My Husband Left Me of Ozempic

They call it the miracle drug...

Like every woman going through a divorce, you will ruminate about what went wrong. At what point in the road did we split, veering in different directions and the foundation of our marriage heading south? Was there a fork in the road? When did we get a flat tire? Every minute, every emotion changes from I love you, hate you, need you, and can’t live without you all on the highest octane and all very contradictory.

In a society where we view divorce as failure and fear of failure can stifle us, I was left feeling hollow inside, a complete feeling of emptiness. The initial shock left me hopeless and lonely, with every ambition, goal, and life plan entirely awash. I was watching myself die, lying in bed, no longer sleeping with my partner. Now, it was just chocolate stains and salt crumbs. Submerged in deep thoughts, sadness at the pit of my stomach, how did I become such a failure?  Buried in guilt, with the, “I am not a mom, I am not some girl boss who’s NOT some mover and shaker, and now the title of wife has been relinquished. What else did I have?

In the early summer of 2023, my husband went on Ozempic, given to him by a boogie Manhattan concierge doctor. It was the injection of confidence my ex needed to view life through a whole new lens. Once a week, he had a date on Mondays with his doctors; they sat and watched Beat Bobby Flay. It's ironic to watch a cooking show while being stabbed in the booty to curb your appetite! It soon became his favorite date and day of the week, and our date nights were done and dusted. 

His side effects were much greater than the loss of appetite and nausea; he gained self-esteem, which was the catalyst he needed to want to dive back into the bachelor life. While his confidence was increasing and the numbers on the scale were decreasing, his grass became officially greener. There wasn’t room for me on his newly cut lawn, which became apparent when I wasn’t invited to his birthday party.  No room for me at that table either; reserved for only blonde single girls fresh out of their twenties blowing out birthday candles for a man eight-plus years their age. He was kind enough to bring me home a goody bag, the matchbox, the metaphor for our burning relationship.  That was the stab or (stamp) of approval he needed to end our eight-year marriage.

He used the opportunity to officially break things off while I was lying in a Milanese hospital bed; the mere phone call caused my entire life to fall apart.  I sank into the depths of darkness, wishing I could turn back time with no flicker of light inside of me—uncontrollable crying, leaving me short of breath, grasping onto my childhood blankie.

After the overwhelming love and support from my lifelines, I was ready to surrender to the other side, the single side. I checked myself into the Hoffman Process, a retreat to regain independence and gain the strength to pull myself out of this hole I had been comfortable in. To begin to find the spark again, the slivers of happiness that carry you from one day to the next.

It allowed me to heal and to look back at our marriage and its final months. To accept it was uninspiring and monotone, a reflection of much deeper insecurities. Ozempic changed his life and saved mine; maybe that’s why it’s called the miracle drug after all!