I had always believed that Andrew saw me the way I wanted to see myself – strong, capable, and beautiful in my own right.
From the beginning of our relationship, he reassured me that my weight was never an issue.
I had struggled with self-consciousness over the years, aware that I was not as slim as some of my friends, but I had come to accept and even appreciate my beautiful, thick body.
I was healthy, I was active, and I had long stopped measuring my worth by the size of my clothes.
When Andrew started making changes to his lifestyle, I was fully supportive.
His work had taken a toll – long hours sitting in the car, fast food meals between job sites, the inevitable slowing down that comes with a shift in routine.
He wanted to be healthier, and I admired his dedication. I believed it was something we were working towards together.
Then I found the Ozempic pen in his bar fridge.
When Andrew started making changes to his lifestyle, I was fully supportive. Then I found the Ozempic pen in his bar fridge (stock image)
At first, I was confused. I didn’t even know what it was. A quick internet search made everything clear – Ozempic, a medication used for weight loss.
The discovery sent a rush of emotions through me: shock, disbelief, and then a sharp sting of betrayal.
Why hadn’t he told me?
My mind raced through possibilities, searching for an explanation that would make sense.
He had told me he was hitting the gym more, that he was cutting carbs, that his hard work was finally paying off. And I had believed him. I had been proud of him. I had supported him.
But it wasn’t the whole story. He’d clearly been to a medical appointment, made this huge decision and decided that the expense was worth it, all without ever even mentioning it to me.
When I confronted him, his response was immediate, but the opposite of reassuring.
He had kept it from me because he didn’t want me to feel bad about my own weight struggles.
The words cut deeper than I expected.
A hidden Ozempic pen shouldn’t be enough to end a marriage. But trust? Perception? The way he truly saw me? This was something else entirely (stock image)
I had never thought of my body as a struggle to him. I had never believed he saw me as anything less than enough. Yet here he was, admitting that he had assumed this decision – his decision – would wound me.
It wasn’t just the secrecy that hurt. It was the lies.
He had let me believe something that wasn’t true, allowed me to think his weight loss was a product of effort alone, while I cheered him on.
I had been proud of him for something that wasn’t real. And worse, he had lied to protect me, as if I were fragile, as if I needed shielding from the truth.
What made it worse was how he reacted when I expressed my hurt. He wasn’t apologetic, not really.
Instead, he became defensive. He acted as if I was overreacting, as if my emotions were an inconvenience rather than a valid response to betrayal.
‘I didn’t tell you because I knew you’d make a big deal out of it,’ he said, his frustration barely hidden.
A big deal? Was my hurt really so unreasonable?
I wasn’t angry that he wanted to lose weight – I had always supported his choices for better health.
I was angry that he had lied. That he had made a decision about how I would feel, rather than giving me the chance to process it on my own terms.
And still, he refused to take accountability. He never admitted that the secrecy was wrong. He never acknowledged the deeper implications of his actions, how it made me question not just his honesty, but our entire relationship.
For years, I had believed that our relationship existed outside of superficial measures. I had found comfort in the idea that, no matter what, Andrew saw me as whole.
But now I wondered: had I been naive? Had he, all this time, wished I were different? Had every reassuring word, every compliment, been carefully constructed to spare my feelings?
I wanted to trust that his decision was purely about himself, about his own health, his own well-being. But the way he had framed it – his fear of making me feel self-conscious – made it impossible to ignore the possibility that it was, in some way, also about me.
Had he been lying to me about more than just the Ozempic? Had he been lying to himself about how he truly saw me?
I lay awake that night, staring at the ceiling, feeling the weight of something I had never considered before. It wasn’t just about the medication. It was about trust. About perception. About whether I had ever truly understood the way he saw me.
I had always believed I was enough. Now, I’m not sure if Andrew had ever truly felt the same.
And if he hadn’t – if he had been keeping this quiet for reasons deeper than concern for my feelings – then what did that mean for us?
Was this something we could talk through, something I could forgive? Or was this the kind of lie that slowly unravels the foundation of a relationship?
A hidden Ozempic pen shouldn’t be enough to end a marriage.
But trust? Perception? The way he truly saw me? This was something else entirely. And I still don’t know where to land on it.
As told to Rebel Wylie