Ozempic Sundays 

Isabella von Haydin

As I write, I stare at an old picture of my parents. Young, smiling inside a suspiciously looking pool where my father had thrown my mother in and then jumped. They were very thin. My mother, you can see her collarbones, how flat her stomach is, slim arms and small up-lifted breasts. She is so pretty. A more polished version of me. 

51kg was how much she weighed at that time. I know this by heart because she used to remind me and my younger sister of it constantly. She used to compare our bodies, telling how we were weighing the same as she did back then, how she used to have the same waist or how weird it is that my boobs are already saggy while her have stayed so pretty for so long. If we passed the 51kg mark something was wrong. Don’t we share genes after all? 

26 years later, a photo of my mom and dad would be a bit different: some expression lines framing their features, his hair is getting grey and getting an entrance, hers is dyed and straight now and they both gained several pounds. I don’t think they are fat, but they’re not skinny. 

Albert has a round beer belly and his arms and legs are much larger now. Cristina has a rounded face, bigger breasts, larger hips and legs and arms too. They are different, they are getting older. So am I. 

I grew up a very petite and small child. I could eat everything without a care in the world. Cashew ice cream at the beach, barbecue, sushi at my godfather 's restaurant, Nutella, chocolate

cake, frozen nuggets, doce de leite, mini pizzas, pão de queijo, brigadeiros and pastel. 

Me and my sister would sit together every afternoon to eat our delicious oven-made snacks. Our feasts where we would fight for the crumbs in the tray and the topping that dripped to the cake plate. On Saturday, I used to get up early, heat Friday’s leftovers and sit on the couch watching whatever cartoons were on the telly as I ate baked pasta. Our little secret was having soda for breakfast as we pretended to drink chocolate milk on mugs. 

I also went through a chubby phase, but no one bothers a child who is swollen from corticosteroids, so that was fine, I had cancer. From three to six years old I did chemotherapy so I struggled with all side effects: anger, sadness, lack of appetite, huge appetite, pain, fear, you name it. 

“Let her eat, it’s a good thing.” My dad liked to say that I looked like a gas cylinder, swollen and rounded. On the bad days, I would stay in bed. On the good ones, he would ask me what I would like to play, and instead of saying “with Barbies or Pollies” I always replied “play to eat sushi or barbecue at a restaurant”. 

In Brazil, we have classic barbecue restaurants called churrascaria. Waiters pass through carrying giant skewers filled with meat, chicken hearts, picanha, sausage, garlic bread. I was so terrified they would skip me and not offer whatever they had that I kept my arms raised at all times while eating desperately. They looked at me shocked while I asked for more and more and more. My dad loves to tell this story.

I ate a lot in peace. Until I got better, grew up, and listened to my parents mistreating themselves for changing physically as they also got older. Watching a marriage age has its peculiarities. It's so weird to grow old together, to realize that your parents are also growing old with you, also changing. 

My father is definitely not a man in deconstruction. In fact, he is the exact opposite and says with pride that he is not politically correct at all. The same goes for my mother. Time passed, and the criticism rode along with the transformation of slender young people into adults with curves and time marks. 

I grew up learning that fat is the worst thing to be in the world. I learned that no one would want to be with me if my stomach had little rolls or if my cheeks were a little bigger. If I were fat no one would love me. 

Albert always says how Cristina gained weight. In front of her, of me or my sister. When I was younger, I would defend her by calling him fat, reminding how big his belly was. As I grew, I came to see that my father is as imprisoned by his body as my mother is by his comments to her. 

He knows that and uses exercise to punish himself. He wakes up at 4:00 AM and rides 80 kilometers on a bike a few times a week. He ran three marathons and goes to the gym consistently. He hates it.

When it comes to my mother, she had two biological daughters and watched her body expand in unimaginable ways. What happened to the tiny waist, the slim stomach, stick-like legs and arms or the nice breasts? 

Albert thinks love is to push, to teach. “Life is tough and so am I. I am preparing you for it.” His way of encouragement were insults and even threats. "Lose weight, or I’ll leave you," he would say. “If that’s what you want, do it.” My mother’s confident retort was enough to scare my father. 

Whenever my parents saw me eating caloric food, they would tell me, “Remember, boys don’t like fat women, women who let their body get big have no self-love, no self-control”. I can’t remember how many times he told me the story of his friend who got mocked by kissing a fat girl at a party. “You see, the chubby girl is always a joke.” 

I grew up aware of my body, of the fact that people would pay attention to it. Boys would. Men too. Once, at the beach, I heard a friend of the family look me up and down and say to my dad how I was “well-done” to which he responded with a proud smile. I felt unprotected, embarrassed of being in a bikini in public as if I was some of the meat they pass through in the churrascaria. Felt weird being seventeen and having old men noticing my body. Is that what pretty feels like? 

At a very young age, one of my aunts used to compare me to her daughter who was a couple months younger than me. She was such a tomboy, always outside running with the boys, having her feet dirty and her hair messy while I just wanted to play with dolls inside. Yet, we were

inseparable. We both have the same name, known in the family as Isabella 1 and 2. She was the only person allowed to touch my curly hair. Not even my mom knew how to brush it. 

Every weekend, our moms took us to the beach. She was so brave, swimming further and further from the beachside while I begged her to come back. Her ice cream always melted, leaving her a chocolate mustache and dripping all over her body while I bragged about never spilling a drop. One of our saddest days was when our moms saw in the local newspaper how the beach cheese is full of germs. We were obsessed with it. It was a big piece of cheese in a stick that street vendors carried around and prepared in tiny portable grills with charcoal over the sand. 

No matter how long we spent playing under the sun, her skin never got burnt like mine so easily did. Her mom used to come running to us to reapply sunscreen. “She is already dark-skinned enough.” I did not understand how that could be a bad thing, she was so pretty and they looked so much alike. Doesn’t she like her dark skin also? 

When we hit puberty, auntie stared at us both asking her kid why she did not have boobs like I did? “Mom, I think it's because I got hit too many times in the chest while playing dodgeball”. Why was her stomach not like mine? “Don’t know, mum”. We both felt so ashamed, somehow both our bodies felt wrong in those moments. We felt so comfortable with them, why was she saying that stuff? 

At fifteen I was obsessed with my body. I tried countless times to vomit or starve myself, but I could never do it, so I turned to exercise as much as I could. I was in ballet for over ten years, but

they hated my body as much as I did. I had too much fat in all the wrong places. That’s not how a ballerina should look and we were all aware of it. They used to poke my butt telling me to shrink it to the most as I whimpered “this is the most I can do”. 

Quitting ballet made me go to the gym, which I hated. I wanted to be seen, to be loved. It’s not enough to be smart, to be funny, to be well-read. You have to be pretty, and you’re only pretty if you’re small. I avoided mirrors and food, and hid in baggy clothes. Thankfully, my metabolism was still working on my side. 

At 18 I lived alone and found the perfect college routine. Wake up, have some breakfast (or skip it), eat some salad with rice and beans for lunch, go to work and finish the day with two to three hours of aerobic exercise. Dinner was vegetable soup or some water mixed with passion fruit and whey. The goal was to sleep before my stomach started to complain. I wasn’t satisfied, but everyone else was. 

Something changed when I returned home during the pandemic at twenty one. I don't know if it was due to the lack of exercise, finally eating properly or maybe just that I was getting older. At twenty two it was my turn to be called fat at home. My body was again a hot topic. Every family encounter was filled with “what happened to you?” and “but you were so skinny…” or “something must be wrong with your body now.” Those were my cues to leave the table and cry. 

I tried to go back to my old habits, to skip meals, go back to my teenage diets, and exercise

more, but my weight remained stable and no form of self-punishment I tried lasted longer than a week. I couldn't keep it up anymore. I had discovered again what eating felt like and I loved it. 

I hated my body, but I ignored it. I was fine with that. I could surf, dance, sleep, poop, run and do everything just fine but I did check myself in the mirror. Pinch my fat areas and wish they would disappear. Up to now I believe everything is related to my body count: my sport performance, my work performance, my sexual performance, my intelligence, how people feel about me, how I feel about me, how I am or not worthy of love and every other aspect of my life. 

I hate not fitting into my old clothes, I hate eating in front of my family, I hate being seen in a bikini in front of other people, and I always fear that people will say something about my current size or what happened to the old me. Had I eaten her? 

I was taught at a very young age how to hate my body. I saw my parents doing it, and now it was my turn. I hated my dad for hating my mom’s body but I also hated her for it. I would see her reflection in the mirror while she pinched herself, tried to squeeze into old clothes, go on the scale and complain about how fat she was and how ugly she is now and how much weight she needed to lose. I thought she was beautiful, but I understood how being fat seemed like the worst thing that could happen to a woman. 

I wasn’t even fat, I was just bigger. I tried to act as if I did not care, but I did desperately. I did check-ups, I went to endocrinologists, to nutritionists, did all kinds of exams and all kinds of

shit to hear how everything was perfectly ok but could not be in the future. “You see, you are fine now, but we can’t promise that you will be if you keep up with this weight. You are healthy now, but what about tomorrow?” They prescribed me diets, exercises, tried to adjust my psychiatric meds to decrease my appetite and even Ozempic. 

I failed every diet, did not lose weight from the exercises, got told to not switch my meds and, for me, Ozempic sounded too dramatic, drastic for someone who, in theory, was perfectly healthy. 

In 2023 a new family ritual was introduced: Ozempic Sundays. It wasn’t trendy already, it wasn’t sold out on every drugstore in the city so we had our fridge fully stocked with needles and tiny syringes. 

Neither my mom or dad were obese or diabetic but they both got prescriptions for it. I had no arguments or energy left to argue about it so I just watched their little weight loss ceremony. 

Every Sunday, they would gather in the living room, pinch their bellies and apply that tiny little needle. I saw my mother becoming smaller every week just by doing so and how happy she was. I wanted to be happy too. 

On one hand, I thought this behavior was sick. Were we so addicted to the idea of showing skin and bones that we were injecting ourselves weekly with medication for a condition we do not have? On the other hand, I flirted with the idea but I was so embarrassed. To admit that I

did not love my body, that I wanted to be skinny, that I wanted what everyone wants, what they made me want. To take “the easy road” and just shoot some expensive new medicine in my system. 

As I stared at them my mom repeated week after week when we were alone “do you want it too?” She knew I was tempted and told me it would be our secret: no one has to know, just the two of us. The exact same thing she told me when I came out. That scenario reminds me of when you are a teenager and your parents are dropping you off at a party and say “watch out for the drugs, people are going to push you but you must decline”. But who warns you about your own mom pushing you to a drug? 

While that was happening, my girlfriend also started taking Ozempic. She started losing weight, hearing compliments and never finishing a meal. We would fight for the last piece of sushi in the takeout and now she was satisfied when I was just getting started. I ate whatever she had left and worried about how I would be left behind. 

In fact we gained weight together. A lot. We started dating at the beginning of 2021 and food was one of the pillars of our relationship, a celebration of our love, of our devotion every time we got to see each other (which was a lot). It seemed so sad to eat the regular food we had at home. We wanted to indulge, we loved to eat and we loved to eat together. 

She introduced me to the wonderful world of take out, whether we had a good or a bad day we

just deserved a comfort meal. After all, I had denied myself to eat properly for so long that sharing this with her felt like a huge gift. Let's just treat ourselves, why not? 

We started gaining weight and we both panicked. Our clothes did not fit anymore and our families were having such a hard time accepting the result of our feasts. After a few nutritionist and endocrinologist visits, she joined the Ozempic Squad by the same time my parents started. 

It was not fair that she would be the only skinny one. We were a team, why was she leaving me behind? She was getting thinner, she was getting complimented, she was getting more confident. I wanted that too. I wanted so badly to get thinner, to get compliments, to get more confidence. So I did it, I said yes. “Ok, mom, let’s do it”. 

My mother started to inject me, but my body did not change. There was no professional monitoring, just mother and daughter and their little secret applying the dose we thought made sense. I was not thinner, complemented nor confident. I was actually miserable: I couldn’t eat, I felt nauseated all the time and I discovered the hardest way that one of the side effects can be the increase of depressive conditions. Our secret just got heavier and heavier. 

We spent our Sundays suspiciously staring at each other while waiting for the perfect moment to be alone, close my eyes and get my fat poked. No one knew and no one could know, not even my dad or my girlfriend. We had our little bonding, our thing. We were both doing it. Together. 

My mental health started declining but I kept applying and hoping to take up less space, but I

was not shrinking physically, just mentally. Why was I the only one struggling with side effects? I lost my patience and stopped it. 

In the meantime, my dad had to quit. He had to do a biopsy surgery in his liver and found out at the operating table that he should have already stopped Ozempic to do the procedure. My mom got so scared of needing an emergency surgery that she quit too. 

I kept swallowing the hard pills of being “fat” until I left my parents house again and got fired from my job at the time. It felt like I had nothing else. Neither my body or my brain were enough to secure me spaces, to define my worth, to fulfill me with love and tenderness and success. Would my girlfriend leave me too? 

Alone at my house, I felt free to spend entire days lying in my bed. Alternating between sleeping, playing on my phone, binge watching Tik Tok and Instagram or just staring at the ceiling as I used my inhalation machine. Somedays I felt so attached to my bedding that I struggled to pee, drink water and feed my cat or clean his litter box. 

I didn’t showered, I declined everyone’s visit and whenever I was too hungry to keep up I would get up and drink some grape juice. Months went by until it happened again, skinny girl magic found its way back to my body and my clothes started getting too big for me just when I got used to the other way around. At twenty five I finally looked more like the seventeen year-old-me.

I wasn’t aware this was happening because I wasn’t aware of anything. In fact, I spent day after day trying to be less aware, to fade, to quit life. On the rare occasions I left the house and met relatives I started hearing compliments and while my shape was still the family trending topic, now it was a celebration: “she finally found herself again”. But I had never been more distant from myself. 

So now that I have the body where do I find the happiness, love and success that they promised me would come along? I lost the physical weight but why is the emotional one not gone?