Day 1 - Ozempic, Needles, and a Battle With My Scale: A Comedy of Errors

 

Ozempic: Harder to Find Than a Parking Spot at Christmas Time.

If you’ve been following along, you know that my Ozempic journey has already been a saga:

Mid-life crisis? ✅
Cake-related breakdown? ✅
A needle demo that left an orange traumatized? ✅
A pharmacy hunt straight out of an action movie? ✅

Now, the moment had arrived: Day 1.

And let me tell you, nothing prepares you for stepping on the scale after years of avoiding it.

My Scale and I Are No Longer on Speaking Terms

There it was, staring back at me: 116.3 kilograms. My starting line. My Everest.

My first reaction? BETRAYAL!!!

My first reaction wasn’t exactly reflective or introspective—it was indignation. The scale became the villain of the moment. I picked it up, marched it to the corner of the bathroom, turned it to face the wall, and said, “You think about what you’ve done.” The scale didn’t flinch, cold and unapologetic in its honesty.

After a moment of silent pouting, I realized it wasn’t the scale’s fault. It had simply delivered a truth I wasn’t ready to face. So, I dragged it back to the center of the room, took a deep breath, and stepped back on. The number didn’t change, but it wasn’t just a number—it was my history written in kilograms, a silent chronicle of choices made, emotions avoided, and habits ingrained. 

As I stared at the scale, it felt less like a measurement of my body and more like a timeline of my life. Every late-night snack, every celebratory dessert, every skipped workout—each had left its mark, and together they’d carved out the story of my relationship with myself.

For years, I let that number define me. It whispered in my ear while I tried on clothes, loomed over doctor’s visits, and became the uninvited guest in my moments of joy. That number held the power to transform a good day into a bad one, a simple meal into a battleground of guilt and indulgence. And yet, in all those years, I had never stopped to ask myself why I let it wield so much influence.

And yet, as much as I wanted to resent it, I couldn’t. That number was my history, yes, but it wasn’t my enemy. It was a marker of where I’d been, not a sentence dictating where I had to go. For the first time, I saw it for what it truly was: a starting point. A challenge. A call to action.

I let out a shaky breath and looked at the scale again. The number still hadn’t changed, but something in me had. That 116.3 kilograms no longer felt like a weight crushing me. Instead, it felt like a foundation I could build upon. It was a reminder that change was possible—that every choice, no matter how small, could tip the scale in the other direction

Mount Ozempic: Conquering Fear, One Needle (and Maybe a Panic Attack) at a Time.

Now, the real challenge begins: my first self-injection. 

Having that little box of Ozempic in my hands felt like I’d just conquered Mount Everest. Sure, there were no oxygen tanks, frostbite, or yaks involved, but I’d survived my own version of a grueling expedition. I’d outmaneuvered grumpy pharmacists, navigated detours both literal and metaphorical, and resisted, all but 1 siren call of countless candy bars at checkout counters. For a moment, I allowed myself to bask in the glow of victory.

But triumph is a fickle thing, and as the adrenaline wore off, doubt crept in like an unwelcome houseguest. I placed the box gingerly on my kitchen counter, half-expecting it to glow with some magical aura. Instead, it just sat there, looking painfully ordinary and yet terrifyingly important.

Questions bubbled up, each one louder than the last. Can I really do this? What if I mess it up? What if this is just another one of those well-intentioned attempts that fizzles out after a few weeks, like the time I tried Zumba and accidentally took out a houseplant mid-salsa?

Meet Stabby McPokeFace: The Syringe That Questioned My Life Choices.

And then there was the syringe.

Let’s talk about syringes for a moment. From a distance, they seem harmless, like a paperclip or a stapler. But the moment you’re holding one, about to stab it into your own breadbasket of regrets (belly), they take on an entirely new persona: menacing, intimidating, and slightly judgmental.

I pulled the syringe out of the box like it was a sacred relic, handling it with the reverence usually reserved for fine china. It looked innocent enough—small, sleek, and entirely unassuming. But in my hands, it felt like a weapon of psychological warfare.

I stood in front of my bathroom mirror, gripping what I’d already nicknamed Stabby McPokeFace. My reflection stared back at me, equal parts skeptical and terrified. “You’ve got this,” I muttered, summoning the spirit of every underdog in every sports movie I’d ever seen. “It’s just a tiny poke. No big deal.”

Except, it was a big deal. There’s something profoundly unnatural about voluntarily stabbing a needle into your own flesh. It goes against every survival instinct, right up there with walking into a spiderweb or turning down free cake.

How Many Times Can One Person Stab Themselves? (Asking for a Friend).

After 15 minutes of deep breathing, pacing, and one fleeting moment where I considered faking an injury to avoid the whole ordeal, I finally worked up the nerve to go for it. I pinched the skin on my stomach, positioned the needle, and—bam!—nothing happened.

Why? Because I’d forgotten to remove the inner cap from the needle. Of course I had!

I stared at the liquid trapped in the cap, mocking me like a rebellious teenager refusing to follow instructions. “Okay,” I muttered, trying to sound calm, though internally I was screaming. “No big deal. Let’s try this again.”

On the second attempt, I managed to stab myself in my overly cautious efforts, leaving a tiny red dot as evidence of my incompetence. By the time I reached the third attempt, I’d gone full-on pep rally, chanting, “You can do this!” like I was leading a crowd of cheerleaders.

Finally—mercifully—I got it right. The liquid disappeared into my skin, and I felt an immediate wave of relief, though I was fairly certain most of it was psychological. I leaned against the bathroom counter, sweaty, slightly sore, but victorious.

I laughed—a slightly hysterical laugh, the kind that bubbles up when you’ve just survived something absurd. It felt like I’d been part of an intense reality show challenge, and I half-expected a host to burst into the bathroom with confetti and a cash prize.

As I sat down to safely dispose of the syringe, it hit me: I’d done it. It wasn’t graceful, and it definitely wasn’t fun, but I’d taken the first step. And in that messy, wobbly victory, I felt something I hadn’t felt in a long time: pride.

If I Can Conquer a Syringe, Surely I Can Conquer Kale… Right?

I found myself reflecting on all the little victories I’d brushed aside over the years—small moments of resilience that deserved to be celebrated. Today’s triumph wasn’t just about sticking a needle into my belly; it was about showing up for myself in a way that felt powerful.

I settled onto my couch again and typed into my notes app: “How not to mess up your next injection.” The absurdity of it all made me laugh. This journey was shaping up to be equal parts ridiculous and rewarding, and I was here for it.

As I sat there, I allowed myself to dream a little. I thought about that tropical island. The turquoise water, the salty breeze, the warmth of the sun on my skin. I could almost taste the tropical drink in my hand, served in a pineapple for maximum flair.

It still felt like a distant dream, but for the first time in a long time, it felt possible. The road ahead wasn’t going to be easy—I knew that. There would be more injection mishaps, kale salads, and the occasional tear-filled stare at a bakery display. But if I’d learned one thing today, it was this: I was capable of more than I thought.

The real adventure was just beginning, and while I couldn’t predict the outcome, I knew I’d face it with a mix of determination, humor, and the occasional chocolate craving. Stay tuned, folks. The odyssey has only just begun, and I’ve got a feeling it’s going to be one for the books—complete with laughter, missteps, and maybe, just maybe, a happily-ever-after.

👉 Would you ever try Ozempic, or does the idea of self-injections make you run for the hills? Let’s talk!