Day 97: MOUNJARO: The Jab, The Myth, The Digestive Rollercoaster

Slightly different post today my fellow Jabbers! A bit of a reflection really…

Ah, Mounjaro.

The tiny weekly syringe that launched a thousand lifestyle overhauls - part miracle, part menace, all drama.

The jab that promised control, calm, and confidence… and delivered a side order of nausea, introspection, and burps that could rattle crockery.

When I started, I imagined Mounjaro would turn me into that woman - you know the one: sipping lemon water, glowing like she’s sponsored by discipline, and radiating quiet smugness.

Spoiler alert: it did not.

ACT I: The Honeymoon Phase

Week one, I was euphoric.

Floating.

I looked at snacks and felt nothing.

Chocolate?

Who is she?

Cheese?

Never heard of her.

I could walk past a bakery like a monk in a gluten monastery.

The appetite suppression was biblical. I didn’t just lose hunger; I lost interest in most of civilisation.

I became that person who said, “I just forget to eat now,” which should honestly be classified as a psychological phenomenon worthy of peer review.

Every pound that vanished felt like proof that I’d cracked the code to life.

I strutted.

I preached.

I evangelised.

I was the walking embodiment of Before and After energy - with a faint hint of peppermint burp.

ACT II: The Side-Effect Symphony

But then… oh, then. The jab revealed her darker side.

Mounjaro doesn’t simply “curb your appetite.” No, darling - it redecorates your entire digestive personality.

Suddenly, my stomach was running on dial-up.

I’d eat two bites of dinner and my body would say, “Thank you, we’ll be processing that until further notice.”

The nausea arrived like a houseguest who refuses to leave.

The burps?

Biblical.

My stomach was performing a one-woman opera titled “La Gas-triata.”

At one point I burped so violently I think I briefly saw God.

There’s a particular flavour of despair that comes from lovingly preparing a meal, taking one bite, and realising you’ll never be hungry again - not tonight, not tomorrow, perhaps not ever.

And yet, somehow, you keep going.

You jab.

You adjust.

You quietly Google “how long can soup live in a human stomach?”

ACT III: The Existential Enlightenment

Once you survive the Great Nausea Arc, you hit a strange, serene phase.

Food no longer rules your every thought.

You’re calm.

Rational.

Your mind is quiet - unnervingly so.

I used to think about snacks like they were plot points in my day.

Now, I can go hours - hours! - without thinking about crisps.

Who am I if not a woman craving cheese?

You start to realise Mounjaro isn’t just a jab.

It’s a therapist.

A strict, slightly unhinged therapist who charges over £250 a month and asks, “Do you really need that biscuit, or are you trying to fill the void?”

You discover a different kind of control - not the dramatic kind, but the subtle one.

The kind where you look at your reflection and see strength, steadiness, and a new relationship with food that’s equal parts liberation and confusion.

ACT IV: The Moral of the Jab

Mounjaro is not for the faint-hearted.

It’s not gentle, it’s not predictable, and it definitely doesn’t come with a manual written by anyone who’s ever tried it.

It humbles you.

It stretches your patience.

It teaches you how strong you are - physically, mentally, and digestively.

Some weeks you glow.

Other weeks you resemble a Victorian ghost who’s eaten half a grape and needs to lie down.

But you keep showing up.

Because deep down, you know it’s working - slowly, steadily, spectacularly.

It’s rewriting your habits, your cravings, your entire relationship with food.

You start realising that progress doesn’t always feel good - sometimes it just feels different.

And different is enough.

EPILOGUE: GASTROPARESIS - THE COMEBACK TOUR

And then… just when I thought I’d seen it all, my old friend gastroparesis decided to rise from the ashes like a sluggish, gassy phoenix.

She’d been hibernating peacefully for years, but Mounjaro whispered, “Wake up, babe, we’re doing a sequel.”

Now she’s back - slower, sassier, and absolutely committed to her craft.

Meals linger for hours, digestion moves at interpretive-dance speed, and my abdomen has rebranded as The Slow Cooker of Regret.

But honestly? She’s part of the journey now.

A living, bloated reminder that healing isn’t linear - it’s curvy, dramatic, and occasionally flatulent.

So yes - my stomach might be slower than a sloth in treacle.

But my determination?

Lightning-fast.

Because if there’s one thing I’ve learned on this jab-fuelled odyssey, it’s this:

You can’t rush greatness - or digestion.

With Love,

JABatha Christie