From Freddos to Freedom: 6 months on GLP-1

On 9 February 2025, I jabbed myself with my first GLP-1 pen. It was a big fucking deal. I'm terrified of needles and it's not unusual for the nurse to have to drag me off the floor after routine vaccinations.

This is the first time I felt good enough about a picture of me to use it on one of my blog posts. Hey, I'm FuzzyCub!

It was just me, a needle, and a bit of quiet self-loathing muttered under my breath: “fuck it, this better work.”

I have been fat for years. Proper fat. The kind where clothes shopping makes you want to cry, chairs feel like a gamble, and every photo is a reminder of how much space you take up.

I tried every diet under the sun, every new app, every “this time I’ll do it” speech. Always the same cycle. By tea time, it was over. That was my witching hour. By then the fridge was bare, the takeaway was on order, and I was promising myself tomorrow would be the real start.

And honestly? I liked it. I liked eating. Not fancy, mindful, organic eating. Big eating. Why waste money on a 35g bar of chocolate when the 500g slab is the same price? Economics, babes. And then I’d eat the whole thing in one sitting. I rewarded myself with food, soothed myself with food, celebrated with food, cried with food. I ate when I was hungry, I ate when I wasn’t hungry.

I hated waste. My parents raised me on “think of the starving kids in Africa.” So I did - while polishing off pizza crusts and family bags of crisps. Me staying fat didn’t feed anyone, it just gave me one hell of a belly.

The breaking point

Florida, November 2024. My happy place. Except this time the magic was gone. I couldn’t fit in the normal seat for Tron. Some rides barely closed over me. And Universal? I didn’t even go. One of my favourite places, skipped, because I knew I wouldn’t fit. And I’d been through that humiliation before: the staff pushing down on a restraint that wouldn’t close, the pitying looks from strangers, the quiet shuffle off the ride. It is shame in 4K.

That was when it hit me. I wasn’t living life anymore. I was circling around it, ducking anything that might expose my size.

I came home and gave dieting “one more go.” December, January. Every day I failed by tea time. The cycle was endless. So when I picked up that GLP-1 pen in February, it wasn’t hope. It was “fuck it, last chance.”

The side effects (aka: the unsexy bit nobody tells you about)

I started on Wegovy. It worked. Oh, it worked. But the side effects were hell. I puked daily. The nausea was constant. And the shits… good god, the shits. When the dose went up, I was on the loo four times an hour. Imagine six months of that.

Then I switched to Mounjaro. Heaven. No sickness, no shits, no drama. Same hunger control, none of the torture. For the first time, I thought: this is how it’s supposed to feel.

And then the email came. Two weeks later, the manufacturer announced a 170 percent price hike. From £120 to £330 a month before the pharmacy adds their margin. After six months of suffering and finally finding a drug that worked for me without ruining me, I was staring down the barrel of “what if I can’t afford it?” Thanks Trump.

The difference is the noise stops

Here’s the thing no one talks about. Before GLP-1, food wasn’t food. It was noise. Constant background chatter. If it was in the house, it called to me.

I once bought a six-pack of Freddos to “control” myself. Ate one. The other five sat in the cupboard screaming at me until I gave in and ate them all. That’s what hunger used to feel like. Not appetite. Obsession.

Now? Silence. I eat, I’m done, I move on. For the first time in my adult life, I’m not negotiating with a chocolate bar.

The Tesco years

I used to spend £10 to £15 a day on snacks. Little Tesco was my confessional booth. Share bags I never shared. Fizzy drinks, chocolate, crisps, whatever looked good. Empty wrappers shoved to the bottom of the bin so no one would see. I told myself I deserved it.

GLP-1 actually saved me money. The prescription was paid for by not raiding Tesco every afternoon. No more daily sugar runs. No more hiding evidence. No more shame at the checkout with snacks stacked high like a teenage sleepover.

And now, just as I’ve broken free of Little Tesco, Big Pharma takes the piss with a 170 percent price hike. Again thanks Trump.

What has happened so far

• In six months I’ve lost more weight than I managed in the last ten years.

• I’m lighter than I’ve been since 2014. Eleven bloody years.

• It’s steady, about 3lb a week, without diet clubs, fad bullshit, or cardio that makes me want to cry.

• Clothes shopping doesn’t feel like punishment anymore. Before, nothing fit. Formal wear was worse. Ugly colours, terrible cuts, constant sweat. Weddings, interviews, any “smart” event was misery. Now I have choice. Actual choice.

What is next

• November 2025: I drop out of the obese BMI category. Goodbye.

• Same month: I hit my comfort zone, my personal target of 90 to 95 kg.

• February 2026: If the meds last, I’ll hit a “healthy” BMI for the first time in my adult life.

  
  

One year. That’s all it takes. Twelve months to undo decades of weight gain, shame, and Little Tesco snack runs.

How it feels

I still see the fattest version of me day to day. I can't see a change yet. There is one, when I look at the pictures it's obvious. But my brain has t caught up with my body.

It's strange, and sometimes a little overwhelming. Honestly, a bit embarrassing.

I feel less visible too. Less judgement.

Pride isn’t an emotion I’m used to. But when I look at the graph, when I look at my clothes, when I catch myself in the mirror, I feel something I never have before.

I think I’m proud of myself.