Save this storySave this story
Perri is a 34-year-old New Yorker who started a GLP-1 in 2023 to reclaim her life. This is her story in her own words.
“The battery must be dead.” That’s what I thought the first time my Amazon scale couldn’t register my weight.
At five feet three inches tall, I weighed more than 400 pounds, which I confirmed after purchasing a medical-grade scale. I didn’t recognize myself in the mirror. Even worse I didn’t recognize my life. Seeing the number was one thing, but the lived experience—being unable to tie my shoes or walk a block without becoming winded—was something entirely different.
I was 31 years old and beyond the point of no return, I thought. My flag wasn’t just planted at rock bottom; it was cemented. Then, in April 2023, I decided to make a change. I started a GLP-1, a type of medication that aids weight loss, in part by causing food to move through the body more slowly and increasing fullness. Within days of my first injection, the screeching food noise that had always plagued me became a faint whisper. I hadn’t even worked my way up to a therapeutic dose yet, but I could feel the tides shifting. After treading water my entire life, I was finally learning how to swim.
I first became aware of my weight as a child, standing on the scale at the pediatrician’s office. I was eight years old—maybe younger. In that moment I realized I wasn’t just a girl who loved tennis and softball. My identity and personhood could also be tethered to a body and a number, one that would fluctuate but somehow remain an enemy throughout my life. When I look at photos from that time, I see a perfectly normal kid, yet I was treated differently. I’ll never forget how, at family events, I was handed salads while my cousins were served burgers.
This experience, and others like it, planted seeds of shame about my weight that, as I grew up, blossomed into a thorny and distorted relationship with food. I tried every diet and weight-loss program out there: the Master Cleanse (you know, the lemon juice, maple syrup, and cayenne pepper concoction endorsed by Beyoncé), Jenny Craig, and the like. In fact, it was Weight Watchers that (inadvertently) taught me to binge eat as a pre-teen; I would starve myself the two days before weigh-ins. After that my cravings would explode, and I’d overeat. The cycle would continue week after week. Similarly, after losing 80 pounds on a paleo diet, the weight all came back once I could no longer avoid the lure of grains and sugar. I had traded reckless excess for reckless restriction, and it was completely unsustainable. The pervasive stereotype that plagues folks in larger bodies is that fast food and ultra-processed foods are to blame. But it became clear that I had an issue with bingeing. No matter what diet I tried, I wound up overeating—even “clean” foods like grilled chicken and sweet potatoes.
Reaching my breaking point
During the pandemic my life took a turn for the worse. As the world began social distancing, I fell into isolation. My apartment folded in on itself—my bed was my home. The food noise in my head grew louder, and my binging worsened. I found myself at my unhealthiest and most miserable. I ordered nearly everything I ate. After all, I could barely clean my apartment without becoming breathless; I couldn’t even imagine going to the grocery store. I either stayed home or at my parents’ house. Those were the only places I felt safe. My personal life atrophied because the shame I felt about my health weighed so heavily on my shoulders. I completely withdrew from the world. I lost friendships because I didn’t have the capacity to show up beyond a phone call or text.
Looking back I realize I lived a double life. Personally, I was crumbling, but professionally, I was unstoppable. I led a large team at a media agency, and I never dropped the ball; I vowed never to let my weight affect my career. But as my mobility became more limited, I struggled to attend work events. My career is social—filled with lunches and happy hours for clients—but going to a restaurant or bar triggered my fight-or-flight response, with the voice in my head wondering, Will I fit in a seat? However, before I could spiral about that too much, I’d remember it was almost impossible for me to walk without becoming winded. If the night continued to a different location, I knew I couldn’t keep up. So I stayed home.
I knew I didn’t have much life left if I stayed on this path. My decision to start a GLP-1 wasn’t just about getting my life back; it was about saving it. I knew I wanted to lose 200 pounds, but processing that number felt insurmountable—a reminder of how much weight I had gained. But I told myself, Even if I lose 10 pounds, I will feel better.
I was prescribed Wegovy through a telehealth provider, who I worked in lockstep with to increase my dosage at monthly intervals, auditing my body’s response to the treatment along the way. There’s this misconception that GLP-1s are a magic shot that allows you to bypass the “hard work” of losing weight. Trust me, I put a lot of effort into my weight-loss journey, supporting the medication's effects with a nutritious diet and, as I regained mobility, consistent workouts. But I’ll be honest, there is a sense of magic for me—specifically, how the medication tempered food noise. Soon after my first injection, I stopped constantly thinking about my next meal. My relationship with food became healthy. For the first time in my life, I could eat in moderation. Instead of finishing an entire bag of M&M’s, I would eat a handful. I finally felt in control.
My chest tightened when I saw the loose skin that enveloped my new body.
In April 2024, a year after starting my GLP-1 journey, I was down 133 pounds. But once I lost 150 pounds, my progress stalled. My provider switched me to Zepbound, and my weight continued to drop.
The main downside was the nausea, which was consistent while taking both drugs. It was brutal, especially on the day after my weekly injection. Even commuting from my home on Long Island to Manhattan was a struggle some days when I was feeling particularly queasy. I relied on Zofran (a prescription medicine for nausea and vomiting), lean protein, and hydration to help keep the symptoms at bay. It was exhausting, but I was committed to doing whatever it took to reclaim my life. I knew I had momentum, and I refused to lose it.
As the number on the scale continued falling, I became more active. I could finally go to the gym, gaining even more momentum. I started working in cardio like swimming (easier on my joints at first), biking, and pickleball.
Seeing a plastic surgeon
Almost two full years later, I’ve lost over 230 pounds, going from a size 5X in shirts to a size medium and from a size 30 in pants to a size 6 or 8. Fifteen of those lost pounds were not from my GLP-1, exercise, or dietary changes but from something else entirely: skin-removal surgery. After years of hiding myself, I wanted to wear dresses and bathing suits but was confronted by the crepey, loose skin that enveloped my new body. My chest tightened when I thought about the progress I’d made, only to see that in the mirror.
My plastic surgeon, who specializes in skin removal on patients who’ve experienced extreme weight loss, performed a 360-degree lower-body lift in October 2025, contouring and removing skin from my hips, stomach, and butt. My abdominal wall had also separated because of my weight gain and had to be stitched back together. The surgery was eight hours long, and when I regained consciousness, I couldn’t even lift my foot without feeling pain. But the discomfort was well worth it. Now when I see my flat stomach—flat stomach!—I’m reminded that nothing is impossible.
As I write this I’m still recovering and waiting for the swelling to fully subside. I won’t see my final results for roughly nine months. And there’s more work to be done. Before the summer and after swelling subsides from my past surgery, I hope to have the excess skin removed from my upper body too. For now, though, I’m taking in my new 180-pound body at 34 years old, appreciating it and caring for it every day.
When I was still in the early stages of my journey, before I started dating again, booking last-minute flights to see the world I had cut myself off from, or skydiving (which I once considered impossible), I recognized something so mundane but so magical: I could walk up stairs without losing my breath. A nondescript everyday moment signaled that I wasn’t at rock bottom anymore. I had pulled myself out—step by step.