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.
