Susan Smith Facebook ad: “Husband divorced me on a GLP-1”

About this ad

Meta Ad Library ID

4266382013660908

Platforms

Facebook, Instagram, Audience Network, WhatsApp and Threads

Relaunches

2

How we count

Ad text

The first time my husband saw me naked after 53 pounds on GLP-1, he got dressed and slept on the couch. 21 days later he sent the divorce papers. By then he was already in a 26-year-old's bed. Her name is Kayla. She sits four desks from him. If you are on GLP-1, or just started, I need you to read every word of this. It is not a warning against GLP-1. It is the thing I wish someone had told me before my first dose. I'm Susan. I'm 46. Married to Mark for 19 years. He sells commercial insurance. I run the front desk at a dental office three days a week. Two kids. Ava is 14 and tells me everything. Owen is 9 and tells me nothing. We had the house, the dog, the Sunday roast. From the outside we were fine. I was a size 8 when Mark married me. Two kids and one desk job later I was a size 18, and I couldn't tell you the year it happened. I tried what every woman I know has tried. Weight Watchers, four times. Keto. Fasting until 2 PM. Noom at $70 a month. A trainer at $60 a session who I paid to watch me cry on a rowing machine. Two years of that, and I was heavier than when I started. The problem was never dinner. It was the noise. The constant hum about food from the second I woke up to the second I fell asleep. Then my doctor said the thing every doctor in America is saying to women my age right now. "Have you thought about the shot?" I had my first dose on a Tuesday. By week three the noise was gone. Just gone. I made the kids' lunches and didn't eat the crusts, and I didn't even notice I hadn't. Month three I was down 19 pounds. Month five, 41. I crossed my legs at Owen's parent-teacher night and my thighs didn't touch the desk. I clicked the seatbelt on the plane to my sister's without holding my breath. My wedding ring spun loose on my finger and I never got it resized, because I liked feeling it move. Ava walked into the kitchen one morning, stopped, and said "Mom. You look like your wedding photo." Then she took a picture of me on her phone and didn't ask to delete it. And Mark. Mark started putting his hand on the small of my back in the grocery store. He kissed me at the sink. He reached for me in the dark for the first time in six years, and I let him. For four months I was the woman I'd had in my head since I was 27. Then somewhere around month six, it started going backwards with Mark. Not all at once. It never is. The goodbye kiss stopped first. Nineteen years he'd kissed me at the door before work. One Tuesday he didn't, and I stood in the hall with his coffee thinking I'd imagined it. By the end of that month I'd counted eleven mornings. His hand came off my back in the grocery store. He started staying late at the office. Eight. Nine. "Quarter end," he said. In bed he slept with his back to me, on the very edge, like the mattress was a cliff. It made no sense. I was down 47 pounds. He married a size 8 and I was two jeans sizes from her. Every week I got closer to the woman he chose, and every week he got further from me. So I did what any woman would do. I decided I wasn't there yet. I got a blowout. $65. New jeans in a size I hadn't bought since Ava was born. I walked into the lingerie shop in the mall I'd been walking past for fifteen years and bought a black lace set for $89, and I hid the bag in the trunk like it was drugs. I checked myself in the hallway mirror every morning. From the front. Always from the front. Nothing. He'd say "you look great" the way you say it to a coworker. Six weeks without him touching me. I could count the sexless stretches in nineteen years on one hand, and none of them had happened when I was thin. Then one Thursday night in month seven, the scale said 53. I put the kids down early. I put the lace on. I lit the candle on the dresser, the one we'd been saving for nothing, and I sat on our bed with the lamp on and waited. He came in at 10:40. I met him in the hallway and kissed him before he could say anything about the quarter. And for about three seconds, he kissed me back. I took his hand. I walked him into our room. His shirt came off. I let the robe fall. I stood in front of my husband, naked, in the light, 53 pounds lighter than the day he married me, in $89 of lace I'd hidden in a trunk for him. He looked at me. He didn't look at my stomach. He didn't look at the lace. He looked at me the way you look at a stranger who's just said your name. Then he picked his shirt up off the floor and put it back on. Button by button. Slowly. "I'm going to sleep downstairs." I heard the couch take his weight through the floor. I sat on the edge of our bed in the lace until the candle burnt itself out. At 6:15 the next morning I came down and he was already dressed, sitting on the couch, with a bag by the door. I asked him the only question I had. "Is there someone else?" "No," he said. He was lying. Her name is Kayla. Then he said the thing I still hear when the house is quiet. "Susan, go look in a mirror. Not from the front. Turn around and look at the back of your head. You look like a rat. Your hair. I can't do it anymore." The door didn't slam. It clicked. I had spent seven months getting thin for my husband, and my husband had spent seven months watching something else fall off me. I did what he said. I took Ava's hand mirror into the bathroom, turned my back to the big mirror, and looked at the back of my own head for the first time in seven months. I had looked at my body every single day. I had never once looked at my head. The part I'd worn since high school had turned into a road. Under the bathroom light there was more scalp than hair at the crown. When I pulled my ponytail round it was the width of my thumb. It used to take three loops of the tie. That morning it took five. I made a sound I'd never heard come out of me. Then I went to the shower and looked at the drain the way I hadn't let myself look at it since month four. I'd been telling myself it was Ava's. Ava has a bob. I called in sick and got in to see my doctor at 11:20. She looked at my scalp for maybe a minute. Then she pulled up the photo from my first appointment on the shot, the one they take for the file, and held her phone next to my head. "You've lost about 42 percent of the hair on your head." I asked her what was doing it. "The shot. Rapid weight loss does this." I asked her what I should do. "Nothing. It'll grow back. Give it time." She was already typing. I sat in the parking lot and called Mark. I told him all of it. The 42 percent. That it was the shot. That the doctor said it was temporary. That it would grow back. I said it fast, like if I got the words out quick enough he'd turn the car around. He let me finish. Then he said: "Okay. Call me when you're her again." And hung up. 21 days later the papers came in a FedEx envelope. Nineteen years, and it fit through the mail slot. I had a doctor telling me to wait and a husband telling me to hurry. I chose the husband. The next three months I bought everything a 2 AM Google search will sell you. Biotin, 10,000 mcg. The pink gummies. A $79 bottle of Nutrafol, twice. Rosemary oil that made my pillow smell like a roast. A minoxidil foam that burned my scalp and grew a soft fuzz on my cheek, of all places. A $40 scalp massager. Protein shakes I choked down on zero appetite. Three months. $612. The hair tie went from five loops to six. It all changed with one woman, Renee. Renee has been my friend since our girls were in the same daycare room. She's an OB-GYN. She's delivered half the babies in this town and she has never once let me pay for coffee. We met on a Saturday. I wore a baseball cap. Indoors. She looked at the cap. Then at me. "Take it off." I took it off. Then I told her all of it. The couch. The rat. Kayla. The 42 percent. The three months and the $612 of bottles under my sink. The FedEx envelope. She put her cup down. "Nobody warns the women on these shots. Not one. And your doctor was half right, which is worse than being wrong." I asked her what that meant. "There are two things happening on your head, Susan. Not one. The first one is the shock. You dropped 53 pounds fast, your body panicked and pushed a load of hair out early. That's what your doctor saw. That part does grow back on its own. She was right about that." "And the second?" "The second one is why the tie's on six loops instead of five. Your fat was making estrogen. Estrogen was the guard standing between your hair and a hormone called DHT. You lost 53 pounds of fat in seven months, the estrogen went with it, and DHT walked straight in. It sits on the root and shrinks it a little every cycle. So the hair that does grow back comes in thinner. Then finer. Then it stops coming. That one does not go away on its own. That one is why you can see your scalp." I asked her about the bottles under my sink. "None of it's junk. Biotin's fine if you're short on biotin. You're not. The gummies and the $79 bottle are vitamins. Vitamins feed a root, they don't guard one. Rosemary oil helps blood flow. Minoxidil widens blood vessels, that's all it does. You bought seven answers to a question you don't have. Your question is DHT." "So what do I do?" "Two jobs. Cut how much DHT your body is making. And catch the DHT that's already there before it lands on the root. Both. Not one." She said the good news is nature already makes two things that do exactly those two jobs. They're the two most studied natural ingredients for hair there are. Pumpkin seed oil does the first job. It slows how much DHT your body makes, the way your estrogen used to. Saw palmetto does the second. It catches the DHT that's already there before it can land on your hair. Twenty years of research behind it. I asked the dumb question. "So I can just put pumpkin seeds in my Greek yogurt every morning?" She laughed at me. Not unkindly. "I wish. You'd need a big bowl of them a day to get anywhere near the dose the trials used." I haven't been able to eat a big bowl of anything since my first dose. "Exactly. And the shortcut everyone takes instead, the capsules on Amazon, are made from heat-processed seed powder. The heat cooks out the part that does the work. It has to be cold-pressed, and it has to be concentrated. Those are the only two rules." Then she pulled a napkin over, took a pen out of her bag, and wrote two words on it. Bloom & Bond. "It's the only brand I've found that follows both rules. Cold-pressed pumpkin seed oil at 2,000mg. Saw palmetto at 200mg, dosed for women. Both in one softgel, one a day, with the numbers printed right on the label instead of hidden inside a 'proprietary blend.' It doesn't touch the shot. You stay on it. If you'd started this the week you started the shot, the guard would have been standing there when the estrogen left, and we'd be talking about our kids right now. That's the whole reason. Nothing clever about it. It's just the only one built the way the research says it should be." She slid the napkin across the table. I still have it. I ordered it in the car outside the coffee shop. The first two weeks, nothing. I checked the drain every morning like it owed me money. I'd told myself this was the last thing I'd try before I quit the shot for good. Then: ✅ Week four: I cleaned the shower drain and there was almost nothing in it. I sat on the edge of the tub and cried, the good kind, for the first time since the FedEx envelope. ✅ Week seven: Ava was doing my hair for her choir concert and stopped. "Mom, you've got all these little baby ones sticking up." She thought it was funny. I locked myself in the bathroom and looked, and there they were. A whole fuzzy row along my part. ✅ Month three: the tie went back to five loops. Then four. ✅ Month six: three loops. The same three it took in my wedding photo. I'm still on the shot. Another 11 pounds since the napkin. The shock shed grew back on its own, like my doctor said it would. The part she didn't see, the DHT part, is the part that stopped getting worse in week four and started coming in thicker by month three. It took six months, not six days, and I didn't skip a day. If you're on the shot right now, do one thing tonight. Take a hand mirror into the bathroom and look at the back of your head. Not from the front. If it's fine, good. Then start now, because the estrogen leaves with the fat whether you look or not, and month four is when it shows. If it's not, picture six months from now. The drain with nothing in it. Your hair up, high, on a Saturday, with the light on. Someone looking at you and not knowing where to look first. Eighteen months on the shot. Saturday morning. Owen's soccer game. I wore my hair up. High. The way it is in the wedding photo, the way I hadn't worn it in a year and a half. Mark was on the far sideline with Kayla. Four desks and a mortgage's worth of lawyers later, that's where they stand now. He saw me. He did a double take so hard I heard his neck complain. "Wow. You look..." And nothing came. Kayla's smile went a little strange. He tried to introduce her to another dad and stopped halfway through her name. He'd forgotten it. Standing next to her. I gave him half a smile and went back to my side of the field. Owen scored twice. At 10:52 that night my phone lit up with his name for the first time in a year. "Seeing you today did something. Maybe I was wrong." I read it twice. Then I put the phone face down. Because here is the thing I finally understood, standing on that sideline with my hair up. Mark never wanted a size 8. I spent seven months and 53 pounds getting him one, and he walked out the door anyway. What he wanted was her. The woman in the wedding photo. And she was never about the weight. She had a ponytail that took three loops, and she walked around the house with the lights on. The shot took her from me while everyone congratulated me on my discipline. The napkin gave her back. I got the weight off for him. I got my hair back for me. The best revenge, it turns out, grows back. Well, sweetheart. I'm her again. And that's exactly why I'm not calling. If you're on a GLP-1, hear me. The weight will come off. It really will. That's the easy part, and it's not the part that gives you yourself back. You're not her again until the hair is. And if you're still her, this is how you stay her. The brand Renee wrote on the napkin is Bloom & Bond. Cold-pressed pumpkin seed oil and saw palmetto, in one softgel. Ninety days, money back, if it doesn't do for you what it did for me. Keep the shot. Keep your hair. 👉 https://trybloomandbond.com/products/new-pumpkin-seed-oil-softgels Ava took a photo of me at the game. It's on the fridge. She didn't ask to delete it.

Where the ad sends people

trybloomandbond.com

Husband divorced me on a GLP-1

You do not want to be in this situation