We hear so much about these injections – some good, some bad.  I thought it worth sharing this brilliant article written by a friend of mine:

By Sam Baynes

For most of my adult life, I treated dieting the way I treated relationships:  overwhelming hope and possibility at the outset, followed by a looming shadow of disappointment.

As a serial yo-yo dieter, it felt inevitable that when the first wave of weight-loss injections hit the UK, I would throw myself into it wholeheartedly, embracing the trend with the sort of recklessness one might associate with a rhino diving into a mud bath: eager, unapologetic, and full of conviction that this time things would be different.

I was one of the earliest adopters of the antidiabetic medication, and in those first few weeks, the weight melted off me with astonishing ease.

But that initial success didn’t last.

Soon, what had started as a consistent routine began to wobble; the process of injecting acquiring into its own erratic rhythm — a jab here and there, followed by periods of “jab holidays,” which in hindsight were really just attempts to rationalise inconsistency, similar to how someone might declare they’re quitting smoking while knowingly stashing a packet of cigarettes in the drawer “just in case.”

Without fully realising it, I’d invented an entirely new pattern of behaviour: binge-jabbing. And despite understanding that this was neither sustainable nor healthy I remained tethered to the seductive idea that this was the solution I had been waiting for all along.

Eventually, my enthusiasm began to fade. I comforted myself with the excuse that I had “other priorities,” but the truth was far more uncomfortable: I was slowly accepting the reality that this so-called miracle cure might not be the divine answer the world had hoped for after all.

Then, of course, came the media storm.

What had once been a deeply personal and discreet coping mechanism — my private tool for attempting to manage my weight was now thrust into the spotlight, splashed across headlines and discussed on every major platform.

Suddenly, everyone from medics to celebrities to self-proclaimed fitness influencers was weighing in, and I couldn’t help but wonder whether I had been too hasty in dismissing it. Maybe I hadn’t given the treatment a fair chance. Maybe, just maybe, the jab was the miracle — and the problem was me…

So I gave it another go.

Predictably, I lost weight again. And just as predictably, the weight crept back. The same well-worn dance resumed — one step forward, several steps back, usually in the direction of my fridge. Each time, I convinced myself that the next formulation, the next brand, the next injection would finally be the breakthrough that would transform everything for good.

Mounjaro

And then came Mounjaro — the so-called “King Kong” of injections. Touted as the heavyweight champion in a crowded field, it made the earlier treatments seem almost juvenile in comparison. I jumped on board with my characteristic enthusiasm, once again believing that this time would be different. And at first, it was: the pounds melted away, and my self-confidence grew in direct proportion. But unfortunately, so did something else — my dependence.

Soon, I found myself paying a staggering £300 per syringe. Just typing that amount feels surreal — as though I had been sneaking around back alleys at 2am, engaging in clandestine deals, desperate for my next hit.

In truth, that’s exactly what it began to resemble. Not in the formal, medical sense of addiction, perhaps, but in spirit and in habit.

I reassured myself with twisted financial logic, arguing that I was ‘saving’ that same £300 by not engaging in binge-eating behaviours. I began to view the act of restraining myself from overeating as though it were a savvy investment move, a kind of personal hedge fund against future indulgence.

In my attempt to be more cost-conscious, I started spacing out the injections, trying to stretch the doses beyond what was recommended, hoping the effects would linger just long enough to maintain the illusion of progress.

But, predictably, the weight returned, creeping back onto my body with all the stealth and inevitability of bad news.

As I quietly began comparing notes with others — friends, colleagues, casual acquaintances — I discovered that my experience was far from unique. Many had followed the same trajectory: the dramatic weight loss, the brief high, the slow slide back into old patterns. We were all playing out the same cycle.

Vision Problems

Then came a new kind of headline: Robbie Williams, Dame Jenni Murray, and others began publicly reporting vision problems linked to these medications.

And here, I’ll admit something I’d noticed before but didn’t connect the link. I’ve been experiencing similar vision issues myself. They escalated to the point that I felt compelled to book an appointment with a private doctor at Moorfields Eye Hospital.

He suspects early-stage cataracts — not common for someone of my age, but not completely unheard of.  What he doesn’t know, and what I didn’t feel was relevant, is my use of tirzepatide. Obviously he didn’t  ask, and I didn’t volunteer the information.

This now feels like a deeply alarming health concern is bubbling  beneath the surface of a public health movement that continues to grow in momentum.

It’s hard not to worry that what I’m experiencing might eventually affect far more people. And I can no longer convince myself that my case is some kind of anomaly short sightedness coincidence, when similar stories are beginning to accumulate all around me.

This is not a virtuous me  moment. I’m not here to lecture anyone about what they should or shouldn’t do with their weight-loss choices.

I am still navigating the physical, emotional, and financial consequences of the choices I’ve made.

Mounjaro like all the other jabs that came before it, isn’t the magical, transformative solution we’ve been sold. For some, it may offer real help. For others, it might cause harm. And for many of us, it seems we’re caught in a confusing and often painful in-between pulled back and forth by a complex mix of hope, fear, habit, and the deep-rooted societal fixation on thinness that brought us to this point in the first place.

If anything in this story causes someone to pause, to research further, to delay their decision, or even just to feel a little less alone in their struggle, then perhaps something meaningful can come out of an experience that, for me, has been eye-opening, costly, and deeply sobering.