On October 16, President Trump pledged to reduce the cost of brand-name GLP-1 medications such as Ozempic and Wegovy to $150 per month. Although a leading health official hinted at ongoing discussions about price negotiations with pharmaceuticals, the announcement resulted in a sharp decline in stocks for Novo Nordisk and Eli Lilly. For many patients who had been priced out, that potential price felt like a glimmer of hope.
Within an hour, I received three texts: “Does this mean we won’t have to rely on research suppliers anymore?” “Can we return to traditional pharmacies?” “Dr. Dothée, is this for real?” That’s what my friends call me.
I’m not a medical professional — I’m simply the person everyone consults when the rules change unexpectedly. Most of my friends have transitioned from using compounding pharmacies, which dwindled when the Food and Drug Administration imposed stricter regulations. Like many, I’ve resorted to purchasing research-grade peptides marked “not for human consumption,” sourced from international suppliers without prescriptions, oversight, or guarantees. I’ve been monitoring FDA interventions, shifts in compounding pharmacies, and gray market peptide suppliers for nearly two years, and from what I’ve gathered, Trump’s $150 plan doesn’t cater to people like me.
I utilize GLP-1s and similar medications in a manner that feels inherently risky — yet, so far, luck has been on my side. I recognize this, and my friends, who turn to me for guidance, also see it. (This essay does not serve as an endorsement of my actions.) Nevertheless, these medications have transformative effects on my life. The restlessness that previously led me to dark places has quieted. Cravings have subsided. The incessant mental clamor — the urge to grab anything — has ceased.
In a conventional sense, I’ve never truly been prescribed GLP-1s. I lack diabetes and obesity. My goal has simply been to feel better, to regain control of my recovery from addiction (GLP-1s offer significant potential in this regard) and to take charge of my body.
In 2024, a smaller telehealth startup providing compounded GLP-1s fulfilled my needs — no lab tests, no doctor’s appointment, no pharmacy. Just a quick phone consultation and a promise. Due to a scarcity of brand-name medications, it was deemed legal. I live in Los Angeles, a place where you can get an IV treatment between Pilates sessions and Botox appointments, so perhaps I shouldn’t have been surprised when a package containing syringes and a vial of tirzepatide arrived a week later. But I was taken aback. The simplicity of it made the entire experience feel both exhilarating and questionable. I had merely voiced a desire to shed a few pounds. That was sufficient.
And it was effective. For months, I experienced a steadiness I hadn’t felt since methamphetamine nearly claimed my life — clearer thoughts, a calmer demeanor, my body finally working in harmony with me rather than against me.
However, everything changed. Following a resolution to brand-name drug shortages, the FDA imposed restrictions on compounded semaglutide and tirzepatide in early 2025, directing pharmacies to cease production by spring. My preferred telehealth provider ceased operations. Another began delivering unclear mixtures containing MCT oil and vitamin B-12. Doses were reduced. Formulations changed. My refills vanished.
So, I sought alternatives. A Reddit thread directed me to the gray market: a compounding pharmacy still operating despite heightened regulatory scrutiny. Overnight, prices soared. They referred to it as a “new blend,” but it was essentially the same formula — just rebranded with enough novelty to justify the increase. A clear instance of price gouging thriving amid closing loopholes.
Once you embrace the gray market, it expands beyond just GLP-1s — it turns into a vast enterprise of experimental treatments. It resembles late-night web browsing and syringes neatly organized on my countertop, with order numbers replacing prescriptions. This is where I discovered peptides like ipamorelin, BPC-157, GHK-Cu — short chains of amino acids advertised online to enhance growth hormone, speed up recovery, and even heal tissue. Most lack FDA approval. Some arrive tagged “not for human consumption.”
Yet, I continue to use them. It feels like the type of care the conventional system fails to provide — care I’ve had to find independently, even if it exists outside the boundaries of what medical professionals would typically endorse.
Accessing many of these peptides often requires navigating underground routes. This doesn’t inherently make them unsafe — but it does mean I am placing my health in the hands of a precarious supply chain. Labels can be unclear. Expiration dates indistinct. Dosage amounts fluctuate. I crowdsource guidance from Reddit discussions and Telegram groups filled with strangers. I understand how this sounds.
Still, it feels empowering to be the one taking the risks — especially after enduring a lengthy battle with drug and alcohol dependence that nearly destroyed my life. For years, I feigned having agency. I truly didn’t. Now, even in my mistakes, the choice feels mine — and that difference is significant.
I discovered a research supplier selling freeze-dried retatrutide labeled “not for human consumption.” I mixed the powder myself with bacteriostatic water ordered from Amazon. My initial injection was intensely painful because I hadn’t procured the correct brand. Yet even that brand can’t guarantee safety anymore. Counterfeit products have emerged: inconsistent labels, unusual date formats, faded print. I wouldn’t have recognized them if not for advice from strangers on Reddit.
This was my first indication of how fragile this entire setup is — how much relies on collective trust and trial-and-error. As I calculated dosages, I turned to the same collaborative community. Many of these unknown biohackers had comprehensive dosing guidelines laid out — color-coded charts, conversion tools, and detailed tutorials. As I explored, the whole scene started to resemble science — complete with spreadsheets and acronyms, with conviction substituting for credentials. I assure myself I’m not like the more obsessive individuals. Then I catch myself Googling peptide combinations at 2 a.m., trying to determine if my ipamorelin is mixed with CJC-1295 or if GHK-Cu includes mysterious ingredients I can’t pronounce.
The FDA has issued multiple warnings regarding these peptides: risks of contamination, variability in dosages, and false claims made by vendors. They’re justified in their concerns; however, the alternatives have either vanished or surged in price almost overnight.
Now, whenever I inject something, I am acutely aware of the risks. Still, I know what I want: increased energy, diminished brain fog and clamor, a body that feels livable. Not an empty shell. Not a façade. Just a way to remain engaged in my own life. A life that I have fought hard to protect.
Trump’s $150 promise may eventually reduce the price of Ozempic. However, it won’t guarantee availability for everyone. Coverage limitations persist. Under Health Secretary Robert F. Kennedy Jr., the Centers for Medicare and Medicaid Services continue to restrict reimbursement for weight-loss medications for the majority of patients. Criteria such as BMI thresholds and risk factors dictate who qualifies for a prescription. Those of us desiring GLP-1s for metabolic stability or recovery support do not meet the criteria. Lower costs won’t open a locked door. If the administration succeeds, the gray market may diminish — but the unmet demand will continue.
GLP-1s exhibit potential across multiple areas beyond weight loss: drug addiction, alcoholism, gambling. For individuals grappling with these overwhelming issues, it seems excessively cruel to delay the regulatory process.
Simultaneously, the official GLP-1 market is consolidating. Axios reported Tuesday that Eli Lilly is surpassing Novo Nordisk, with Zepbound expected to generate $18 billion in sales next year compared to Wegovy’s projected $16.5 billion. Big Pharma is triumphing in the competition for market share — but they are still losing patients to the underground. Even as brand-name medications become more available and possibly less expensive, the same coverage restrictions, BMI benchmarks, and off-label barriers continue to exist. I understand how quickly need can morph into obsession. That’s why I strive to comprehend the forces behind it — within myself and the broader system.
The answer cannot be to eradicate the underground market. Instead, it must focus on enhancing safety — expanding access for the responsible use of GLP-1s to facilitate addiction recovery. Fund research into peptide safety. Establish legitimate pathways for experimental treatments that are available to those of us who need them.
Because at present, many of us are not faced with a choice between safe and unsafe. We are choosing between unaffordable but regulated options and accessible yet perilous ones. Until the healthcare system adapts to meet patients where they currently are — within the gray areas bridging established medical care and survival — many of us will continue to formulate our own solutions, one vial at a time.
Nick Dothée is a writer based in Los Angeles. His work has recently been featured in the Cut, HuffPost, the Washington Post, and the San Francisco Chronicle. He is currently working on a memoir about addiction.
