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Imagine starting a busy clinic day, coffee in hand, only to spend the first patient visit explaining that a TikTok video promising “Ozempic face” will not happen to everyone, or that taking a weight-loss drug does not mean you can stop watching what you eat. For many doctors, nurse practitioners, and physician assistants, this is not a rare occurrence—it is a daily reality. A recent survey by Tebra, a practice management software company, found that 73 percent of clinicians say they have to correct misinformation about GLP-1 drugs like Ozempic and Wegovy at least once a week. Even more striking, one in five is doing this every single day. These are not just casual conversations; they are loaded moments where patients arrive with hopes, fears, and sometimes dangerous ideas they have picked up online. The emotional toll is real. Clinicians are not just prescribing medications—they are also untangling myths, managing expectations, and gently pushing back against falsehoods that patients may deeply believe because they heard them from someone they trust. Over time, that constant correction wears on a provider. It strains the relationship between patients and the people who are trying to help them. Behind the statistics are human beings: a physician who feels frustrated that her expertise is being second-guessed by a stranger’s sponsored post, a nurse who is tired of convincing a diabetic patient that their dose should not be doubled based on a Reddit thread, a doctor who worries that a patient will go elsewhere and buy something unsafe. The survey is a window into a health care system that is now spending enormous energy on what amounts to digital myth-busting. It also reveals how much the patient experience has changed: many people are no longer coming to the clinic with a blank slate and a question; they are coming with a pre-formed diagnosis, treatment plan, and even a timeline for results, drawn from social media. That leaves clinicians with a delicate job—to correct without shaming, to educate without lecturing, and to protect trust while steering people toward safer, more effective care.
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Where does all this misinformation actually come from? The survey gives a clear picture, and it may not surprise anyone who has scrolled through social media lately. TikTok leads the list, with 59 percent of clinicians saying it is the main source of the myths they hear. That is followed by friends and family at 54 percent, Facebook at 45 percent, and celebrity or influencer endorsements at 35 percent. Instagram also played a role for 35 percent of clinicians, while YouTube was cited by 24 percent. News media, AI chatbots, direct-to-consumer telehealth ads, and even Reddit all made appearances as sources of confusion. But dismissing these sources as simply “bad” misses the deeper human story. People are turning to social media because they are desperate, curious, or just trying to make sense of a confusing health care landscape. Weight loss is an intensely personal and often painful topic, laden with shame, frustration, and decades of failed attempts. When a friend posts a dramatic before-and-after photo, or a celebrity talks about shedding pounds with ease, it taps into a deep longing for a solution. That emotional pull can be far stronger than a cautious, nuanced explanation from a doctor who says the average result is moderate and requires lifestyle changes. And because these stories often come from people who look relatable—not like distant medical experts—they feel more authentic. A stranger on TikTok with a glowing testimonial may seem more trustworthy than a physician who has seen hundreds of patients but cannot offer a miracle. The problem is amplified by the way algorithms work. Platforms are designed to show content that excites, stirs emotion, and keeps people scrolling. A video with an outrageous claim like “this injection melts belly fat overnight” gets more views and shares than a careful explanation of GLP-1 receptor agonists. The survey also suggests that clinicians are caught in the middle, trying to help patients while competing with an endless feed of polished, misleading content. It is not that people are foolish; it is that they are human, and the internet is extremely skilled at exploiting human vulnerability.
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One of the biggest areas of misunderstanding has to do with expectations—specifically, how fast weight loss should happen. The Tebra researchers noted that more than half of providers said patients’ expectations around the speed of weight loss were unrealistic to some degree. That creates real friction in clinical conversations. When a patient expects to lose twenty pounds in a month and the evidence suggests a gradual, steady loss of one to two pounds per week, they may feel disappointed and even suspicious. They might think the medication is not working, or that the doctor is not giving them the right dose. Worse, they may seek out higher doses or additional products on their own, risking side effects and dangerous interactions. Another study looked at online content and found that misinformation tends to cluster around four key areas: how the drugs work, when they are appropriate to use, adverse reactions, and how they interact with other medications. These are exactly the topics where patients need accurate, individualized guidance. The study also found that most content creators on Instagram and TikTok who talked about semaglutide were female semaglutide users without medical knowledge. That is not to say their experiences are invalid—personal stories matter—but they are not substitutes for professional medical advice. What one person experienced with a certain dose or side effect may have no bearing on another person’s situation. To make matters worse, videos showing weight-loss results have a high probability of being modified by artificial intelligence. Someone’s waist may be digitally smoothed, their face altered, or their skin texture changed to make the results look more dramatic. The viewer does not know that. They only see a transformation that seems almost miraculous, and then they wonder why their own body is not responding the same way. This is a cruel trick, because it sets people up for disappointment and reinforces the false belief that weight loss is simple and linear. The researchers were blunt: social media often provides misleading information, especially about drug indications and adverse reactions. In other words, patients may think the drug is right for them when it is not, or they may brush off serious risks because no one talked about them in a viral video.
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Beyond the noise on social media, there is a darker and more dangerous player in this ecosystem: counterfeit GLP-1 medications. In the United Kingdom, for example, the maker of Wegovy, Novo Nordisk, recently applied for a website-blocking order against six major internet service providers. The request named four companies—Viogen Pharma, Pharma-Labs, Leo Labs, and The Steroid Supplier—all of which were advertising, offering for sale, and selling counterfeit and unlicensed weight-loss drugs. These products were branded as or referenced Ozempic, Wegovy, Rybelsus, Victoza, and Saxenda. That is terrifying because these are not harmless supplements. Counterfeit injectables can contain the wrong ingredients, no active ingredient at all, or dangerous impurities that could cause severe infections, allergic reactions, or unpredictable side effects. People who buy them are often trying to avoid high prices or bypass long waitlists. They may feel they are being resourceful, perhaps even taking control of their health, when in reality they are putting themselves in serious danger. The problem is not limited to the U.K. In the United States, over a six-month period, the Food and Drug Administration sent thousands of warning letters to telehealth companies for issuing misleading GLP-1 ads. To put that in perspective, that is more warning letters than the FDA had sent in the entire previous decade. This speaks to a booming, largely unregulated direct-to-consumer market that is eager to profit from the demand for weight-loss drugs. Some companies may cut corners, exaggerate benefits, or fail to adequately screen patients before prescribing. Others may be outright fraudulent. The human toll is not just physical. Imagine paying hundreds of dollars for a supposed medication that turns out to be something else entirely, losing money you cannot get back, and feeling betrayed by a system that was supposed to make things easier. Or worse, imagine being hospitalized after injecting a counterfeit product that was never tested for safety. The clinicians who responded to the survey are all too familiar with these risks. They may not always say it out loud, but when they correct misinformation, they are also trying to protect their patients from a shadowy supply chain that operates far beyond the walls of a legitimate pharmacy.
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Health influencers play a particularly powerful role in spreading misinformation, often without meaning to. Earlier this year, researchers found that health influencers frequently present content that goes beyond their clinical expertise, exaggerate benefits, and fail to mention alternative treatment options. They may share dramatic personal stories, show off their own transformations, or describe how a drug “saved” them from some condition—even when they are not qualified to make such claims. The researchers explained why these stories are so persuasive: “Stories of how a drug helped an influencer cope with a condition can be persuasive even in the absence of evidence, consistent with theories of narrative persuasion showing that storytelling increases emotional engagement and identification while reducing critical scrutiny of claims.” In plain language, when we hear a compelling story, our brains are wired to feel empathy and connection, not to fact-check. We let our guard down because the person on the screen feels like a friend. Social media also creates what are called parasocial bonds—one-sided relationships where viewers feel intimately connected to an influencer they have never met. With microinfluencers, who may respond to comments and message followers personally, that bond can feel even more real, like an actual conversation. It is easy to see why a patient would trust such a person more than a doctor they have seen once for fifteen minutes. But this trust can be misplaced. Known medical facts may be twisted, risks minimized, alternatives ignored. A person with diabetes for whom GLP-1 drugs are genuinely important might be told to stop taking them by a wellness influencer who thinks “natural” is always better. Another person with a history of eating disorders might be encouraged to take a drug they should not take, simply because an influencer made it look glamorous. The researchers are not saying that all influencers are malicious. Many genuinely believe they are helping. But good intentions do not replace accurate information. And when the advice is wrong, the burden of fixing the damage falls back on health care providers, who now have to untangle not just medical facts but also emotional attachments to a beloved influencer’s opinion. That is a much harder conversation than simply prescribing a medication, and it explains why so many clinicians feel exhausted by the relentless tide of misinformation.
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So what can be done? The first step is to bring more compassion into the conversation, both from clinicians and from patients. For doctors, it means not rolling their eyes when a patient mentions a TikTok video, but instead asking curious questions: “What did you hear? What sounded appealing to you?” This opens a door rather than slamming it shut. For patients, it means recognizing that social media is not a substitute for a medical visit, no matter how trustworthy the person on the screen seems. It also means being honest with doctors about where information is coming from. A patient who says, “I saw this on Instagram, is it true?” is giving the clinician a chance to explain, reassure, and correct gently. The second step is media literacy. People need to learn how to evaluate health claims online: Who is making the claim? Are they a medical professional? Do they have a financial stake in selling something? Are they showing actual evidence, or just a personal story? Is the content sponsored? These questions may sound basic, but they are powerful tools against manipulation. Third, the medical community needs better strategies to counter misinformation on the very platforms where it thrives. That could mean healthcare systems partnering with trusted creators to share accurate content, or doctors and nurses being encouraged to create educational videos that are just as engaging as the misleading ones. It also means policymakers need to take a firmer stand against counterfeit sellers and fraudulent telehealth ads, as the FDA and Novo Nordisk are beginning to do. Finally, there is a role for kindness. Weight loss is a sensitive, deeply human struggle. People who are looking for miracle cures online are not weak or foolish; they are often exhausted after trying everything else. The best response is not judgment, but empathy paired with evidence. Clinicians deserve support and patience from patients too, because they are doing an incredibly hard job under enormous pressure. With the right tools, honest conversations, and a little grace on all sides, it is possible to navigate this confusing landscape safely. The goal is not to make everyone experts in pharmacology, but to help people make informed decisions with a trusted medical professional at their side—and to stop social media from being the loudest voice in the room.