the Mirepoix

Natural Isn’t Lazy, and You’re Not a Product (ft. Ozempic)

Introduction: How My Glow-Up Journey Turned Into a Capitalist Full-Time Job

I’ve always been someone who genuinely valued self-care. Not the TikTok version with sea moss and aesthetic fridges — I mean actual care. I started working out at 15, before it was really a trend, before wellness was an industry. I worked out because I simply liked feeling strong and grounded. I liked sweating. Simple stuff.

Then I turned 19, started my first fashion internship, and everything changed. One of the girls at work was raving about Rumble Boxing — “Everyone goes there,” she said, like it was Soho House but with gloves. It wasn’t just about abs or endorphins anymore. It was about optics. Cool girls were boxing now. Participating in that kind of boutique workout culture felt like a badge — like you’d officially been accepted into the downtown wellness sorority of high-functioning, oat-milk-drinking, pilates-core It girls.

From there, I was hooked — not just on movement, but on the never-ending ladder of “betterment.” Barry’s, then Pilates, then sculpt classes with names like “Butt by Science.” Honestly, at first I hated Pilates but now I am definitely one of the biggest proponent of pilates and it did make my body look better than ever. But because of the whole “pilates princess craze,” suddenly, it wasn’t just fitness, it was a lifestyle — one that required constant upgrading. From a plain old pilates studio, you wanted to upgrade to one that’s better and one that’s more esteemed with a steeper mark up price.

And the products? Oh, the products. I haven’t tried everything, but I’ve been tempted by it all: cold plunges, bone broth, red light panels, lymphatic drainage tools, chlorophyll drops, face taping, whatever Goop is doing this week. I watched enough TikToks to convince myself that every single bodily function I had was wrong — and there was a checkout cart waiting to fix it.

And yes, I did consider Ozempic. No, I didn’t take it. But only because I couldn’t find a dealer—I mean doctor—who’d prescribe it without a diagnosis. (Rude.)

Ozempic: The Skinniest Shortcut to Late-Stage Capitalism

Originally developed to treat type 2 diabetes, Ozempic has been reborn as the miracle weight-loss drug for rich people who “just can’t lose those last five pounds.” Forget side effects like nausea or the small matter of a medicine shortage for actual diabetics — in glow-up culture, skinniness has become a status symbol, not a health goal.

Back then, the body du jour was still thick™. Think BBLs, Kardashian proportions, Kylie’s lip filler renaissance, Fashion Nova’s curve-hugging empire. The ideal was voluptuous. It screamed fertility goddess meets Instagram model meets “I just had a smoothie with maca root.” But slowly — quietly — the pendulum swung back. And this time, it brought syringes.

Skinniness came back with a vengeance — but in a much cleaner font. This isn’t your mom’s crash diet. This is “anti-inflammatory.” This is “insulin regulation.” This is Ozempic. A drug originally designed to treat type 2 diabetes suddenly became the most casually referenced wellness hack on Instagram stories and wellness podcasts. It’s like they rebranded a pharmaceutical product into a personality trait

Ozempic didn’t just go viral — it got absorbed into the glow-up machine. It became the ultimate cheat code in a society obsessed with optimization. Forget nausea, face hollowing, or, I don’t know, the ethical dilemma of hijacking a medication for people who actually need it — this was the injectable equivalent of unlocking “hot girl mode.”

Ozempic is the dream drug of bio-capitalism: a monthly subscription to thinness. You don’t even have to restrict yourself anymore — the medication restricts your appetite for you. It’s body modification as SaaS (Skinniness as a Service), the final boss of a system that sells us wellness while quietly manufacturing sickness.

This isn’t a health trend. It’s a bio-capitalist fantasy where you can subscribe to thinness like you would to Netflix. Need proof? Google “Ozempic face.” It’s not just a body transformation; it’s a full rebrand.

Post-Capitalism, But Make It Glow-Up Capitalism: How Your Body Became a Product in Late-Stage Capitalism

Let’s get a little academic for a second (because why critique late-stage capitalism if you’re not citing at least one Marxist in a Reformation dress?). According to thinkers like Angela McRobbie, we’re living in a post-Fordist economy where aesthetic labor — your body, your face, your whole vibe — has become a site of productivity. Your identity is the commodity.

McRobbie’s work on symbolic violence? It’s the blueprint for understanding how feminism got co-opted into “empowering” beauty standards that still require women to spend all their time and money chasing glow-ups. Add in Mark Fisher’s Capitalist Realism and it all starts to click — the system survives by convincing us there’s no alternative. The revolution is moisturized and wearing a matching Skims set.

We’re not just chasing beauty anymore. We’re monetizing it. Welcome to the platform economy, where your transformation is content, your content is capital, and your capital still can’t afford a therapist.

And that, my friends, is late-stage capitalism in action.
It’s the phase of capitalism where the machine stops pretending to care. Every inch of your existence — your gut health, your morning routine, your emotional damage — becomes something to optimize, brand, and sell.

In academic terms, it’s the hyper-financialized, post-industrial stage marked by wealth inequality, blurred personal/professional boundaries, and the commodification of identity itself. In internet speak? It’s when your burnout gets sold back to you as a self-care starter kit for $49.99/month, plus shipping.

Confessions of a Still-Very-Much-Ensnared Glow-Up Victim

I must admit — I’m still a victim. A willing, scrolling, Sephora-haunting, lymphatic-drainage-tempted victim. Even as I write this, I can feel the pull of the next big wellness thing. I mean, if I had the budget (which you can kindly donate to on my website, thank you), I would have bought the red light mask, the mushroom coffee subscription, the IV drip membership, and yes — maybe even a few cheeky Ozempic pens.

Everything feels connected. From algorithmic fatigue to the constant stream of “new year, better you” productivity porn, it’s hard to tell where wanting to take care of yourself ends and where internalized capitalism begins. And honestly, I still want to get a lot done. I still fantasize about that perfectly optimized version of me who wakes up glowing and hydrated and already 4,000 steps into her day. But at what cost?

I find myself wondering when — or if — this cycle ever ends. Or are we just perpetually hopping onto the next hype train, endlessly repackaging our insecurities into aesthetic goals? Because seriously… when did Ozempic become a casual commodity that normal people just consume? When did something that was once a niche pharmaceutical for diabetes care become the juice cleanse of 2024?

Conclusion

I’m all for leveling up. Truly. Evolving, improving, refining — go off. But at what point do we pause and ask ourselves: is this still about self-betterment, or am I just chasing a version of myself that only exists in algorithmic fantasy? Is it still a glow-up if it’s driven by fear, by comparison, by the gnawing sense that who you are isn’t enough unless you’re smaller, smoother, richer, and drinking water that’s been blessed by the moon?

There’s a saying in Chinese — the love of beauty is human nature. And it is. But what happens when that nature gets commodified, packaged, and sold back to us as a lifestyle? When beauty becomes a job description — not a joy?

Maybe the real question isn’t whether you should take Ozempic, or try the new probiotic sauna smoothie. Maybe it’s: what would it look like to slow down and trust your body — not sell it a new product.

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