The people I hated most were the altruists who thought it was their G-d-given duty to give me weight-loss advice: The neighbor who cornered me as I was getting into my car, and handed me a book about keto. “You’ve got to read this. I lost thirty pounds on it. It’s life-changing.” The lady at a women’s shiur who handed me a card, saying, “My daughter’s a dietitian. She can help you.”

Another time, an old woman in shul said to me, “You have such a pretty face. You could be so pretty if you made a little effort.”

I left these encounters angry and deeply mortified.

My family didn’t mention my weight, baruch Hashem, but I knew it accounted for my unmarried state, and I felt that acutely. When my siblings came for Shabbos, they’d ask me to babysit so they could nap. They never thought to ask if I needed a nap myself; my job was intense, and I often found myself working into the wee hours. I looked forward to my Shabbos sleep.

What I didn’t look forward to? Going to my friends’ weddings. Too often, they were a nightmare. I’d get dressed up to celebrate, only to be met with looks of scorn and pity and the constant drone of, “Im yirtzeh Hashem by you.”

If only I could lose weight! I had so much going for me; it was just this one imperfection that was holding me back. If I could lose weight, I would be like everyone else. I would finally be taken seriously by shadchanim. I would find my bashert, and it would be me in the white dress getting married instead of every other girl I had ever gone to school with.

But the pounds wouldn’t come off, and the older I got, the more mortifying it became. I attended shul every Shabbos, and at the kiddush, my mother would take me around to the tables and say, “Do you know anyone for Shaindy? She’s an auditor for a top four accounting firm.” I had no choice but to stand there and smile, like a horse brought to market.

Sometimes, one of the nice kiddush ladies would set me up. But the men they paired me with were a nightmare. One guy kept his eyes down the whole time and never looked at me once. Another time, on the phone before we went out, a boy asked me if I could possibly pay for the first date since he was between jobs right now. There was the guy whose car was so full of old food that I had to pick takeout wrappers off my seat before I could sit down. I was also suggested dates with men close to 40, or divorced with many kids, all because I was 27, 5ˇ3ˇˇ, 160 pounds.

T

hroughout it all, there was one guy I was really wanted to go out with. I’d known Yuri forever. He’d gone to yeshivah with one of my brothers, and his parents davened in our shul. Our mothers would sometimes sit together Shabbos morning.

Yuri was doing a medical residency, but he sometimes came home for Shabbos. I first noticed him when he started leining for the kehillah — he had a pure, melodious voice. Then I began hearing the shul president announcing that Yuri would be giving the Daf Yomi shiur that afternoon. I was impressed that he was able to prepare a Daf Yomi shiur during what was surely a grueling residency. And then, once Yuri was on my radar, I started noticing how playful he was with his nieces and nephews. I didn’t fall for Yuri all at once — it happened over time, but the more I saw, the more I liked him.

I wished someone would set us up, but of course, no one did. Yuri was accomplished; he was handsome, a talmid chacham, and soon to be an anesthesiologist. I was overweight.

One Shabbos morning, my mother and Yuri’s mother were sitting next to each other in shul. I was sitting on my mother’s other side, and I overheard the two of them whispering while the president made his announcements.

“It’s impossible, finding someone for Yuri,” his mother whispered. “I thought his brothers were hard, but Yuri’s the hardest of all of them.”

“Is he very picky?” my mother whispered back.

I strained my ears to hear every word.

“Oh no! Not at all. He’s open to everyone. It’s that the girls don’t want a doctor. He’s working eighty-hours a week — no girl’s interested in that.”

I felt the blood rush to my face. “I’m interested!” I felt like blurting.

I continued as if nothing had happened, but I was sure this was a sign. It was time to take matters into my own hands. The next morning, I mentioned it to my mother.

“I was wondering… do you think you could ask a shadchan about setting up me and Yuri?”

My mom’s eyebrows knit together. “I don’t know. I’ve heard through the grapevine that he’s awfully picky.”

My face fell.

“It’s not that you’re not beautiful, Shaindy, but I think he’s looking for a certain type.”

“But I heard his mother say he’s not picky.”

My mother laughed. “She’s saying that because he’s starting to get a reputation for being picky.”

“Well, it couldn’t hurt to ask, right? I mean the worst they can say is no.”

“Sure, honey, I’ll ask. But you know how it is with guys — they have stacks and stacks of résumés.”

That whole week I held my breath. As I rode the subway to work, as I sat at my desk looking over numbers, I was there physically, but in my head, I was on shpilkes wondering what Yuri would say. “It’s not going to happen,” I told myself fiercely. “Don’t get your hopes up. He’s not going to pick you over a girl who’s a size two.”

Thursday, I got home, and my mom shook her head. “They said no.”

Of course, I knew it was the most likely outcome. I had tried to prepare myself for this scenario, but against my better instincts, I’d allowed myself to hope. It seemed like I was always hoping — hoping that this next diet would work, hoping that the next shadchan would know normal guys for me, hoping that the next guy I was set up with would be the one. Hope only led to disappointment. Hope hurt. I wanted to cut off the part of me that still hoped. I wanted to liposuction it off like unnecessary fat cells.

“Did they give a reason?” I asked my mom.

She shook her head. “They just said it wasn’t shayach.”

And then I knew. There was nothing for me. I couldn’t lose weight, so I couldn’t date, so I couldn’t get married, so I’d never be happy.

A

nd then something new and seemingly wonderful emerged on the scene. Ozempic.

I’d read about it in the news, seen the ads for the weight-loss shot, and everyone seemed to be talking about it at the Shabbos table. It should have been a shoo-in, but I was hesitant. What were the risks? Would it really work? Would the doctor prescribe it for me? Was it worth the cost?

One night, I ran into an old friend of mine at a wedding. Leora and I had originally met at a weight-loss group, but we’d lost touch over time. Now, she had lost a ton of weight and was sporting a gorgeous kallah bracelet.

“Mazal tov!” I squeaked giving her a hug. “You look fantastic.”

“Thanks! You, too!”

We caught up for a few minutes until I deemed it appropriate to strike. “How did you do it?” I asked.

“Ozempic,” she said, laughing. “It’s fantastic. The weight just melts off. You eat and then you feel full.”

“Sounds great,” I said. “I’ve got to try it.”

Leora nodded. “It’s like all my life I’ve been taking a test and failing, and it doesn’t make sense because I’m studying and no one else is, and they’re all getting As. And it turns out it’s because they had the answer key the whole time. Well, now I’ve been given the answer key.”

I nodded. Leora had described my experience so perfectly that I was choking back tears. The rest of the wedding passed in a blur. The next morning, I called my doctor and scheduled the appointment.

I came to the doctor ready for a fight. I was worried he would say I wasn’t heavy enough, that it was too risky, or that since I wasn’t diabetic, I wasn’t eligible. But I told my doctor I wanted it, and he agreed to prescribe it. It was as simple as that, although he warned me that it was expensive and insurance wouldn’t cover it.

He was right: My insurance wouldn’t cover it, but I had a good job, and if it would work, it was worth every penny.

When I got my first injector pen and shots, I felt both scared and excited as I opened the box. I was scared of giving myself a shot every day and worried about side effects, but also full of anticipation. Because the life I had been dreaming of for so long — the perfect life where I was thin and beautiful, where people treated me with respect, where I got set up with normal guys and finally found my bashert — it was all at the edge of this needle.

Soon injecting myself with Ozempic became routine. There were parts I didn’t love — like having to give myself a shot every day, feeling nauseous unexpectedly, getting stomachaches. Then there were the parts I liked — like not having food noise all the time. Do you know that little voice in your head that says, “I’d really like another bite of cheesecake, but I really shouldn’t, but it looks so good, and it smells amazing, and maybe I’ll just take one small bite?” It was completely quiet. Someone would bring in kosher doughnuts at work and leave them out on the table, and I’d walk by without a second glance.

But the part I loved most? Seeing the numbers go down on the scale. I had to buy a whole new wardrobe, because all my clothes had gotten too baggy on me. I fit into single-digit sizes. The ladies in shul would all stop me and say, “You look terrific!”

I started to get more dates. The shadchanim called me back, and the suggestions that they made were quality. None of them were the “one,” but my pre-Ozempic dates had made me want to climb out of the nearest window. Now I got set up with normal people even if they weren’t right for me.

It felt good to finally be treated with respect, but I also felt sorry and angry for my old self. All the years I’d been treated as less-than, given unsolicited weight-loss advice, and been set up with guys the shadchanim would never have considered for their own daughters. It hurt to see how differently the world treated you based on a number on the scale.

Was I happier? Well, I still wasn’t married. I was still going to wedding after wedding while my zivug was nowhere in sight. I was thin, but now I knew that I’d need to find my bashert to be truly happy.

After every date, I thought about Yuri. He was also still not married, and now I felt closer to being his equal. He was accomplished, a talmid chacham, still in residency. I was thin, pretty, with a good job and a great sense of humor. One Shabbos, his mother stopped me in shul, patted my arm, smiled, and said, “You look good.” I wondered if she’d consider the shidduch to be shayach now.

The following week, I spoke to my mother as I got ready for work. “Do you think Mrs. Feldman would listen to the shidduch now? Maybe we should ask a different shadchan to redt it.”

My mother frowned. “Are you sure that’s a good idea? You were so disappointed when they said no last year.”

“Let’s just try it,” I said. “I’m practically a different person now.”

On the inside I hadn’t changed, but I looked completely different, and I hoped that now I would be enough.

“I just don’t want to see you get hurt again.”

“I won’t be,” I promised. “I’m sure they’ll say no again. I just have to put in my hishtadlus.”

On Wednesday when I came home from work, my mother had a huge smile on her face. The Feldmans had said yes!

I couldn’t believe it. My heart was in my throat. I’d wanted this so badly for so long.

When Yuri called me to set up our first date, I was so nervous my heart was pounding as I picked up the phone. We set the date for Sunday, and I went dress shopping for the occasion with my best friend Batya.

Batya wasn’t as excited as I was. “I don’t like that he said no last year. What made him change his mind?”

“I don’t know,” I told her irritably. “Maybe he was just busy with work or not feeling it at that moment. I don’t think we should rush to judgment.”

But I felt a sliver of doubt. Was he only saying yes to me because I’d lost weight? If so, what would that bode for our future?

I skipped shul that Shabbos. It would be too awkward to bump into him or his mother.

Yuri took me to a hotel lobby, and I was so nervous I barely spoke. Anyone who’s ever met me would tell you that “shy” is the last word you’d ever use to describe me. I’m a great conversationalist. I’m funny and witty, and I always have something to say. But I’d put so much pressure on myself for this date that I was completely tongue-tied. Yuri didn’t seem to mind. He talked a lot about the pressures of his medical residency, and I smiled and made sympathetic noises and hardly said two words the whole time.

I really messed this up, I thought to myself on the car ride home. He’s going to say I’m too quiet and never see me again. I wanted to cry as he walked me to the door.

“Did you have a nice time?” my mother asked me when I got home. “Did you like him?”

I nodded, but honestly, I had no idea. I’d built him up in my head as the “perfect guy” for so long that my only consideration on this date was trying to be the “perfect girl” so he would say yes to a second one. I hadn’t paused for a minute to think about whether I liked him, or had actually enjoyed his company.

“He had a nice time. He wants to see you again,” the shadchan told me when she called that night. I practically whooped with joy. He was giving me another chance, and this time, I promised myself, I would open up and show him who I really am.

After spending three hours with Yuri on our first date, I was much more comfortable on the next one. He took me out to lunch, and I was my authentic self. I told him funny anecdotes about my job. He didn’t really laugh a lot, and I don’t think he got my sense of humor. I noticed that he didn’t really ask me a lot of questions about myself.

Then the waitress came to take our order. I ordered an omelet, and a small serving of French fries on the side.

“Do you really need that?” Yuri asked me.

I was so surprised, my jaw practically fell to the floor. What on earth did he mean by that? Was the expense of French fries on the side too much for him? Was it because I used to be overweight, and he was worried I’d become overweight again? Did he think I was ordering too much food and he’d be embarrassed? It was so odd that I couldn’t fathom the reason for it.

“Um, no… I guess not,” I stammered. I looked at the waitress. “Just the omelet is fine.”

“You sure, hon?” she asked, tilting her head and giving me a sympathetic look.

“Yes,” I said. “Just an omelet and water.”

The waitress took our menus, and Yuri went back to what he’d been saying before we ordered.

But now I was seeing Yuri with new eyes. He was a bit self-centered. I got the feeling he’d preferred me better on the first date when I was quiet and let him do the talking. He would make some quiet, demure girl a fine husband, but he wasn’t my bashert.

The rest of the date was uneventful. We ate lunch, I asked him questions about himself. The conversation flowed naturally. But after he brought me home, we gave a mutual no to the shadchan.

That was three months ago. I’m still thin and I’m still not married. But since that date with Yuri, something’s shifted inside me. I’d spent a large part of my adult life building a fantasy: If only I’d be thin, I’d be happy. I’d date the right guys, I’d get married, I’d live happily ever after. But I’m thin and dating good men. I’d gone out with the man of my dreams, and he turned out to be a disaster. Where was my happiness?

I

hold the needle to my upper arm and close my eyes. “May it be Your Will, Hashem, that this activity bring healing to me, for You are the true Healer. Please help me love my body and my life just the way it is.” I take a deep breath and quickly push the needle down. I hold down the dose button and slowly count to six, per the instructions. A burst of pain, a drop of blood pooling on the skin, and it’s over.

But it’s not really over. There’s still the hard work of accepting myself, of learning to live in the moment, of healing from the pain of the past. It’s not really over. It’s just the beginning.

*All names have been changed.

(Originally featured in Family First, Issue 950)