I get to have it every day. What a world, what a life. I am excited to eat all day, every day. I love being hungry.

I think I would have started a GLP-1 by now if I thought it would affect only my body. What I’m worried about is my brain. It’s the yearning I want to hold onto. The desire and delight.

I feel compelled to say here that none of my friends or family have experienced anhedonia as a result of weight-loss drugs. I also feel compelled to say that before these drugs came along, I didn’t know that the word anhedonia existed.

I’m worried that if I take the drugs, I’ll change, and I won’t even realize it. I’m also worried that I’ll take the drugs and change, and I will realize it, but I’ll love being skinny so much that I won’t care.

I’ve never been skinny before. It seems like people would do anything to stay that way.

I might be on Wegovy by the time you read this. Or Mounjaro. Or Zepbound. I meant to say that earlier. This isn’t some sort of grand stand I’m making. Or a principled take.

It’s getting harder and harder to rationalize not being on these drugs. I keep bargaining with myself. I’m eating more carefully than I have in years and exercising more intensely. And I’m doing it because of the drugs. I’m running from them.

Would you be absolutely shocked to hear that I’m working hard and have lost only a negligible amount of weight? (No one is telling me that I look great. No one is looking at my face and trying to reconcile the changes.)

It’s a real mindfuck to realize that I don’t actually hate being fat that much. I thought I did. I thought it was the worst thing about being me. But now there’s a magic pill, and I’m not taking it. There’s a magic button, and I haven’t pushed it.

What I want more than anything is to stay myself. In 2026, that seems like a less and less reasonable position.

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