I’ve misplaced 3st on a Mounjaro jab – now I’m dropping pals over it, reveals LUCY CAVENDISH

The other day I was having a meal with a friend when she suddenly said: ‘Where has your bottom gone?’

She had just watched me bring some drinks back from the bar.

Looking me up and down, she continued: ‘You’ve lost so much weight!’ She should have left it there, but instead went on with a frown: ‘Actually, I think you’re becoming too thin. I think you ought to stop.’

Given that she is a svelte size 8 – and therefore two sizes smaller than my new size 12 figure – I should have asked if she thought she was too thin.

But I was so shocked – I can’t remember the last time anyone said I was ‘too thin’ – that I just sat there, gaping and wondering how to take it.

Yes, I have lost three stone in six months, and as the pictures on these pages demonstrate, it shows.

But considering I started at 14st, a size 16 and was obese, I am hardly skin and bone now.

My friend was probably trying to be kind, in her own way, but it felt very much like a criticism.

That’s the thing that’s surprised (and disappointed) me most about finally reaching my target weight of 10st 10lbs – the reactions of my close friends.

Even though they know full well that I’m happier and healthier now, they seem intent on me piling it all back on pronto. When I’m invited for dinner, I can see them watching how much I eat. ‘Don’t you want some more?’ they say. Or: ‘Wouldn’t you like seconds?’

Some have actually leaned over and piled my plate full of potato dauphinoise, followed by huge amounts of puddings and lashings of cream. Even though I’ve told them that my stomach has shrunk so if I eat too much I feel quite sick. Left to my own devices, I wouldn’t eat anything much.

It’s like being surrounded by a set of alcoholics when you’ve stopped drinking. Addicts don’t like it when you change your addiction and they don’t like it when you call them out for their own unhealthy behaviour.

Invariably when someone stops drinking, everyone tries to slip a vodka into their coke because they want people to drink with – and they don’t want to be reminded how much they themselves are drinking.

A few years ago I gave up drinking for a while and this is what happened to me. It was very difficult and in the end I would lie about quitting and just say I was driving that night.

I’m finding it’s the same with food, albeit for different reasons.

I’ve lost – and regained – a fair amount of weight throughout my life but never before have I received such unsupportive reactions.

I believe the difference is because this time I have used Mounjaro. Similar to Ozempic, it’s a weight-loss drug that works by stimulating insulin release when needed, controlling blood sugar, while also reducing appetite and increasing feelings of fullness.

I’ve never made any bones of the fact that I’m on it. I haven’t pretended that I’ve been on a diet. Yet it appears people don’t welcome such honesty.

The only acceptable way to lose weight, it seems, is by taping our mouths shut and doing 25,000 step-ups a day. But I’ve tried all the diets – the Montignac, F-Plan, Atkins, Paleo, juicing, WeightWatchers, 5:2 – and always piled any lost weight back on again.

A diet jab is socially unacceptable – the ‘lazy way to lose weight’ – and it seems to annoy thin people in particular. How dare I start shrinking to their size without breaking a sweat? Some have literally curled their lip and said: ‘Don’t you think it’s cheating?’

I want to reply that if, like me, they had lived with constant ‘food noise’ in their brain – and you don’t necessarily know you do until it stops overnight – they would sign up for injections tomorrow.

But it’s pointless arguing with purists who are convinced I should do it without medical intervention.

My larger friends also seem to find my weight loss troubling. I suspect it’s because it makes them dwell on their own predicament and they don’t like that. It’s like I’ve betrayed them in some way. Most of them say: ‘I’d really like to lose weight but I’m too scared to go on the weight-loss drugs.’ I can understand that – they’ve read the scare stories.

My experience has reminded me that weight and size can create a tacit feeling of competition or even resentment between friends. I think this is because we’re raised to think ‘thin is good’. If I’m a similar size to my friend and I choose to take a diet drug to lose weight, what does that say about her?

Perhaps the most bewildering reaction of all is those who’ve completely ignored that I’ve dropped two dress sizes in front of their eyes. I find this quite difficult. I think it’s pretty impossible not to notice I’ve gone from a size 16 to a 12. So why don’t they mention it? Is it out of politeness? Possibly, but I suspect it’s because deep down they disapprove of how I’ve done it.

So far I’ve not challenged any of them but it has put some of my friendships in jeopardy. It’s made me see some people in a different light. Why don’t they want me to be healthy? Is it envy? Or is it because I’ve become one of the picky eaters I myself never liked before starting the injections. Do they miss the old, more fun me?

I’ve always liked people who live on the edge, who live in the moment and say: ‘Yes, I’m going to eat that massive portion of roast potatoes because they’re delicious.’

I still love watching people enjoy their food. It’s just that I can’t join in with them. And yes, there is a tinge of sadness. It’s no secret I love food. I was editor of a food magazine and have eaten my way round the world without a second’s thought to fat content.

But Mounjaro has changed all that – food has become a necessity rather than a source of joy. And it’s been a revelation. I don’t think I’d realised just how much food dominates so many of our lives. Because it dominated mine, I don’t suppose I really thought about it.

When I’d just started taking Mounjaro, I wrote in this newspaper that I was worried it would destroy my lifelong love of food. Now I look back at that food-obsessed version of myself and see her almost as an addict – someone whose every thought was consumed by food.

I used to think a love of food was fun but now, without the ‘food noise’, I see it as more troubling than that. I think I was basically addicted to food because it made me feel engaged in life, but now I know that life isn’t just about eating.

From a young age, all day long there was the hum of food in my brain; I was always thinking about when and what I would eat next.

I was a chubby child. In photographs, I look like a bouncy ball. My father used to call me Thunder Thighs when I was eight. I know he meant it fondly but it made me feel embarrassed and upset. My mother was reassuring, telling me I had ‘puppy fat’ and that it was completely normal.

We were not a foodie family. We ate tins of alphabetti spaghetti, baked potatoes, cod in parsley sauce that came in a bag. But I did learn that I had to finish everything on my plate.

When I was first pregnant at 28, I ate everything I wanted and ballooned. Then I dieted to get back to a decent weight.

Repeating that cycle for a further three pregnancies meant a lot of yo-yoing. Over the years, however, I slowly came to respect my body, my rounded tummy, rather than resent it.

I consider myself fortunate in that I actually liked my pre-Mounjaro body, but it’s become obvious to me that others didn’t. Yes, there are those friends who want me to go back to how I was, but there are also those who congratulate me with the kind of vigour normally reserved for those who’ve run a marathon, donated thousands to charity or started working for Medecins Sans Frontieres.

They say things like: ‘Gosh that’s amazing; you must feel so good about yourself!’ Or: ‘You must be feeling such a sense of achievement!’ When I reply that I felt quite good about myself beforehand, they look confused because obviously overweight people aren’t supposed to like their bodies very much.

But my Mounjaro journey began by chance; it wasn’t because I hated my body. 

I’d accompanied my daughter to our private doctor’s surgery and in the waiting room I started looking at a poster advertising weight-loss injections. A doctor noticed and asked if I wanted to come in for a chat. I was a bit surprised. I knew I was a bit overweight but I hadn’t thought it was that obvious. I followed him into his room, where the scales revealed I weighed as much as 14st.

In terms of BMI this classified me as obese for my height and in fact, bordering on morbidly obese. The doctor explained that there was too much weight on my joints and it could lead to fatty deposits around my heart, and the onset of diabetes.

I said I didn’t feel ‘fat’ and that I exercised regularly: yoga, dance classes plus dog-walking every day. He said exercise was good but not enough to lose the three stone that he recommended.

By the time I left the clinic, I had signed up to a course of Mounjaro, which involved a small injection in my stomach every week. I started on the lowest dose – 2.5mg – for a month, gradually increasing to 5mg then 7.5mg. I then settled on the 10mg which I’ve been on for three months.

I had been full of trepidation when I started, fearful of the possible side-effects such as nausea, constipation and even vomiting. Yet I’ve been symptom-free the whole time. The effect on my appetite was immediate. For the first time, I didn’t feel compelled to eat every single thing I could see. When I cooked myself a dinner of salmon or mackerel with brown rice and fresh vegetables, I piled my plate as high as I usually would – but only managed to get through half.

From then on my desire for food went out the window. Consequently the pounds have dropped off, without changing my exercise regime. I weigh myself once a week and watching the dial drop each time feels amazing – but the commentary on my body started almost immediately. When I’d lost half a stone, people were encouraging. It was when the weight loss went on and on that some reactions began to sour.

Of course the real challenge starts now that I’ve reached my target weight and will soon come off the wonder drug.

I’ve been told that lots of women just stay on a low dose of 2.5mg to maintain their weight but continuing to pay £285 a month to a private clinic is not viable for me. The doctor thinks the weight will stay off because my stomach has shrunk and I no longer pile up my plate. I’m hoping that my brain will have learned new techniques, but I’m not totally convinced.

Though another unexpected side-effect of Mounjaro is that I’m now far more critical of my body. Whereas I used to look in the mirror and see a curvaceous, bountiful figure, I now notice every little hint of ‘weight’.

I’m in that strange limbo land where the weight has dropped off but my mind hasn’t caught up. Sometimes when I see my reflection, I think: ‘Who is that slim person?’ I don’t quite recognise that it’s me. It’s an adjustment.

To look on the positive side, I suppose that means I’ll be more vigilant should the pounds threaten to creep back on. And if they do so, I will immediately go back on the drug.

For now, though, my main concern is what Mounjaro has done to my friendships. I know they mostly mean well, but some of the sentiments have stung. Once they hear I’m off the drug, I imagine some will watch gleefully for me to fall off the wagon.

And if I don’t, I may have lost three stone but will I end up losing friends too?