Quitting Ozempic Forced Me to Confront My Latina Body Image Issues

In my Cuban household, two topics always dominated our conversations — weight and food. Both came with contradictory viewpoints. At dinner time, I was often told I needed to finish my plate. But ironically enough, whenever I did, my family was quick to call me "gordita" or chubby.

Food and Cuban culture have a very complicated history. Since the communist party's coup in the late 1950s, the country implemented the food rationing system. Each household was allotted a certain amount of goods depending on age, gender, and the health status of its members.

All these years later, it wasn't until my journey with Ozempic that I realized my food-related trauma grew from my family's unconscious reaction to not being able to have enough to eat under Castro's regime. But at the same time, they upheld oppressive beauty standards, constantly reinforcing expectations about how women should look and present themselves. Those two conflicting messages shaped my complicated relationship with food and body image in ways I'm only now able to understand.

I struggled with my changing body throughout middle and high school, but my freshman year of college was the first time I saw a doctor to address my weight. I went to a mall clinic that offered monthly shots of B12 and a monthly prescription of Phentermine, an FDA-approved pill to suppress appetite and help with weight loss. At the appointment, the nurse practitioner read off the side effects: chest pains, dizziness, headaches, trembling, and so on. As an 18-year-old, I brushed it off and went on to pop the pills and get my shots. Between the combination of both throughout the summer, I lost 60 pounds.

From then, the comments started to roll in from my family about how good I looked, whereas people at school were worried I was getting too skinny. It was the height of the body-positivity movement, but that didn't change the cultural pressures I was feeling from my family.

I was able to maintain that weight for the beginning of post-grad, mindfully eating, working out, and walking 10,000 steps a day. I was growing in my career as a successful publicist and living the dream in New York City. But when the pandemic hit in 2020, the depression I'd dealt with since childhood crept back in, and a psychiatrist put me on Prozac, an antidepressant with a rare side effect: weight gain. Within a month, I'd gained 30 pounds.

After a couple of years, I started hearing from friends about Ozempic, which was supposed to be the saving grace for those who struggled with weight loss. I ended up going to a trusted Manhattan clinic to get a prescription. I thought I could lose 30 pounds and possibly get back to the weight I was in college.

I was told that I would need to inject the drug once a week and that a potential side effect was nausea. After the second week, it got bad. There were moments when I got dressed to go to work and then had to run to the bathroom and throw up, telling my team I wasn't able to make it in. I trekked through the side effects for six months, thinking of Kate Moss's quote, "Nothing tastes as good as skinny feels," hoping that eventually, the side effects would subside. Being on Ozempic was quickly becoming difficult to sustain: I wasn't able to work out as much or cook the dishes I once loved. I felt so weak that some days, I was totally bedridden.

After months of going through the effects of the medication, I realized I couldn't go on like that.

I've always believed people should do what works for them — if someone wants to take Ozempic or jump on the latest fad diet to lose weight, go for it. If they want to embrace their curves, love that for them. To me, every body is beautiful.

Through my own experience with Ozempic, I discovered something I never expected. While I wanted to lose weight, what mattered more to me was how much I actually enjoyed working out. As a Latina, it's tough to ignore the comments family members throw around at gatherings about weight, but if our families haven't broken the generational trauma with food, maybe it's on us to do it in a way that works for us. For me, that means being able to grab a cup of coffee or hit up a pilates class without feeling nauseous. I'm still not 100 percent comfortable in my body, and that little voice in my head is still there. I genuinely don't know if that will ever change. However, through taking Ozempic and reflecting on the body trauma rooted in my Latina culture, I've gained a better understanding of myself. Knowing the reasons behind my body trauma has been important, and while there is always more work to be done, what I do know for sure is that I didn't want Ozempic draining my energy or taking away the things that truly make me happy.

Alexa Nikiforou is a Cuban-American lifestyle publicist based in New York, originally from Miami. She draws from her cultural and professional journey to empower other women facing similar experiences. Alexa graduated from Florida State University with a double major in media communication studies and creative writing.