Three years ago, anyone not living with type-2 diabetes or working in medicine would hardly have heard of the hormone GLP-1.
Today, it’s everywhere. From public policy documents and clinical trials to social media and celebrity-led commercials, GLP-1 injections, better known by brand names Ozempic, Wegovy and Mounjaro, have infiltrated every corner of society. They’re discussed at dinner tables, debated online and, most recently, reflected on supermarket shelves, after both Morrisons and Marks & Spencer released ranges of high-protein, smaller-portion meals designed for reduced appetites.
This hasn’t happened in a vacuum. The aftershock of the COVID-19 pandemic, paired with rapid AI-driven innovation, has created a culture, particularly in the UK and US, obsessed with health optimisation. Assisted by wearables, digital consultations and DIY interventions, ‘hacking’ our bodies faster and more efficiently than ever before has become normalised.
Within this automated, impatient health landscape, weight loss has become a focal point. Medically speaking, it makes sense. Around 29% of adults in the UK are living with obesity – a condition associated with cardiovascular disease, type-2 diabetes and certain cancers, and thought to contribute to over 30,000 deaths a year.
But weight has never been a purely medical issue. We live in a society that has moralised body size for centuries, associating thinness with self-control and virtue, and fatness with failure. That legacy shapes how GLP-1 medications are being received, used and judged today.
It’s this blurring of medicine and meaning that makes the current weight-loss revolution so complex. On one hand, GLP-1 injections can be genuinely life-changing. On the other hand, the social value we attach to thinness is driving frenzied, under-supported and sometimes inappropriate use.
So where does that leave us as GLP-1s move from prescription drug to cultural norm?
What GLP-1 injections actually do
GLP-1 medications mimic hormones naturally released after eating. These hormones trigger insulin secretion, slow digestion and signal to the brain that you’re full, meaning food stays in the stomach longer, blood sugar rises more slowly, and appetite is reduced.
Originally developed to treat type-2 diabetes, some GLP-1 drugs have been approved for weight management in the past three years. Wegovy, which contains semaglutide, is licensed for weight loss in the UK. Ozempic, often used as shorthand in the media, is not. Mounjaro, containing tirzepatide, has also been approved under strict criteria.
To access Wegovy on the NHS, patients must have a BMI of at least 30 alongside a weight-related condition. For Mounjaro, the threshold is higher still. As a result, most people are turning to private providers: it’s estimated that 95% of UK users now access GLP-1s outside the NHS.
Between 2024 and 2025, around 1.6 million people in the UK used GLP-1 medications, with a further 3.3 million expressing interest this year.
A life-changing intervention, when used properly
For some, these drugs are transformative. Not because they shrink bodies, but because they treat underlying metabolic dysfunction.
For 26-year-old Marie-Anna Cafour, who lives with PCOS and pre-diabetes, starting a GLP-1 was the end point of a long diagnostic journey involving a gynaecologist, endocrinologist and dietitian.
“My goal was never to get a GLP-1,” she explains. “It was to figure out what would be best for my body.”
After blood tests revealed insulin resistance, testosterone imbalance and B12 deficiency, she began treatment in November 2025. Since then, she’s noticed improvements far beyond weight. “I’m so much more present in conversations, and my mind wanders less, which has been incredible for my productivity levels.”
There’s growing interest in how GLP-1s act on reward centres in the brain, potentially influencing impulsivity, focus and addiction. “This is a fascinating and potentially positive effect,” says Dr Leah Austin, lead GP at The Balance Rehab Clinic. “But it also reminds us how neurologically active these drugs are.”
For others, weight loss is the primary goal, and with good reason. Thirty-three-year-old Jodie*, who has struggled with her weight since childhood, had reached a point where it was compromising her quality of life. “I was in constant lower back and pelvis pain, and was struggling to walk for more than thirty minutes,” she tells me. Mounjaro was “the only thing that’s worked in twenty years of dieting and exercising,” helping her lose three stone in six months and easing chronic pain.
Clinically, the results are striking. Studies show weight loss of up to 21% on Mounjaro and 15% on Wegovy over 72 and 68 weeks, respectively. “For many patients, they deliver meaningful, sustained weight loss alongside improvements in insulin resistance, blood pressure and sleep apnoea,” says Dr Austin.
Crucially, these outcomes challenge the stereotype that obesity is simply a lifestyle choice. “Obesity is shaped by biology, hormones, trauma, stress, medication and socioeconomic factors,” Dr Austin says. “Not just personal choice.”
Weight loss alone isn’t the full story
But weight loss data only tells part of the story. When GLP-1s are used without proper support, the results often unravel.
Recent data suggests users regain an average of 0.8kg per month after stopping medication, returning to pre-treatment weight within 18 months. Other studies suggest up to two-thirds of lost weight is regained within a year, significantly faster than seen in non-medicated, behavioural weight loss interventions.
Why? According to Dr Austin, there is a gap between clinical trials and real life. “In trials, patients had structured dietary guidance, monitoring and behavioural input. In real-world UK practice, many people are prescribed the drug without anything close to that level of support.”
On the NHS, access comes with a nine-month programme covering nutrition, movement and metabolic health. In the private sector, online prescriptions are often issued after minimal assessment, with little follow-up.
“Appetite suppression doesn’t equal metabolic health,” Dr Austin explains. Rapid weight loss without adequate protein or strength training can lead to muscle loss, fatigue, hormonal disruption and nutrient deficiencies.
Forty-year-old Natasha knows this well. “I know that I should be doing strength training to help my metabolism, but I kind of forget about it,” she says. She often forgets to eat altogether, relying on protein snacks to avoid dizziness.
Side effects, including nausea, vomiting, diarrhoea and hair loss, are common. More serious risks, such as gallbladder or kidney issues, require medical monitoring. Without it, research shows that many people quit early or stop abruptly, increasing the risk of rebound weight gain.
The psychological weight we can’t medicate away
Food isn’t just fuel. It interacts with the brain’s reward system, which is why many of us use it to soothe stress, regulate emotion or cope with trauma. Layer that onto a culture that equates thinness with worth, and weight becomes deeply psychological.
“If we ignore biology, we shame people,” says Dr Austin. “But if we ignore emotional context, we medicalise distress.”
That tension is especially apparent for people with eating disorder histories. While most providers ask users to declare such histories, online access often makes it easy to lie.
Thirty-nine-year-old Anya* did just that. “I opted out of having my prescription shared with my doctor because I knew I’d be rejected,” she says. Her prescription was approved within days.
Initially, the medication quietened her food noise. But as she watched women around her get smaller, her restriction intensified. “Fainting became a common occurrence,” she says. After stopping Mounjaro, old patterns of binging and restricting returned with force.
Clinicians say this is deeply concerning. “We’re supposed to know when we feel full, what food we like and what our body needs,” says Dr Sarah Boss, psychiatrist and clinical director at The Balance Rehab Clinic. “These medications cut off the intuitive feeling of what we need and when, which is incredibly dysregulating and very dangerous for patients with psychiatric disorders.”
Dr Lorna Richards, Priory consultant psychiatrist, agrees, adding that “side effects like nausea, vomiting and abdominal pain further disrupt regulated eating patterns, which are the mainstay treatment for eating disorders.”
From prescription drug to lifestyle product
Alongside under-supported medical use, another shift is underway: GLP-1s slipping into lifestyle territory.
An increasing number of people with a ‘healthy’ BMI are now using off-label, low-dose GLP-1s to maintain weight or lose a few pounds. Framed as personal choice, its wider cultural impact is harder to ignore. When appetite suppression becomes a long-term maintenance tool rather than a medical intervention, it recalibrates our sense of what a normal body looks like and how much effort it should take to maintain one.
This is already visible in the language entering the mainstream. Terms such as Ozempic face, Ozempic butt and Ozempic body are now common currency, describing the cosmetic side effects of rapid fat loss and feeding into a rise in so-called ‘corrective’ procedures. Facial fillers to restore volume, surgical breast uplifts, BBLs and body contouring are increasingly discussed as the natural next step after weight loss, particularly among wealthier women.
Natasha has felt this creep. “I have lost fullness in my breasts and bum, so I’m thinking about getting an uplift,” she tells me. “I feel like most women want to tweak everything. Once you’ve done one thing, you’re like… next.” The implication is not vanity so much as inevitability: body modification becomes a series of adjustments rather than a single choice.
Celebrity uptake has accelerated this shift. When figures like Oprah Winfrey speak openly about using GLP-1s, it helps dismantle the idea that weight loss is simply a matter of discipline. But it also reinforces the social capital of thinness, particularly when celebrity weight loss is framed as a transformation.
“The ‘is she on Ozempic?’ speculation is just a new wrapper for old entitlement,” says Dr Austin. “It says that women’s bodies are open to commentary, judgement and surveillance.” In a cultural moment already marked by the resurgence of ultra-thin ideals, from banned #skinnytok content to pulled fashion campaigns, GLP-1s risk becoming both accelerant and alibi.
The danger isn’t the medication itself, but what happens when a powerful medical tool is absorbed into a beauty economy that has long profited from bodily dissatisfaction. Without clear boundaries, GLP-1s don’t just change bodies – they reshape the standards against which all bodies are judged.
So where do we go from here?
The challenge now is holding nuance. Not judging those who choose medication, recognising that for many it’s the end of a long road navigating diabetes, PCOS or metabolic disease. But also acknowledging that these drugs are not a quick fix, and that misuse carries real psychological and physical risks.
Without proper guardrails, GLP-1s risk becoming another tool through which beauty standards tighten, inequality deepens, and women’s bodies are scrutinised anew.
These medications have extraordinary potential. Whether they become a force for better health or another chapter in diet culture’s evolution depends on how carefully we use them next.