Or: My Journey with Mounjaro (So Far, ~6 weeks in)
A while back, I wrote about being Edmund from The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe — the kid who just wanted more candy. I talked about seasonal SweeTARTS shaped like farm animals, my CGM tattling on me, and Mounjaro stepping into the story like a kind of metabolic Aslan: “Hey buddy, let’s not die today.”
That post was “Edmund, pre-rescue.” This one is the sequel. This is what happened after the miracle weeks, when my brain started laughing at food… and then, slowly, food started laughing back.
When My Brain Started Laughing at Food
There was a stretch early on with Mounjaro where something genuinely strange happened: my brain looked at food and laughed. Not in a mean way. More like, “Oh, that? Cute. No thanks.”
Concrete example: we had a jar of jellybeans sitting on the coffee table. I’d walk by and, where previously I'd have grabbed a (rather large) handful, just keep on walking — instead of that old familiar pull, there was this calm, almost amused distance. Like my appetite had been moved from the front row to the cheap seats.
It felt like someone had unplugged the sugar-goblin that used to run the control panel in my head (would that concept make a good Disney move?). The cravings weren’t just quieter; they were almost comical. I’d catch myself thinking:
“You don’t actually want that. You just used to want that.”
A guy who used to demolish a full bag of SweeTARTS Chicks, Ducks, and Bunnies in one sitting (and not the tiny bag), this was new. Different. Amazing.
I asked Copilot about it. Again and again. And, every time, laughed when I started reading the "scientific and biological explanation"... laughing at what was going on inside of me, laughing at the missing cravings. I somehow found it funny, despite it being both serious (in a good way) and useful.
The Number That Started With a 1
Then there was the scale. For years, it had been stubbornly loyal to the 200s. We were in a committed relationship. No amount of walking in 2025 would move it (oddly, illness — over stretches where I wasn't walking at all — would cause the scale to move). (Aside: I did see positive improvements from regular exercise — my resting heart rate dropped across the year. But the scale? It kept going up... I guess I was eating even more as I burned extra calories.) If you want to keep up with my semi-but-more-often-than-not-in-consistent exercise, check out Mr. T's Fitness Tracker.
Back in mid-2022, my average weight was about 198.8. By July 2022, I’d crossed into the 200s — and I never saw a number starting with a 1 again. Not once. From mid-2022 all the way to late April 2026, the scale stayed on the wrong side of that line (crossing well over, like 217, earlier this year).
Then, the other day, I stepped on the scale and it blinked back: 199.3.
For the first time in almost four years, there was a 1 at the front (and not, as my brother would have jested, graduating into the quadruple digits). I just stood there, staring at it, like the scale had glitched or joined a revival service.
Now, to keep this honest: this morning I was back on the wrong side of 200 again. The line didn’t stay crossed. Not yet. But it moved. And that’s something it hadn’t done for me in a very long time.
So if you want the clean version for the record, it’s this:
“I hadn’t seen a number starting with a 1 since mid‑2022 — almost four years ago — until Mounjaro nudged me there, even briefly.”
When the Candy Came Back
Here’s where the story stops being a miracle montage and starts being real life. Because somewhere along the way — even after moving up to 7.5 mg — I noticed something: I wasn’t laughing at food quite as much anymore.
I wasn’t back to full-on Edmund-in-the-witch’s-sleigh mode, but the negotiations had returned. The sugar pills (AKA candy) started sneaking back in. Not in a dramatic, “eat the whole bag in one sitting” way. More like:
- “Just a few pieces.”
- “You’ve done pretty well today.”
- “Your CGM can handle this, right?”
The cravings weren’t the old tidal wave, but they were no longer a distant echo either. They were… present. Manageable, but present.
And that’s when I realized: Mounjaro hadn’t erased my desire for sugar. It had changed the relationship.
The New Relationship With Food
Here’s what it feels like now, a bit further into the journey:
- Softer cravings: The “I must have this right now” urgency is mostly gone. It’s more of a suggestion than a command. (Although sometimes, the suggestion is a bit louder than others.)
- Smaller portions: I still enjoy food, but I tap out earlier. Halfway through a plate, my body quietly says, “We’re good.” (Not always, but when I overdo it, I do regret it more than before, and that itself is its own "negative reinforcement" toward the overeating side of things.)
- Fewer binges: The all-out, no-brakes episodes are rare. When I do overdo it, it’s usually by inches, not miles.
- Faster recovery: A bad choice doesn’t spiral into a bad week as easily. I can course-correct sooner.
- More awareness: I notice what I’m doing now. I see the pattern forming instead of waking up in the middle of it.
- Less guilt: I still feel conviction, but not the crushing shame that used to follow every sugar binge.
- Real-time feedback: The CGM still tattles. It’s like having a tiny, glowing accountability partner on my arm. (I know that these aren't the cheapest things, but at least for this first year on the Mounjaro with the Type 2 diagnosis, it's definitely helpful when I find myself reaching into the candy bag too frequently.)
So yes, the candy came back. But it came back into a different ecosystem. I’m not the same person I was when I was mindlessly inhaling SweeTARTS and pretending it was just a “quirk.”
Edmund in the Minivan
If the first post was “I used to be Edmund,” this season feels more like:
I’m still Edmund — but Edmund after the rescue.
I’m not riding in the witch’s sleigh anymore, hypnotized by Turkish Delight. I’m more like Edmund in the back seat of a minivan: buckled in, supervised, and only occasionally sneaking a jellybean when Aslan isn’t looking.
The desire for “more” didn’t vanish. But it’s no longer driving. It’s no longer in charge. And on the days when I do overdo it, I feel it — in my body, in my numbers, in my spirit.
The Middle Chapters
The older I get, the more I realize that most of life is lived in the middle chapters. Not at the dramatic turning points, not at the before-and-after photos, but in the quiet, repetitive, “still learning” days.
Mounjaro has been a real shift for me:
- It helped me cross a line on the scale I hadn’t crossed in almost four years.
- It turned down the volume on cravings that once felt automatic.
- It gave my body some breathing room to recalibrate.
But it didn’t turn me into a different species. I’m still human. I still like candy. I still have days where food feels louder than logic.
And that’s the part no one really talks about — the middle space where progress and old habits coexist. Where you’re doing better, but not perfect. Where you’re aware, but not immune.
Still Laughing, Still Learning
So where am I now? Some days, I still laugh at food. I walk past the candy and feel nothing but a shrug. Other days, food laughs back. I find myself with an empty wrapper in my hand, wondering when exactly I said “yes” to it.
But even on the messy days, the story is different now:
- I have data.
- I have tools.
- I have medication.
- I have a clearer sense of what’s actually going on in my body.
I’m still Edmund — but Edmund after the rescue scene, trying to live differently with the same old tendencies tugging at his sleeve. Learning to want differently. Inching toward health. Occasionally dipping back under 200. And trying to stay patient with the process.
If you’re somewhere in your own middle chapter — with food, with health, with habits — you’re not alone. Some days you’ll laugh at the thing that used to own you. Some days it will still feel louder than you’d like. But the story isn’t over yet. Not for you, not for me.
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