With celebrities like Serena Williams discussing GLP-1’s in PEOPLE and Rebel Wilson partnering with Noom, weight-loss injectables like Ozempic and Wegovy are everywhere.
GLP-1’s are changing the conversation around health, body image, and accessibility, but are they a groundbreaking medical advancement or a new form of diet culture in disguise? The answer is complicated. There are a few things at play here, but to understand what’s happening, we need to look at both science and society, and how the two have intertwined to create the moment we’re in today.
Obesity, defined as a body mass index (BMI) over 30%, has grown at staggering rates over the last few decades, affecting 15% of the American population in 1980 and 42% by 2020. Many factors have led to this rise, from increased consumption of ultra-processed foods to a reduction in exercise. But one thing is for sure: efforts to combat this epidemic have reached an all-time high.
The use of drugs to treat obesity isn’t new. Dinitrophenol (DNP), introduced in the 1930s, increased metabolic rate but was discontinued because it was toxic. In the 1940s and 50s, amphetamines became the weight-loss drug of choice, peaking in popularity in the 1990s before their long-term side effects caught up. History repeated itself with other drugs, each promising quick results before serious health risks emerged.
Enter the GLP-1. Short for Glucagon-like peptide-1. It’s a peptide hormone that stimulates the pancreas to produce more insulin after meals and slows digestion, helping users feel full longer. The first GLP-1 drug was approved in 2005 to treat diabetes, not obesity. But when doctors noticed patients losing significant weight, it became clear these medications had potential far beyond diabetes treatment.
By November 2023, the FDA approved Zepbound (tirzepatide), the first GLP-1/GIP combination drug, marketed specifically for weight loss. This signaled a shift in the pharmaceutical industry’s focus: from diabetes treatment to maximizing weight loss potential. But what was happening during this time to skyrocket the popularity of these drugs? Why might scientists and companies have been so motivated to frame GLP-1s around weight loss?
With the resurgence of 90’s trends like mom jeans, scrunchies, and now, thinness, it seems we didn’t just adopt the fashion, but the mindset too: that smaller is better, no matter the cost.
From a biological perspective, GLP-1s do what they’re supposed to do. They help regulate appetite and support weight loss. For many people, especially those who’ve struggled with weight-related health issues, they’ve been life-changing.
But GLP-1s aren’t a simple fix. The price tag and potential side effects make them far from a universal solution. And when the motivation for use shifts from managing a health condition to chasing an aesthetic ideal, the line between medicine and marketing becomes blurred.
As these drugs gained traction, so did the conversation around body image. The early 2020s brought a renewed obsession with appearance, fueled by social media and celebrity influence. On TikTok, speculation about who might be on Ozempic has become akin to a sport, feeding into a cycle of fascination and judgment.
Celebrities and influencers who speak about “wellness” or “health journeys” often skip the details about medical intervention, leaving followers with the illusion of effortless transformation. The result? GLP-1s have become the new face of “self-improvement,” dressed up as empowerment, but often reinforcing the same message that thinner is better.
Here’s where things get complicated. While some people use GLP-1s out of medical necessity, others seek them purely for weight loss. That dual purpose raises questions about who gets priority.
At their core, GLP-1s represent both progress and contradiction. On one hand, they show how far medicine has come in addressing complex health issues. On the other hand, they risk fueling a new, medically backed version of diet culture. GLP-1s aren’t inherently good or bad, but when celebrity endorsements drown out conversations about ethics and accessibility, we lose sight of the real issue.
Maybe the question isn’t whether GLP-1s are a problem or a solution, but what their popularity says about us. Why are we so drawn to quick fixes? Why do we keep looking for a “cure” for bodies that were never broken? If we want real progress, we need to rethink the conversation entirely. Instead of asking how to get thin, maybe we should be asking how to get healthy in a way that includes everyone.
Because the future of health shouldn’t depend on an injection. It should depend on understanding ourselves, our values, and what “wellness” really means.