I only lost one pound on Ozempic. After being diagnosed with a chronic condition, all my symptoms finally made sense

Published in Yahoo News!

By Chanelle Lalonde (As told to Alina Jaffer)

"I know what's going on. I think I figured it out," I shouted, making my way to my friend's kitchen the morning after a girls' night out. If I could have run down the stairs of her tiny Montreal home, I would have. Instead, I inched down one step at a time, wincing each time my swollen feet hit the ground.

I had to tell her about my discovery. During a routine doom-scroll on Instagram, I had stumbled upon an influencer discussing her battle with lipedema and her strange relationship with weight loss. Her fat, like mine, was not soft and squishy. Whenever I run my palm across my thigh, it feels like I am smuggling a bag of marbles under my skin. If my brother playfully pokes my arm, I yelp as if he's punched me. When the cat jumps into my lap, I grit my teeth and wait for a purple-blue bruise the next day. 

I always thought that these were just "me problems." But as I watched a stranger describe the exact symptoms that had made my life hell since puberty, I almost cried from relief. I wasn't dramatic, lazy or the one unlucky 25-year-old whose body didn't respond to keto, running and strength training. I had lipedema. I was sure of it. 

The chronic condition causes abnormal fat buildup in nearly 11 per cent of women, a sort of painful super-fat that doesn't respond to diet and exercise. Though local data is limited, Lipedema Canada estimates that about 2.6 million Canadians may be affected.

As I travelled home to Ottawa, there was only one thing on my mind: getting a formal diagnosis. Maybe treatment for lipedema could give me a normal, pain-free life — that's not too much to ask for, right?

'Maybe that's just your body'

My family doctor couldn't explain why at 5'6", I weighed 238 pounds. I ate healthily, went to heated Pilates every morning and lifted weights every night. I tried Ozempic, but after six months of injections, I'd only lost one pound and hundreds of dollars.

"Maybe that's just your body," she used to tell me.

After so many disappointments, my breakthrough would probably unburden her. Those hopes crashed and burned at my next appointment.

"I don't know much about lipedema, so I can't really help you," she said. 

Her words hit me like a slap in the face, even though I was used to feeling defeated. In high school, I played soccer, volleyball and rugby and always weighed more than my peers. Later, low libido complicated my sex life. I wanted to make my boyfriend happy — be the perfect partner for him like he was for me — but when I thought about the parts of my body that felt like lumpy pudding, I just wasn't in the mood.

There are four stages of lipedema based on the overall appearance of the skin and fat. International surgeons in Turkey, Spain and the United States virtually diagnosed me with stage-two lipedema, based on my symptoms, like constant pain, and the texture of my skin. Still, I wanted an in-person exam.

After a long search, I paid $3,400 to see a local specialist who confirmed everything. I learned that lipedema surgery wasn't covered by OHIP, but I could manage symptoms through lymphatic drainage massage, vibration therapy, stress reduction and an anti-inflammatory diet. It sounded exhausting. 

I didn't want to take all those measures just to maintain a body that I absolutely hated. So, I decided to leave Canada for surgery. 

 After many 3 a.m. consultations, I committed to a clinic in Madrid that focuses exclusively on lipedema treatment. From February to November 2025, I would fly back and forth from Ottawa to Spain for four different surgeries. We would start with my arms, then thighs, back and calves. 

The year from hell would ultimately cost me $80,000 CAD. For that price, I wanted to remove as much fat as possible. But my surgeon set me straight.

"Lipedema surgery is not liposuction," he said. "We're only taking out the parts that are impacting your ability to be comfortable and lose weight."

My boyfriend, Trevor, booked our Airbnb for the first surgery. As we rode to the clinic, I looked out the window of our Uber and stared at the women strolling by. It was silly, but I was angry with them. They didn't have to go through all this trouble just to have the legs they have, slim and pain-free.

Trevor waited outside while I was put under general anaesthesia. I woke up in bandages and compression garments — super tight clothes that prevent post-op swelling and cost hundreds of dollars. I was stiff, sore and the only thing stopping me from passing out was a dose of morphine. This became a sort of routine. 

After my third surgery, I woke up before the medicine kicked in and found myself in excruciating, burning pain. It felt like someone had ripped the skin off my back, peeled it down to my knees and left me to lie on the raw flesh. 

'The only way through is through'

Two days after each operation, a physiotherapist gently massaged me to ease swelling. At first, I didn't expect to come to these lymphatic drainage appointments so battered and bruised. I saw my arms, purple and covered in stitches, and felt my stomach drop. Trevor's face went white. We both panicked in silence until the practitioner noticed our shock, put her hands on me — ouch — and told me it was okay to cry. 

So, I did. After these appointments, I would return to the Airbnb and, more often than not, bawl my eyes out. 

"The only way through is through," said Trevor, almost constantly. During recovery, he helped me out of bed and walked me to the washroom. There are no secrets between us anymore. Compression garments get really disgusting, for example. Pus leaks out of your incisions, sweat piles up and since the hole to pee out of isn't nearly big enough, urine stains are aplenty. I smelled like a decaying corpse. In the shower, I sat on a chair while Trevor sponge-washed me. 

I dreaded injecting myself with a blood thinner before the 10-hour flight home. Just a week after each surgery, I had to get back to business. Thankfully, as an account executive at a tech company, I'm able to work from home. I wonder how hairdressers or teachers with lipedema manage recovery or, if they don't get surgery, how they stay on their feet all day.

This constant travel and recovery made for the hardest year of my life. Still, I have zero regrets.  

Looking ahead

I'm now 30, and Trevor and I recently got engaged. We'll be paying off my surgeries for the foreseeable future, but I can finally touch my skin without cringing. The other day, I banged my knee against a table — there's still no surgery to cure lifelong clumsiness — and didn't bruise at all. I weigh 216 pounds, down from 262 at my highest, and I can actually reap the benefits of diet and exercise.

The future feels brighter, but I wish that my journey had been easier. Many Canadians are currently pushing for more accessible lipedema treatment, and I hope that we succeed. Between March and July 2026, more than 3,800 people signed an MP-sponsored petition to the House of Commons calling for the formal recognition of lipedema as a serious women's health condition.

Without better recognition and access to treatment, other women will be forced to live with the same shame that haunted me for years, or else bankrupt themselves trying to feel better.