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Tag: obesity drugs

  • Trump Announces Sweeping Cost Cuts On Obesity Drugs – KXL

    Acquired Through MGN Online on 04/29/2025

    WASHINGTON, DC – President Trump is announcing sweeping cost cuts on obesity drugs. The White House says that Eli Lilly, which makes Zepbound, and Novo Nordisk, which manufactures Wegovy, will lower the price of those injectable weight loss drugs to as little as $350 a month for starter doses. The list prices now exceed $1,000.

    Trump also says that Medicare will start covering the drugs and that if the Food and Drug Administration approves oral anti-obesity tablets, the lowest dose will cost $149 a month. In exchange, the White House has agreed to give the drugmakers a priority two-month review for certain drugs and a break on tariffs.

    All this will start in January when TrumpRX, the administration’s direct-to-consumer website, launches.

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    Tim Lantz

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  • Ozempic Makes You Lose More Than Fat

    Ozempic Makes You Lose More Than Fat


    The newest and much-hyped obesity drugs are, at their core, powerful appetite suppressants. When you eat fewer calories than you burn, the body starts scavenging itself, breaking down fat, of course, but also muscle. About a quarter to a third of the weight shed is lean body mass, and most of that is muscle.

    Muscle loss is not inherently bad. As people lose fat, they need less muscle to support the weight of their body. And the muscle that goes first tends to be low quality and streaked with fat. Doctors grow concerned when people start to feel weak in everyday life—while picking up the grandkids, for example, or shoveling the driveway. Taken further, the progressive loss of muscle can make patients, especially elderly ones who already have less muscle to spare, frail and vulnerable to falls. People trying to slim down from an already healthy weight, who have less fat to spare, may also be prone to losing muscle. “You have to pull calories from somewhere,” says Robert Kushner, an obesity-medicine doctor at Northwestern University, who was also an investigator in a key trial for one of these drugs.

    Kushner worries about patients who start with low muscle mass and go on to become super responders to the drugs, losing significantly more than the average 15 to 20 percent of their body weight. The more these patients lose, the more likely their body is breaking down muscle. “I watch them very carefully,” he told me. The impacts of losing muscle may go beyond losing just strength. Muscle cells are major consumers of energy; they influence insulin sensitivity and absorb some 80 percent of the glucose flooding into blood after a meal. Extreme loss might alter these metabolic functions of muscle too.

    Exactly how all of this will affect people on Wegovy and Zepbound, which are still relatively novel obesity drugs, is too early to say. (You may have heard these same two drugs referred to as Ozempic and Mounjaro, respectively, which are their names when sold for diabetes.) These drugs cause a proportion of muscle loss higher than diet and exercise alone, though roughly on par with bariatric surgery. Lifestyle changes can blunt the loss, but pharmaceutical companies are on the hunt for new drug combinations that could build muscle while burning fat.

    The arrival of powerful weight-loss drugs has moved the field beyond simple weight loss, Melanie Haines, an endocrinologist at Massachusetts General Hospital, told me. That challenge is largely solved. Instead of fixating on the number of pounds lost, researchers, doctors, and ultimately patients can focus on where those pounds are coming from.

    Doctors currently offer two pieces of standard and unsurprising advice to protect people taking obesity drugs against muscle loss: Eat a high-protein diet, and do resistance training. These recommendations are perfectly logical, but their effectiveness against these drugs specifically is unclear, John Jakicic, a professor of physical activity and weight management at the University of Kansas Medical Center, told me. He is now surveying patients to understand their real-world behavior on these drugs.

    Fatigue, for example, is a common side effect. “When you’re tired, and you’re fatigued, do you really feel like exercising?” he said. Haines wonders the same about eating enough protein. The drugs are so good at suppressing appetite, she said, that some people might not be able to stomach enough food to get adequate protein. (Food companies have started pitching high-protein snacks and shakes to people on obesity drugs.)

    Read: The Ozempic plateau

    If patients stop taking Wegovy and Zepbound—and about half of patients do stop within a year, at least in real-world studies of people taking this class of drugs for diabetes—the weight regained comes back as fat more than muscle, says Tom Yates, a physical-activity professor at the University of Leicester. Muscle mass tends not to entirely recover. It’s “almost as if you’re better off staying where you are than going through cycles of weight loss,” he told me.

    Yet, he pointed out, the U.K. recommends Wegovy for a maximum of two years. In the U.S., patients who can’t afford the steep out-of-pocket price have been forced to stop when insurance companies abruptly cut off coverage or a manufacturer’s discount coupon expires. These policies are likely to trigger cycles of weight loss and gain that lead, ultimately, to net muscle loss.

    Meanwhile, drug companies are already thinking about the next generation of weight-loss therapies. “Wouldn’t it be great to have another mechanism that’s moving away from just appetite regulation?” Haines said. Companies are testing ways to preserve—perhaps even enhance—muscle during weight loss by combining Wegovy or Zepbound with a second muscle-boosting drug. Such a combination could, in theory, allow patients to lose fat and gain muscle at the same time.

    Years ago, scientists first became interested in potential muscle-enhancing drugs that mimic mutations found in certain breeds of almost comically ripped dogs and cattle. At the time, they hoped to treat muscle-wasting diseases. The drugs never quite worked for that purpose, but the trial for one such drug, an antibody called bimagrumab, found that patients also lost fat in addition to gaining lean mass. A start-up acquired the drug and began testing it for weight loss in combination with semaglutide, the active ingredient in Wegovy, or Ozempic. And last year, Eli Lilly, the maker of Zepbound, snapped up that company for up to $1.9 billion—in hopes of making its own combination therapy.

    Read: Are you sure you want an Ozempic pill?

    Pairing bimagrumab with an existing obesity drug could potentially maximize the weight loss from both. Losing weight tends to get harder over time; as you lose muscle, your body burns fewer calories. A drug that minimizes that muscle loss—or even flips it into muscle gain—could help patients boost the amount of energy their body expends, while Wegovy or Zepbound suppresses calories consumed. The mechanisms of how this might actually work in the body still need to be understood, though. Previous studies of bimagrumab found that patients grew more muscle, but they didn’t necessarily become faster or stronger. Haines, who is planning a small study of her own with bimagrumab, is most interested in how the combination affects not the structural but the metabolic functions of muscle.

    Bimagrumab is the furthest along of several drugs that tinker with the same pathway for muscle growth. The biotech company Regeneron recently published promising data on two of its muscle-enhancing antibodies paired with semaglutide in primates; a trial in humans is due to begin later this year. The start-up Scholar Rock is testing another antibody called apitegromab. Other companies are interested in combining the obesity drugs with different potential muscle boosters that work by mimicking certain hormones such as apelin or testosterone. If they succeed, the next generation of drugs could help sculpt a more muscular body, not just a smaller one. Eating less can only do so much to better your health.



    Sarah Zhang

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  • Are You Sure You Want an Ozempic Pill?

    Are You Sure You Want an Ozempic Pill?

    Within the first five seconds of a recent Ozempic commercial, a sky-blue injector pen tumbles toward the viewer, encircled by a big red O. Obesity drugs have become so closely associated with injections that the two are virtually synonymous. Like Ozempic, whose name is now a catchall term for obesity drugs, Wegovy and Zepbound come packaged in Sharpie-like injection pens that patients self-administer once a week. Patients “don’t come in asking for Wegovy,” Laura Davisson, a professor of medical weight management at West Virginia University, told me. “They come in asking for one of ‘those injectables.’”

    Needles are the present, but supposedly not the future. Nobody really likes injections, and taking a pill would be far easier. In the frenzy over obesity drugs, a class known as GLP-1 agonists, drugmakers have raced to create them in pill form, and Wall Street investors are hungry at the prospect. Earlier this year, Pfizer’s CEO, Albert Bourla, estimated that obesity pills could be worth $30 billion, or a third of the total obesity-drug market. Because people have a “preference” for pills, he said at a conference, they will be what ultimately “unlocks the market” for obesity medications. By one count, at least 32 oral GLP-1 drugs, from many different companies, are in the works.

    But a future dominated by obesity pills is hardly certain. So far, the only oral GLP-1 that exists is a pill for diabetes called Rybelsus. Like Ozempic and Wegovy, its active ingredient is a compound called semaglutide, but the shots come in far more powerful doses, making it possible to lose even more weight. Developing oral obesity drugs that are as tolerable and effective as their injectable counterparts has so far been a challenge. Earlier this month, Pfizer stopped testing one of its pill candidates, citing concerns about side effects and patient adherence. Even when pills do come to market, doctors told me, there’s no guarantee that people will flock to them.

    That drugmakers view the injectable nature of GLP-1s as one of their biggest flaws is no surprise. Getting a shot is a broadly despised experience, something people generally tolerate rather than choose. Children get stickers for enduring immunizations; adults who get vaccinated do so only because they must (and they are often rewarded with stickers too). The CDC estimates that one in four adults, and two out of three children, have strong fears about needles. “Some people hate needles, plain and simple,” Ted Kyle, an obesity-policy expert, told me.

    But not all needles are made equal. Wegovy and Zepbound are injected subcutaneously, or just under the skin. Relative to COVID or flu shots, which are jabbed into muscle, they don’t cause much discomfort. “I’ve been really surprised at how receptive my patients have been to using injectable medications,” Davisson said. Other doctors I spoke with agreed. “More patients than you would expect really don’t mind injectables,” because they’re easy and relatively painless to administer, Katherine Saunders, a clinical-medicine professor at Weill Cornell Medicine, told me.

    The unobtrusive dosing schedule of the injectables adds to their appeal. Wegovy and Zepbound are administered once weekly, unlike many of the pills in development, which are meant to be taken once or more daily. That can be a hassle, especially if they have to be taken at the same time every day, or if they come with restrictions on eating or drinking. “For some people, it’s easier to take an injection and forget about it for a week” than to remember to take a pill every day, Eduardo Grunvald, an obesity-medicine physician at UC San Diego Health, told me. Assuming pills are preferable to shots is a “knee-jerk reaction,” he added.

    Despite the unexpected upsides of the shots, they’re far from perfect. Making injectable pens is generally more expensive than pills and requires a lot of hardware, including the pen casing, cap, and needle cover. On top of that, the injectable obesity drugs must be refrigerated before they are first used, adding to storage and production costs. Pills are generally shelf-stable and don’t require much packaging beyond a child-proof bottle. Saunders predicts they would be less expensive and less prone to shortages that have plagued Wegovy.

    Still, creating an obesity pill isn’t as simple as packaging the same drugs in capsule form. Drugmakers have already run into a number of issues. Absorption is a big one: Because pills pass through the stomach before entering the bloodstream, they must be able to withstand a large degree of degradation. One way to get these drugs to lead to greater weight loss is to increase the dose. While the highest dose of Wegovy is 2.4 milligrams, Rybelsus maxes out at 14 milligrams.

    Hiking up the dose seems to work, though doing so could have consequences beyond weight loss. All GLP-1 drugs come with a range of unpleasant side effects involving the gastrointestinal system, and patients report nausea at similar rates in Rybelsus and Ozempic, according to the FDA. But this may differ in practice, as other doctors have noted. Saunders said that her patients on oral semaglutide report more nausea than those using injectables. Regardless, newer oral medications may have even more distinct differences, as drugmakers race to create more potent pills. In Pfizer’s discontinued trial of danuglipron, nausea rates reached up to 73 percent.

    Drugmakers also skirt the issue of degradation by pursuing sturdier drugs. The problem with semaglutide is that it’s a peptide—essentially a small protein—precisely the kind of molecule that the stomach excels at digesting. Some new drugs in the pipeline are so-called non-peptide small molecules, which are sturdier but still have the same biological effect. Orforglipron, a pill that Eli Lilly is testing, falls into this category, as does danuglipron, the drug responsible for Pfizer’s recent setbacks. Small-molecule drugs have the added benefit of being cheaper to produce at scale than peptides, Kyle, the obesity-policy expert, added.

    Another pesky problem with oral drugs is that they tend to come with strict dosing requirements. People on Rybelsus, for example, are instructed to take it 30 minutes before eating or drinking anything and can drink only four ounces of plain water along with it, because otherwise absorption could be compromised. “It can be a nuisance,” Grunvald said. Similarly bothersome instructions likely played a part in the drop-out rates reaching more than 50 percent in Pfizer’s recently discontinued trial: Danuglipron had to be taken twice daily. “A lot of people found it not worth the trouble,” Kyle said, noting that Pfizer is still pursuing a once-daily version of the same drug. A recent review of GLP-1 drugs showed that, compared with the injectable form, oral semaglutide is associated with lower rates of side-effect reporting but higher discontinuation rates, potentially reflecting its bothersome dosage requirements.

    Despite these hurdles, it seems inevitable that obesity-drug pills will eventually become available. Novo Nordisk is expected to file for FDA approval for its high-dose semaglutide obesity pill this year; Pfizer is forging ahead with a once-daily version of danuglipron, with more data expected “in the first half of 2024,” a spokesperson told me. A report from BMO Equity Research published in September predicted that oral formulations could be approved “by the late 2020s.” The biggest upside to pills may not be that they are pills but that they will, eventually, be cheaper than injectables—and cost is among the biggest impediments to more people taking obesity drugs.

    Whether they’ll replace injectables outright is far from certain. “It will come down to patient preference,” Grunvald said. Most likely, pills and injections will coexist to meet different needs, and perhaps even be used together to treat individual patients. In the so-called phased approach, obesity treatment could start with more expensive and powerful injectable drugs, then transition to less potent but cheaper orals for the long term. Eli Lilly, for one, sees its oral candidate, orforglipron, as a potential weight-loss-maintenance drug.

    There is so much competition in the obesity-drug space that future medications may take more unexpected forms. Amgen is studying a once-monthly injection; Novo Nordisk is developing a hydrogel form of semaglutide that would need to be taken only three times a year. If the future of obesity drugs will come down to what patients prefer, then the more options, the better.

    Yasmin Tayag

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  • BMI Won’t Die

    BMI Won’t Die

    If anything defines America’s current obesity-drug boom, it’s this: Many more people want these injections than can actually get them. The roadblocks include exorbitant costs that can stretch beyond $1,000 a month, limited insurance coverage, and constant supply shortages. But before all of those issues come into play, anyone attempting to get a prescription will inevitably confront the same obstacle: their body mass index, or BMI.

    So much depends on the simple calculation of dividing one’s weight by the square of their height. According to the FDA, people qualify for prescriptions of Wegovy and Zepbound—the obesity-drug versions of the diabetes medications Ozempic and Mounjaro—only if their BMI is 3o or higher, or 27 or higher with a weight-related health issue such as hypertension. Many who do get on the medication use BMI to track their progress. That BMI is the single biggest factor determining who gets prescribed these drugs, and who doesn’t, is the result of how deeply entrenched this metric has become in how both doctors and regular people approach health: Low BMI is good and high BMI is bad, or so most of us have come to think.

    This roughly 200-year-old metric has never been more relevant—or maligned—than it is in the obesity-drug era. BMI has become like the decrepit car you keep driving because it still sort of works and is too much of a hassle to replace. Its numerous shortcomings have been called out for many years now: For starters, it accounts for only height and weight, not other, more pertinent measures such as body-fat percentage. In June, the American Medical Association formally recognized that BMI should not be used alone as a health measure. Last year, some doctors called for BMI to be retired altogether, echoing previous assertions.

    The thing is, BMI can be an insightful health metric, but only when used judiciously with other factors. The problem is that it often hasn’t been. Just as obesity drugs are taking off, however, professional views are changing. People are so accustomed to seeing BMI as the “be-all, end-all” of health indicators, Kate Bauer, a nutritional-sciences professor at the University of Michigan, told me. “But that’s increasingly not the way it’s being used in clinical practice.” A shift in the medical field is a good start, but the bigger challenge will be getting everyone else to catch up.

    BMI got its start in the 1830s, when a Belgian astronomer named Adolphe Quetelet attempted to determine the properties of the “average” man. Using data on primarily white people, he observed that weight tended to vary as the square of height—a calculation that came to be known as Quetelet’s index.

    Over the next 150 years, what began as a descriptive tool transformed into a prescriptive one. Quetelet’s index (and other metrics like it) informed height-weight tables used by life-insurance companies to estimate risk. These sorts of tables formed “recommendations for the general population going from ‘average’ to ‘ideal’ weights,” the epidemiologist Katherine Flegal wrote in her history of BMI; eventually, nonideal weights were classified as “overweight” and “obese.” In 1972, the American physiologist Ancel Keys proposed using Quetelet’s index—which he renamed BMI—to roughly measure obesity. We’ve been stuck with BMI ever since. The metric became embedded not only in research and doctor’s visits but also in the very definitions of obesity. According to the World Health Organization, a BMI starting at 25 and less than 30 is considered overweight; anything above that range is obese.

    But using BMI to categorize a person’s health was controversial from the start. Even Keys called it “scientifically indefensible” to use BMI to judge someone as overweight. BMI doesn’t account for where fat is distributed on the body; fat that builds up around organs and tissues, called visceral fat, is linked to serious medical issues, while fat under the skin—the kind you can pinch—is usually less of a problem. Muscularity is also overlooked: LeBron James, for example, would be considered overweight. Both fat distribution and muscularity can vary widely across sex, age, and ethnicity. People with high BMIs can be perfectly healthy, and “there are people with normal BMIs that are actually sick because they have too much body fat,” Angela Fitch, an assistant professor at Harvard Medical School and the president of the Obesity Medicine Association, told me.

    For all its flaws, BMI is actually useful at the population level, Fitch said, and doctors can measure it quickly and cheaply. But BMI becomes troubling when it is all that doctors see. In some cases, the moment when a patient’s BMI is calculated by their doctor may shape the rest of the appointment and relationship going forward. “The default is to hyper-focus on the weight number, and I just don’t think that that’s helpful,” Tracy Richmond, a pediatrics professor at Harvard Medical School, told me. Anti-obesity bias is well documented among physicians—even some obesity specialists—and can lead them to dismiss the legitimate medical needs of people with a high BMI. In one tragic example, a patient died from cancer that went undiagnosed because her doctors attributed her health issues to her high BMI.

    But after many decades, the medical community has begun to use BMI in a different way. “More and more clinicians are realizing that there are people who can be quite healthy with a high BMI,” Kate Bauer said. The shift has been gradual, though it was given a boost by the AMA policy update earlier this year: “Hopefully that will help clinicians make a change to supplement BMI with other measures,” Aayush Visaria, an internal-medicine resident at Rutgers Robert Wood Johnson Medical School who researches BMI’s shortcomings, told me.

    Physicians I spoke with acknowledged BMI’s flaws but didn’t seem too concerned about its continued use in medicine—even as obesity drugs make this metric even more consequential. BMI isn’t a problem, they said, as long as physicians consider other factors when diagnosing obesity or prescribing drugs to treat it. If you go to a doctor with the intention of getting on an obesity drug, you should be subject to a comprehensive evaluation including metrics such as blood sugar, cholesterol levels, and body composition that go “way beyond BMI,” Katherine Saunders, a clinical-medicine professor at Weill Cornell Medicine, said. Because Wegovy and other drugs come with side effects, she told me, doctors must be absolutely sure that a patient actually needs them, she added.

    But BMI isn’t like most other health metrics. Because of its simplicity, it has seeped out of doctor’s offices and into the mainstream, where this more nuanced view still isn’t common. Whether we realize it or not, BMI is central to our basic idea of health, affecting nearly every aspect of daily life. Insurance companies are notorious for charging higher rates to people with high BMI and lowering premiums for people who commit to long-term weight loss. Fertility treatments and orthopedic and gender-affirming surgery can be withheld from patients until they hit BMI targets. Workplace wellness programs based on BMI are designed to help employees manage their weight. BMI has even been used to prevent prospective parents from adopting a child.

    The rise of obesity drugs may make these kinds of usages of BMI even harder to shake. Determining drug eligibility by high BMI supports the notion that a number is synonymous with illness. Certainly many people using obesity drugs take a holistic view of their health, as doctors are learning to do. But focusing on BMI is still common. Some members of the r/Ozempic Subreddit, for example, share their BMI to show their progress on the drug. Again, high BMI can be used to predict who has obesity, but it isn’t itself an obesity diagnosis. The problem with BMI’s continued dominance is that it makes it even harder to move away from simply associating a number on a scale with overall health, with all the downstream consequences that come along with a weight-obsessed culture. As obesity drugs are becoming mainstream, “there needs to be public education explaining that BMI by itself may not be a good indicator of health,” Visaria said.

    In another 200 years, surely BMI will finally be supplanted by something else. If not much sooner: A large effort to establish hard biological criteria for obesity is under way; the goal is to eliminate BMI-based definitions once and for all. Caroline Apovian, a professor at Harvard Medical School, gives it “at least 10 years” before a comparably cheap or convenient replacement arises—though any changes would take longer to filter into public consciousness.” Until that happens, we’re stuck with BMI, and the mess it has wrought.

    Yasmin Tayag

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  • The Future of Obesity Drugs Just Got Way More Real

    The Future of Obesity Drugs Just Got Way More Real

    A wild idea recently circulated about the future of aviation: If passengers lose weight via obesity drugs, airlines could potentially cut down on fuel costs. In September, analysts at Jefferies Bank estimated that in the “slimmer society” obesity drugs will create, United Airlines could save up to $80 million in jet fuel annually.

    In the past year, as more Americans have learned about semaglutide, which is sold for diabetes under the brand name Ozempic and for obesity under the name Wegovy, hype has become completely divorced from reality. For all the grand predictions, just a fraction of Americans who qualify for obesity drugs are on them. With a list price of roughly $1,350 a month, Wegovy is far too expensive, under-covered by insurance, and in limited supply to be a routine part of health care.

    But that possibility is beginning to seem very real. The results of a highly anticipated study published on Saturday indicate that Wegovy can have profound effects on heart health, which potentially opens up the drug to even more patients. A few days earlier, the FDA approved Zepbound, an obesity drug that is a bit cheaper and appears more potent than Wegovy. If there was any doubt before, now it is undeniable: Obesity drugs “are here to stay,” Kyla Lara-Breitinger, a cardiologist at the Mayo Clinic, told me. “There’s only going to be more and more of them.” They are now poised to become deeply entrenched in American health care, perhaps eventually even joining the ranks of commonly used drugs such as statins and metformin.

    Considering that obesity is linked to all sorts of major heart ailments, it is no big surprise that a weekly shot for weight loss might have some cardiovascular benefits. But because this class of obesity drugs, known as GLP-1 agonists for the hunger hormone they target, is so new, doctors did not know that for sure. Starting in 2018, Novo Nordisk, the company that manufactures semaglutide, began to look for answers in a study of more than 17,600 people with obesity and cardiovascular disease. In this group, results of a trial named SELECT show that Wegovy reduced the risk of major cardiac events—stroke, heart attack, death—by 20 percent. Even compared with studies on common heart medications such as Praluent and Repatha, the Wegovy results are “impressive,” Eugene Yang, a cardiologist and professor of medicine at the University of Washington, told me.

    How exactly the drug prevents major cardiac events isn’t fully understood. Some of the effects can likely be chalked up to weight loss itself, which is associated with improvements in metrics that influence heart health, such as blood pressure, Yang said. But mechanisms independent of weight loss may also be at work. In the trial, lower rates of cardiovascular events began showing up before participants lost weight. One explanation is the drug’s impact on inflammation, which is associated with heart disease: C-reactive protein, a rough proxy for inflammation, dropped by nearly 40 percent in study participants.

    Regardless of how Wegovy works, Yang said, “it has the potential benefit of being very significant” as a new line of treatment for heart disease, the leading cause of death nationwide. Novo Nordisk has already applied for expanded FDA approval and anticipates receiving it within six months. Approval would also show that Wegovy has a medical benefit beyond weight loss, pressuring insurers to cover it. Right now, for instance, Medicare does not, in part because obesity has long been viewed as a cosmetic issue, not a medical one. Even with private coverage, the drug is still frequently out of reach. The SELECT trial makes it “unequivocally clear” that obesity is a health condition that can be treated with drugs, Ted Kyle, an obesity-policy expert, told me. Still, the study leaves room for pushback: The absolute risk reduction of cardiovascular events was 1.5 percent, which is, by some reckonings, quite small. A higher risk reduction would have “put more pressure” on insurers and manufacturers to make the drugs more affordable for Americans, Lara-Breitinger said.

    Still, the findings are robust enough that it seems likely that the heart benefits of obesity drugs will lead more Americans to take them—if not immediately, then eventually. The approval of a new drug could do the same. Tirzepatide, which Eli Lilly has sold as a diabetes drug under the name Mounjaro, will be marketed as Zepbound for obesity—and it is coming for Wegovy’s throne. In one study, people on tirzepatide lost an average of 18 percent of their body weight; for comparison, in another study patients on Wegovy lost an average of 15 percent. At a little over $1,000 a month, Zepbound is not cheap, but its list price is hundreds of dollars lower than that of Wegovy. (The manufacturers of both drugs have said that most insured patients pay far less than that.)

    Zepbound’s approval is just the beginning. Unlike semaglutide, which targets only one hormone, GLP-1, to exert its effects on appetite and fullness, tirzepatide targets two. Other drugs that target two or even three hormones are in the works, as are versions that come in a more appealing pill format rather than as an injection. Generic versions of these drugs, likely beginning with liraglutide, a predecessor to semaglutide sold as Saxenda, could become available soon, Yang said. This competition will help bring down costs, but it will go only so far. Drug pricing is “a little bit screwy,” Kyle said, complicated by the wide gap between the list price and the net price created by manufactures, insurers, and intermediaries between them.

    Each new competitor and new study is a step toward a future in which a substantial proportion of Americans with obesity are routinely prescribed these drugs. In a single week, obesity drugs leapt a new era—one in which they are about to become significantly more mainstream. No doubt that future is a bright one for millions of people who might benefit from treatment. Still, many questions about the drugs remain unanswered, such as their long-term safety and endless supply shortages.

    But the potential for obesity drugs to truly change America has never felt closer—with all of the dizzying questions this creates about what “a slimming society” might mean for exercise, the food industry, and apparently even airline jet fuel.

    Yasmin Tayag

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