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Tag: obesity doctor

  • The Ozempic Plateau

    The Ozempic Plateau

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    The latest weight-loss drugs are rightly hailed as game changers for obesity, but in an important way, they are just like every other method of managing weight: They work only to a point for weight loss. The pounds melt off quickly at first and then gradually and then not at all. You can’t lose any more no matter what you do. You’ve hit the weight-loss plateau.

    It happens with dieting. It happens with bariatric surgery. And it happens now with both semaglutide (better known as Ozempic or Wegovy, depending on whether it’s prescribed for diabetes or weight loss) and tirzepatide (better known as Mounjaro or Zepbound). Weight loss triggers a set of powerful physiological changes in the body, which evolved over millions of years to keep us alive through periods of food scarcity. “Everybody plateaus,” says Jamy Ard, an obesity doctor at Wake Forest University. Exactly when varies quite a bit from person to person, but it happens after losing a certain percentage of body weight—meaning some people might plateau while still meeting the criteria for obesity.

    For Wegovy, it’s after losing, on average, 15 percent, usually more than a year into starting the drug. For Zepbound, it’s about 20 percent. These numbers are higher than is sustainable through diet and exercise alone, but they also do not reach the 30 percent achievable via the gold standard of bariatric surgery.

    These differences matter because they suggest that the level of the plateau is not permanently fixed. Recent advances in understanding the gut hormones that these drugs are designed to mimic hint at a possibility of even more powerful weight-loss drugs. Scientists are now testing ways to push the plateau down further; a drug could one day be even more effective than bariatric surgery.

    All of this raises an unsettled question: “How much weight loss is enough?” says Jonathan Campbell, who studies gut hormones at Duke. In studies, even 5 to 15 percent weight loss can substantially reverse high blood pressure, high blood sugar, and high cholesterol. Yet a patient who starts at 375 pounds with a BMI of 60 might still find themselves ineligible for a joint replacement that requires a BMI below 40, flawed as BMI may be. Or they may simply want to look thinner. The explosion of weight-loss drugs has reopened thorny questions about how they should be used, but nevertheless, pharmaceutical companies are racing ahead to develop more and more powerful ones.


    Weight loss is easiest at the beginning, before your body starts actively working against it. “Your brain doesn’t know you’re trying to lose weight on purpose,” Ard says. And once it notices, “it thinks that something is wrong.” So your body tries very, very hard to compensate.

    First of all, you become hungrier, obviously. And not just because you want to eat as much as you did before; you actually want to eat more than you did prior to losing weight. “With every one kilogram you lose, your appetite goes up above baseline by 90 or so calories per day,” says Kevin Hall, who studies metabolism at the National Institute of Diabetes and Digestive and Kidney Diseases. At the same time, your body looks for ways to conserve energy. Your muscles work more efficiently, for example, Ard says, so walking that normally burned 100 calories might now burn only 90. By making you want to eat more and burning fewer calories, your body is eventually able to slow weight loss down to zero. Here is your plateau. This is, all told, a remarkably elegant and robust system, if what you wanted to do is to maintain your weight.

    If you’re in fact trying to lose more weight, the plateau is psychologically frustrating. The same diet, the same exercise routine, the drug on which you were just losing weight will seem to have stopped working—but they haven’t. (If they did actually stop working, you would be regaining weight.) But your body is now fighting so hard against the weight loss that it requires a persistent effort just to keep the weight off, Hall says. Should you ease up, the weight will come right back, as seen in yo-yo dieting or weight regain after stopping Wegovy or Zepbound.

    The only way to get past a plateau is to up the intensity or number of interventions. Doctors might recommend, for example, bariatric surgery and a weight-loss drug. But in the future, novel drugs might be able to pharmacologically up the intensity. The progression from Wegovy to the more effective Zepbound has in fact already brought us one step closer.


    Wegovy and Zepbound both belong to a class of drugs that mimic a gut hormone called GLP-1. Both of these drugs bind GLP-1 receptors in the brain, which seems to reduce hunger. Zepbound goes a step further, though. It can also bind receptors for a second gut hormone, called GIP. Years ago, researchers noticed that bariatric surgery changes the balance of gut hormones in the body, including GLP-1 and GIP. This—and not just the physical shrinking of the stomach—is now understood to be a key driver of weight loss, to the point that bariatric surgery is sometimes called “metabolic surgery.” These observations inspired research into drugs that target not just GLP-1 but also GIP and other hormones. Essentially, they’re performing metabolic surgery with a drug rather than a scalpel.

    Exactly why Zepbound outperforms Wegovy is still unclear. One obvious hypothesis is that it mimics a second gut hormone; the more hormonal pathways it can influence, perhaps, the more body parts it affects and the more weight loss it triggers. And a recent clinical trial of retatrutide, a further modified derivative of Zepbound that mimics a third hormone called glucagon, demonstrated even greater weight loss: 24 percent at the highest dose.

    A second hypothesis suggests that the difference between Wegovy and Zepbound still goes back to GLP-1. Although both drugs bind that receptor, they tickle it slightly differently, setting off slightly different chain reactions. Wegovy seems to also activate some cellular machinery that acts as a break, possibly limiting its efficacy. This suggests another strategy for fine-tuning gut-hormone drugs: Companies have so far focused on trying to design one drug that binds to multiple hormone receptors, like a master key that can open three different locks. This was a practical choice, Campbell says, because trying to study three separate new drugs in clinical trials would be a logistical “nightmare.” But the optimal combination for weight loss might actually require individual keys that can jigger individual receptors in just the right way—that is, a double or triple combination of drugs.

    It may also eventually be possible to keep increasing the dosage of GLP-1 drugs to push the weight-loss plateau down. Right now, the dose is limited by what people are willing to tolerate. The drugs can cause severe nausea, vomiting, and diarrhea, so they have to be ramped up slowly over many weeks to induce tolerance and minimize side effects. But Novo Nordisk is trialing the drug in Wegovy at up to 16 milligrams a week, more than six times the current maximum dose. Tinkering with other gut-hormone pathways could also help with side effects. GIP receptors, for example, are found in neurons whose activation might suppress nausea, which may in part be why Zepbound seems to have slightly milder side effects.

    Zepbound is likely the first of many leveling-ups from single-action GLP-1 drugs. Even as the science advances, no safe method of losing weight is meant to eliminate the weight-loss plateau—and indeed, you wouldn’t want to keep losing weight indefinitely. But lose more weight? Pharmaceutical companies are betting on a market for that. With obesity drugs projected to become a $100 billion industry by 2030, they are eager for a slice of that massive pie. “The dollar signs are so big now,” Campbell says. Zepbound is the newest weight-loss drug on the block, but it too may eventually be old news.

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    Sarah Zhang

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  • Did Scientists Accidentally Invent an Anti-addiction Drug?

    Did Scientists Accidentally Invent an Anti-addiction Drug?

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    This article was featured in One Story to Read Today, a newsletter in which our editors recommend a single must-read from The Atlantic, Monday through Friday. Sign up for it here.

    All her life, Victoria Rutledge thought of herself as someone with an addictive personality. Her first addiction was alcohol. After she got sober in her early 30s, she replaced drinking with food and shopping, which she thought about constantly. She would spend $500 on organic groceries, only to have them go bad in her fridge. “I couldn’t stop from going to that extreme,” she told me. When she ran errands at Target, she would impulsively throw extra things—candles, makeup, skin-care products—into her cart.

    Earlier this year, she began taking semaglutide, also known as Wegovy, after being prescribed the drug for weight loss. (Colloquially, it is often referred to as Ozempic, though that is technically just the brand name for semaglutide that is marketed for diabetes treatment.) Her food thoughts quieted down. She lost weight. But most surprisingly, she walked out of Target one day and realized her cart contained only the four things she came to buy. “I’ve never done that before,” she said. The desire to shop had slipped away. The desire to drink, extinguished once, did not rush in as a replacement either. For the first time—perhaps the first time in her whole life—all of her cravings and impulses were gone. It was like a switch had flipped in her brain.

    As semaglutide has skyrocketed in popularity, patients have been sharing curious effects that go beyond just appetite suppression. They have reported losing interest in a whole range of addictive and compulsive behaviors: drinking, smoking, shopping, biting nails, picking at skin. Not everyone on the drug experiences these positive effects, to be clear, but enough that addiction researchers are paying attention. And the spate of anecdotes might really be onto something. For years now, scientists have been testing whether drugs similar to semaglutide can curb the use of alcohol, cocaine, nicotine, and opioids in lab animals—to promising results.

    Semaglutide and its chemical relatives seem to work, at least in animals, against an unusually broad array of addictive drugs, says Christian Hendershot, a psychiatrist at the University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill School of Medicine. Treatments available today tend to be specific: methadone for opioids, bupropion for smoking. But semaglutide could one day be more widely useful, as this class of drug may alter the brain’s fundamental reward circuitry. The science is still far from settled, though researchers are keen to find out more. At UNC, in fact, Hendershot is now running clinical trials to see whether semaglutide can help people quit drinking alcohol and smoking. This drug that so powerfully suppresses the desire to eat could end up suppressing the desire for a whole lot more.


    The history of semaglutide is one of welcome surprises. Originally developed for diabetes, semaglutide prompts the pancreas to release insulin by mimicking a hormone called GLP-1, or glucagon-like peptide 1. First-generation GLP-1 analogs—exenatide and liraglutide—have been on the market to treat diabetes for more than a decade. And almost immediately, doctors noticed that patients on these drugs also lost weight, an unintended but usually not unwelcome side effect. Semaglutide has been heralded as a potentially even more potent GLP-1 analog.

    Experts now believe GLP-1 analogs affect more than just the pancreas. The exact mechanism in weight loss is still unclear, but the drugs likely work in multiple ways to suppress hunger, including but not limited to slowing food’s passage through the stomach and preventing ups and downs in blood sugar. Most intriguing, it also seems to reach and act directly on the brain.

    GLP-1 analogs appear to actually bind to receptors on neurons in several parts of the brain, says Scott Kanoski, a neurobiologist at the University of Southern California. When Kanoski and his colleagues blocked these receptors in rodents, the first-generation drugs exenatide and liraglutide became less effective at reducing food intake—as if this had eliminated a key mode of action. The impulse to eat is just one kind of impulse, though. That these drugs work on the level of the brain—as well as the gut—suggests that they can suppress the urge for other things too.

    In particular, GLP-1 analogs affect dopamine pathways in the brain, a.k.a. the reward circuitry. This pathway evolved to help us survive; simplistically, food and sex trigger a dopamine hit in the brain. We feel good, and we do it again. In people with addiction, this process in the brain shifts as a consequence or cause of their addiction, or perhaps even both. They have, for example, fewer dopamine receptors in part of the brain’s reward pathway, so the same reward may bring less pleasure.

    In lab animals, addiction researchers have amassed a body of evidence that GLP-1 analogs alter the reward pathway: mice on a version of exenatide get less of a dopamine hit from alcohol; rats on the same GLP-1 drug sought out less cocaine; same for rats and oxycodone. African vervet monkeys predisposed to drinking alcohol drank less on liraglutide and exenatide. Most of the published research has been conducted with these two first-generation GLP-1 drugs, but researchers told me to expect many studies with semaglutide, with positive results, to be published soon.

    In humans, the science is much more scant. A couple of studies of exenatide in people with cocaine-use disorder were too short or small to be conclusive. Another study of the same drug in people with alcohol-use disorder found that their brain’s reward centers no longer lit up as much when shown pictures of alcohol while they were in an fMRI machine. The patients in the study as a whole, however, did not drink less on the drug, though the subset who also had obesity did. Experts say that semaglutide, if it works at all for addiction, might end up more effective in some people than others. “I don’t expect this to work for everybody,” says Anders Fink-Jensen, a psychiatrist at the University of Copenhagen who conducted the alcohol study. (Fink-Jensen has received funding from Novo Nordisk, the maker of Ozempic and Wegovy, for separate research into using GLP-1 analogs to treat weight gain from schizophrenia medication.)  Bigger and longer trials with semaglutide could prove or disprove the drug’s effectiveness in addiction—and identify whom it is best for.


    Semaglutide does not dull all pleasure, people taking the drug for weight loss told me. They could still enjoy a few bites of food or revel in finding the perfect dress; they just no longer went overboard. Anhedonia, or a general diminished ability to experience pleasure, also hasn’t shown up in cohorts of people who take the drug for diabetes, says Elisabet Jerlhag Holm, an addiction researcher at the University of Gothenburg. Instead, those I talked with said their mind simply no longer raced in obsessive loops. “It was a huge relief,” says Kimberly Smith, who used to struggle to eat in moderation. For patients like her, the drug tamed behaviors that had reached a level of unhealthiness.

    The types of behaviors in which patients have reported unexpected changes include both the addictive, such as smoking or drinking, and the compulsive, such as skin picking or nail biting. (Unlike addiction, compulsion concerns behaviors that aren’t meant to be pleasurable.) And although there is a body of animal research into GLP-1 analogues and addiction, there is virtually none on nonfood compulsions. Still, addictions and compulsions are likely governed by overlapping reward pathways in the brain, and semaglutide might have an effect on both. Two months into taking the drug, Mary Maher woke up one day to realize that the skin on her back—which she had picked compulsively for years—had healed. She used to bleed so much from the picking that she avoided wearing white. Maher hadn’t even noticed she had stopped picking what must have been weeks before. “I couldn’t believe it,” she told me. The urge had simply melted away.

    The long-term impacts of semaglutide, especially on the brain, remain unknown. In diabetes and obesity, semaglutide is supposed to be a lifelong medication, and its most dramatic effects are quickly reversed when people go off. “The weight comes back; the suppression of appetite goes away,” says Janice Jin Hwang, an obesity doctor at UNC School of Medicine. The same could be true in at least certain forms of addiction too. Doctors have noted a curious link between addiction and another obesity treatment: Patients who undergo bariatric surgery sometimes experience “addiction transfer,” where their impulsive behaviors move from food to alcohol or drugs. Bariatric surgery works, in part, by increasing natural levels of GLP-1, but whether the same transfer can happen with GLP-1 drugs still needs to be studied in longer trials. Semaglutide is a relatively new drug, approved for diabetes since 2017. Understanding the upshot of taking it for decades is, well, decades into the future.

    Maher told me she hopes to stay on the drug forever. “It’s incredibly validating,” she said, to realize her struggles have been a matter of biology, not willpower. Before getting on semaglutide, she had spent 30 years trying to lose weight by counting calories and exercising. She ran 15 half marathons. She did lose weight, but she could never keep it off. On semaglutide, the obsessions about food that plagued her even when she was skinny are gone. Not only has she stopped picking her skin; she’s also stopped biting her nails. Her mind is quieter now, more peaceful. “This has changed my thought processes in a way that has just improved my life so much,” she said. She would like to keep it that way.

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    Sarah Zhang

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