The jabs worked.
Now comes the part nobody prepared you for.
Founding member rate. The first hundred members lock in £97 a month for as long as they stay. Closes at 10pm UK time on Friday 30 October 2026, or when the hundredth member joins, whichever comes first.
Can I tell you about a voice?
You know the one. It turned up around the time you first thought about coming off the medication. Maybe it was the day the prescription got harder to justify. Maybe it was the day you looked in the mirror, genuinely delighted, and the voice leaned in and whispered:
“Enjoy it while it lasts. You do know it’s all coming back, don’t you? It always comes back.”
If that voice has been keeping you up at night, this letter is for you. Read it to the end. It might be the most useful thing you read all year.
Because here’s what I know about you, without ever having met you.
You did something brave. You took the medication, you lost the weight, and for the first time in years, maybe decades, the noise stopped. That endless, exhausting radio station in your head, broadcasting about food from the moment you woke up? Someone finally turned the volume down. And in that quiet, you got your life back.
And now you’re standing at the edge of the next bit. The bit after the jabs. And everywhere you look, the headlines are telling you how the story ends. “Most people regain the weight.” You’ve read the studies. You might know someone it happened to.
So the voice feels less like anxiety and more like a weather forecast.
Let me tell you why the voice is wrong.
The headline they never print
Those regain studies are real. I’m not going to stand here and pretend otherwise. You’d see straight through me, and you’d be right to.
But there’s something the headlines never mention. Something that changes everything.
The people in those studies stopped the medication… and changed nothing else.
Nothing. No new understanding of what was driving the eating in the first place. No plan for the moment the noise comes back. No community. Nobody in their corner at half past nine on a wet Tuesday when the old pull returns. They walked out of the pharmacy and straight back into the old life, and the old life did what the old life always does.
That is not a story about you. That is a story about people who stopped and hoped.
You’re reading this letter. Which tells me you’re not planning to hope. You’re planning to have a method.
Actually, it’s more than that. You’re planning to become someone the voice can’t touch.
The Real Enemy
(It isn't your willpower, and it never was)
Here’s something we say a lot inside After The Jabs, and it upsets all the right people:
You never had a willpower problem.
Picture a pea, fresh out of the pod. Now picture a factory. An actual factory, with lorries pulling up to a loading bay, delivering chemicals by the tonne. Both of those end up on a supermarket shelf calling themselves “food.”
They are not the same thing.
One of them has been engineered, deliberately, expensively, by very clever people in white coats, to hit something the industry calls the “bliss point.” The precise combination that makes stopping feel impossible. It was designed to beat you. It was designed to beat everyone. When you “failed” all those diets over the years, you weren’t weak. You were up against a laboratory.
And that laboratory hasn’t retired. Right now, with millions of appetites gone quiet on the medication, snack sales are down by billions, and the industry’s own analysts have admitted something remarkable: the advertising stops working when the appetite goes quiet. Read that twice. Their advertising was aimed at your appetite, not your mind. It was never persuasion. And every forecast for winning those billions back rests on one thing happening.
Appetites coming back.
Your regain, the very thing the voice keeps promising you, is somebody’s recovery plan. Nobody is plotting against you personally; they don’t need to. The structure does it on its own. Which is why we think you should have a structure of your own.
Once you truly see that, and I mean really see it, in a way that can’t be unseen, everything about the next chapter changes.
That “seeing” is what we do. It’s most of what we do. And I’ll tell you this much: it’s done through a framework we call GLOW. Four letters, four doors, and behind them the entire method. What do they stand for? Join and find out. (I told you there’d be teasing.)
So what is After the Jabs, exactly?
It’s the room you wish had existed the day you took your last dose.
A private membership community for life during and after GLP-1 medication, built around one job and one job only: helping you keep what you’ve won. Not for a fortnight. For good.
Or, to put it the way we prefer: it’s the place where people who lost the weight become people who keep it. Keepers, we call them. Read that again, because the whole of After The Jabs is hiding in the gap between those two people.
And before we go any further, one thing you will never find inside: anti-medication preaching. We think the jabs were a good decision. You’ll never be made to feel ashamed for taking them, and you’ll never be lectured by people who “did it the hard way.” The medication was chapter one. We’re chapter two.
Here’s a taste of what’s waiting on the other side of the join button:
The Read Me First Room
Within three minutes of joining, we take apart the single belief most likely to sink you. Not food. Not cravings. A belief, the one the voice has been whispering. I’d put the whole fee on those three minutes. I’m not going to spoil it here.
The Eight Switches
There are eight switches in your head that quietly decide whether the weight stays off, and most of yours are still on. Switches of what? That’s the membership. One is the master switch. One governs what happens on your first imperfect day (there will be one, and it matters far less than you think, once you know why). We turn them off, one by one, until they can’t hurt you any more. And what’s left when the eighth switch goes dark? You are. Just you, minus the old thinking. That’s the person who never diets again. (There’s a ninth, by the way. Behind the wall. That one’s for inside.)
A Daily Letter in Your Inbox
Short, honest, sometimes funny, occasionally infuriating, always on your side. One idea a day, chipping away at the old thinking and quietly building the new person underneath. Built to be the first email you open in the morning and, in time, one of the reasons you’re still on track.
The Number We Track
Every diet you’ve ever done measured you by the scales, and the scales are precisely why diets fail. We track something else. A number nobody’s ever asked you for before, and it tells you more about your future than any weigh-in ever did. What is it? Inside.
The Ladder
Everyone inside is climbing the same seven steps. I’ll give you the first and the last, and you can wonder about the five in between. Step one: the fear of regain, switched off. Step seven, the top of the ladder, isn’t about your weight at all. It’s the day someone starts because of you. Because they watched what happened to you, and they wanted it too. That’s who this membership is quietly turning you into. Not someone who kept the weight off. Someone other people point at.
Claire's Videos
Claire is our avatar, and we tell you that proudly rather than hoping you won’t ask. She’s the face of ATJ who’s never tired, never off sick and never rushing you, and every word she says, I wrote. The humans here are me and the members. Claire’s the one with perfect hair at half past seven in the morning. Warm, plain English, no jargon, no lectures, no “journey” nonsense.
People Who Actually Get It
Not a comment section. A genuine community of people on every rung of that ladder. Some still on the medication, some months off it, where nobody has to pretend, nobody judges a wobble, and, once a hundred of you are in, somebody is always awake at half past nine on that wet Tuesday. I’ll be straight with you about the day this page went live: the room was quiet, because it was new. That’s what the first hundred are for. If you’ve spent years feeling like the only one white-knuckling past the biscuit tin: you weren’t. You’re about to find out how many of you there are.
Progress You Can Feel
Milestones, streaks that forgive, quiet celebrations of the weeks that count. Built so that motivation doesn’t depend on the mirror, and every bit of it moves you up the ladder.
And The Rest
The challenges. The tools for the hard weeks. Christmas, holidays, stress. The lines to use when someone waves cake at you for the third time. The bit about your partner. It’s all in there. You’ll find it.
What you won’t find anywhere on this page is the how. That’s deliberate. The how is the membership.
The who, though. The who I’m happy to tell you now, for free: the person who never diets again. That’s where all of this is pointed.
Who this is for, and who it isn't
It’s for you if you’re on GLP-1 medication now and thinking about the day you stop… or you’ve already stopped and you can feel the noise creeping back… or you stopped a while ago, regained some, and want to draw a line under the boomerang for good.
It isn’t for you if you want a new diet. We don’t have one. It isn’t for you if you want someone to tell you off. We don’t do shame, full stop. And it isn’t for you if you’re looking for magic. The medication was the closest thing to magic there is, and even that needed a chapter two.
Mostly, it’s for you if you’re finished with being someone who loses weight, and ready to be someone who keeps it.
Why the first hundred are called pacemakers
On the 6th of May 1954, on a cinder track in Oxford, Roger Bannister ran the first mile under four minutes. Everybody knows his name. Far fewer people know the two men who made it possible. Chris Brasher led for the first two laps. Chris Chataway took the third. Bannister sat behind them until the last bend, and then he went. The pacemakers didn’t break the record. They set the pace that made it breakable, and every runner who came after, starting with John Landy just forty-six days later, ran in a world where four minutes was possible because those three men had shown it was.
The first hundred members of After The Jabs are our Pacemakers. We call them exactly that, and not because they got in early or got in cheaper. It’s because of what their being here first does for everyone who arrives after them. Their weeks are the first weeks anyone has ever counted in here. Their words, with their permission, replace every carefully hedged sentence on this page with something a real person actually said. When somebody stands where you’re standing now, a year from today, wondering whether the voice is right, the answer they read will have been written by a Pacemaker.
So there’s one duty that comes with the name, and it’s the only one. When you’ve been in here a while and you’ve got something to say about it, we’d like to be able to use your words, and your weeks, to show the next person what’s possible. Nothing gets used without you saying yes, each time, in writing. You can say no and still be a Pacemaker. But most people who set a pace quite like being seen to.
You’ll get a permanent badge for it inside, and it sits beside the ladder rather than on it. That’s deliberate. Keeper is earned in here, and it’s earned the same way by everyone. Pacemaker can’t be earned later. Either you were one of the hundred, or you weren’t.
(You already had a pacemaker of your own, as it happens. You’ll find out who in the sixth switch.)
The Pacemaker Rate
Membership is £97 a month. For the first hundred members, that’s the price that stays.
Here’s the promise, exactly as we’ll keep it: your price only ever moves one way for you, and that way is down. If we raise it, you stay at £97. If we ever lower it, you drop with us. That holds for as long as you stay a member. It’s a rule, not a discount, which is why you won’t find a countdown clock or a crossed-out price anywhere on this page. Just the number, the rule, and the door.
For context: it’s a fraction of what the medication was costing, and the medication, by design, was temporary. This is the part that makes it permanent. Weigh it against the cost of doing the whole thing again, the money, yes, but mostly the heartbreak, and it’s the cheapest insurance you’ll ever take out on the hardest thing you’ve ever achieved.
And here’s the strange part about what that £97 actually buys. It isn’t really the emails, or the videos, or the community, though you get all of it. It’s who you are twelve months from now. Someone standing at their own weight, eating like a normal person, with the voice long since gone quiet. We’re not selling you content. We’re selling you that person.
No flashy “100% money-back guarantee” badge here, by the way. That’s deliberate too. We’re not selling a gadget. We’re inviting you into a community, and we’d rather you arrived committed than hedging.
No contracts. Leave whenever you like. One thing worth knowing, though: the Pacemaker rate belongs to the membership, not to you. Leave, and it ends with your membership. Come back later and you’ll be very welcome, at whatever the price is then.
The Pacemaker rate closes when the hundredth member joins, or at 10pm UK time on Friday 30 October 2026, whichever comes first. Both of those are real. If the hundredth place goes on a Tuesday afternoon in October, this page changes that evening, and it won’t change back.
That voice, one last time
“It always comes back.”
Everyone who walks into After The Jabs has heard that voice. Every single one. The difference between them and the people in those studies isn’t discipline, or luck, or a better metabolism.
It’s that they stopped arguing with the voice on their own.
The weight came off with help. It stays off with help. That’s the whole letter, really, in two sentences.
Well. Almost. Here’s the last one.
On one side of that button is a person hoping the voice is wrong. On the other side is a person becoming the proof that it is.
We're really glad you found us.
P.S. Remember the master belief? The one we dismantle in your first three minutes inside? Here’s the tease: it isn’t about food at all. It’s about a study you’ve already read, and the one detail the headline writers always leave out. Once you see it, you cannot unsee it, and the voice never sounds quite as certain again. Three minutes. First room on the left.
P.P.S. If you’re still scrolling, one question: what’s your current plan for the first hard week after the last dose? If the honest answer is “hope”, you know where the button is. It’s the one that stops saying Pacemaker at the hundredth member, or at 10pm on Friday the 30th of October, whichever comes first.