Sharon Osbourne has hit out at people commenting on heartbroken daughter Kelly Osbourne’s sudden weight loss.

This week, Kelly attended Juliet Sear’s bakeware launch in London, with many taking to Twitter to comment on her appearance.

Now, speaking to Piers Morgan on his Uncensored series, Sharon has hit out at the backlash.

Kelly Osbourne attended an event this week and sparked concern (Credit: Instagram)

Sharon Osbourne fiercely defends daughter Kelly

Piers first played a clip that Kelly shared on social media. In it, she hit back at trolls claiming she looked “ill”. They also said that she needed to “lay off” the weight-loss jabs.

In the clip, she said: “To the people who keep thinking they’re being funny and mean by writing comments like are you ill or get off [weight-loss jab], you don’t look right. My dad just died, and I’m doing the best that I can, and the only thing I have to live for right now is my family. And I choose to share my content with you and share the happy side of my life not the miserable side of my life. So to all those people [bleep] off.”

Sharon then told Piers: “She’s right. And if she’s happy, that she can’t eat… well she’s not happy, she’s lost her daddy… And she can’t eat right now.”

The star then hit out at the trolls, telling Piers: “It’s [trolling] a shield for people that are unhappy.  It’s a shield and jealousy and people’s perception of somebody else… And I just feel sorry for people, you know, something wrong with their lives. They’re not happy.”

Sharon explained that grief-stricken Kelly is struggling to eat (Credit: YouTube)

It’s not the first time Kelly has been trolled following Ozzy’s death.

Last month, fans defended the star after trolls criticised her after she and Sharon made their first red carpet appearance since Ozzy Osbourne’s death.

Ozzy Osbourne sadly died in July (Credit: Dave Bedrosian/Future Image/Cover Images)

Kelly and Sharon Osbourne enjoy night out

Kelly shared a series of stunning snaps from the do on November 27, where she swapped her trademark black for a glitzy pink gown. Meanwhile, Sharon matched her hair in a red sequined number.

“Had the best time with my mum and @rebeccavallancegasan at the @rebeccavallance new launch,” Kelly captioned the photos on Instagram.

“I have never worn a dress like it before. It took me out of my comfort zone of black and made my bubblegum pink dreams come true. Her dresses always make me feel amazing.”

“I thought my mum looked beautiful and it was so nice to see her have a little fun!” she added sweetly. “Thank you thank you thank you Rebecca we love you soooooo much!”

‘Ozzy would’ve been so proud’

After a heartbreaking year, fans were over the moon to see the pair out enjoying themselves.

“Wow you are stunning! Love this dress and your mum looks beautiful as well!!” commented one person. Another agreed: “Both you and mama look absolutely gorgeous! You in the bubblegum pink and mama glistening in sparkles.” A third likewise gushed: “Oh the one of you and mum has to be on the wall!! Hope you both had a great time good lookers.”

“It was probably so healing for y’all to get all dolled up and have some laughs,” a fourth person added. “I’m guessing a delicious supper too. You both look stunning, Ozzy would’ve been so proud.”

‘Is she ok?’

Meanwhile, Kelly’s post also faced backlash. “You look beautiful but I am concerned,” one person said. “The natural you was your dad twin. The new made you is just like Sharon. Same surgeon?” another troll commented. “Is she okay?” a third questioned.

And rightfully so, her followers came to her defence. “Well, it’s not your business to be concerned, so have a great day and no stressing,” one replied.

“Leave her alone,” another declared. “They’re grieving!” a third stated.

Kelly’s health battles

Over the years, Kelly has been open about the struggles she has faced.

She has spoken about her long battle with her weight, body image and disordered eating, including replacing drug addiction with emotional/binge eating, using food as a coping mechanism and experiencing severe body shaming.

She also underwent gastric sleeve surgery before shifting her focus to mental health and sobriety to achieve significant weight loss.

Sharon Osbourne has never been a woman to hold back her truth, but even she seemed to hesitate before finally breaking her silence on the subject that has left her family shaken and her heart aching: her daughter Kelly’s shock weight loss. In a world that never stops dissecting the bodies of women—especially famous women—Kelly Osbourne has found herself once again at the center of a storm she never asked for. Yet this time, the whispers feel different. They carry a tone lighter than concern but heavier than curiosity, the kind of tone that signals something deeper: fear for what lies beneath the surface of a transformation the public only sees on Instagram, while the private reality remains hidden behind doors only family can open. And as Sharon speaks, the world listens, because no one knows Kelly’s battles—past or present—more intimately than her mother.

The story of Kelly Osbourne’s body has never belonged solely to her. From the moment she appeared on television at seventeen, her weight became a headline, her size became comedic punchlines from tabloids, and her struggles became fodder for reality-show audiences and late-night hosts. She learned early that fame came with an unspoken and cruel contract: your body is open property, a spectacle for others to analyze, critique, and consume. The pressure carved itself into her adolescence, shaping her self-worth in ways she still untangles today. Sharon has spoken often about how helpless she felt in those years, watching her daughter grapple with insecurities that were amplified by millions of strangers. But nothing, she says now, compares to the concern she carries today.

Kelly’s recent weight loss—rapid, stark, and undeniably dramatic—has reignited conversations that she had hoped were long behind her. Photos circulating online show a drastically slimmed-down frame, limbs appearing more delicate than ever, cheekbones sharp beneath large sunglasses, and a posture that, to Sharon’s maternal eye, looks more exhausted than empowered. While many fans have praised her appearance, calling her “unrecognizable,” “stunning,” or “reborn,” others have expressed alarm, noting the suddenness of the transformation and the echoes it stirs of her past battles with addiction and emotional instability. Sharon has watched the conversation swell, each comment another reminder of how heavy public attention can feel when it centers on someone you love.

When Sharon finally chose to speak, she did so with a tenderness that softened even her famously sharp edges. She described her heartbreak not in dramatic statements but in small, piercing truths—a mother noticing the subtle clues others overlook, sensing the emotional currents beneath the polished surface, understanding the weight of pressures her daughter rarely articulates. She acknowledged Kelly’s autonomy, her right to shape her body as she chooses, her right to grow, evolve, change. But beneath those acknowledgments lay an unspoken plea for compassion, for the world to remember that transformations are rarely one-dimensional and that the journey behind them is often far more complex than a single snapshot can convey.

Sharon reflected on Kelly’s long history with self-image, recalling the years when her daughter spiraled under the collective judgment of the public eye. Those were years marked by self-hatred, by diet pills and binge eating, by therapy sessions layered with unspoken trauma. They were years when Kelly masked her pain with sarcasm, with bold fashion statements, with hair dyed in every color imaginable. Yet beneath the rebellious exterior lived a girl desperate for acceptance—acceptance from the world, yes, but more importantly, acceptance from herself. Sharon revealed how she watched her daughter shrink emotionally even when she attempted to grow through fame, how the pressure to look a certain way carved itself deep into Kelly’s psyche long before adulthood.

The recent weight loss, Sharon admitted softly, brings back memories she hoped were buried. She sees the familiar signs—the obsessive focus, the defensiveness when asked simple questions, the way Kelly reassures her family with a smile that never quite reaches her eyes. Sharon has lived through enough with her daughter to know the difference between transformation born from empowerment and transformation born from pain. She does not claim certainty about which this is, but her instinct tells her that the line between the two has perhaps blurred. What she fears most is not the weight loss itself but the shadows that often accompany such drastic changes—the internal battles that can erupt quietly, invisibly, dangerously.

Yet Sharon does not speak only from fear. She speaks also from immense pride in how far Kelly has come. Sobriety was a mountain few expected her to climb, and yet she did. Healing old wounds, breaking toxic patterns, learning to love herself enough to fight—these were victories won through years of internal war. Sharon knows her daughter is stronger than ever, wiser than she once was, more capable of recognizing when she is slipping. But motherhood is not a role shaped by logic; it is shaped by instinct, by the deep and abiding sense that your child’s pain is your own, no matter how old they become.

Kelly, for her part, has addressed the chatter with a mixture of grace and frustration. She insists she is healthy, that she has made choices rooted in self-care rather than self-punishment. She acknowledges the pressure but refuses to let the world write her narrative for her. Yet even as she defends herself, Sharon hears the tremble in her voice—the exhaustion of someone tired of defending her body to people who do not live in it. In interviews, Kelly has repeatedly said she is at peace, but Sharon recognizes how draining it is to constantly reassure others of your wellbeing when you are still figuring out what wellbeing looks like.

In breaking her silence, Sharon hopes not to fan the flames of speculation but to humanize her daughter’s experience. She wants the world to understand that public scrutiny has consequences, that weight loss is not inherently celebratory, that bodies changing quickly can be as emotionally taxing as they are physically demanding. She wants people to remember that her family has endured decades of public intrusion, often at the expense of their mental health. She knows that silence feeds rumors, but she also knows that speaking too loudly attracts a different kind of cruelty. The balance is impossible, yet she tried anyway—for Kelly.

She also shared the helplessness that mothers rarely confess—the fear of asking too many questions and pushing their child away, the fear of not asking enough and missing the moment when intervention is needed. She described the nights she lies awake wondering if she should have insisted on more medical checkups, the mornings she debates calling Kelly an extra time just to hear her voice, the afternoons spent staring at her daughter’s photos online, searching for clues the public cannot see. Her voice cracked when she admitted that watching Kelly disappear into a thinner version of herself brings back the old terror of losing her entirely—not to weight loss, but to the emotional storms that once nearly destroyed her.

Sharon spoke of the pressure young women face in Hollywood, pressure she once believed she understood but now realizes she underestimated. She described the way producers, stylists, photographers, and strangers online all contribute to a culture that praises shrinking women while ignoring the scars such shrinking leaves behind. Kelly has long existed within that culture, both victim and rebel, both target and trailblazer. Sharon sees the exhaustion in her daughter’s eyes and knows that the world sees beauty where she sees battlefields.

Yet amid the heartbreak, Sharon’s hope remains unwavering. She believes in Kelly’s resilience, in the strength she has built over years of self-work, in her ability to rise from darkness with renewed clarity. She speaks not of fear alone but of trust—trust that Kelly will navigate this chapter with the same courage she has always shown. She trusts that the conversations they have behind closed doors matter more than the ones shouted by thousands online. She trusts that love, especially the fierce, unconditional love between a mother and daughter, can hold them steady even when the world feels unkind.

Sharon recounted a moment recently that crystallized everything for her: sitting across from Kelly at lunch, watching her pick at her food while insisting she felt great. Sharon did not push. She simply watched, memorizing her daughter’s gestures, studying the small tremors of emotion that flickered beneath her calm exterior. In that moment, she realized her heartbreak was not rooted in the belief that something terrible was happening—it was rooted in the fear that she might not fully understand what her daughter was going through. And that, she said, is the hardest part of motherhood: loving someone so deeply that their silence feels louder than any words could.

As Kelly continues to navigate public scrutiny, Sharon hopes that the world will extend compassion instead of judgment. She hopes people will remember that weight—loss or gain—is not a measure of worth, nor a window into a person’s emotional truth. She hopes the public will stop treating women’s bodies like breaking news, stop rewarding drastic transformation without questioning the toll it takes, stop using concern as a disguise for criticism. Sharon knows that her daughter’s weight will always be a topic people discuss, but she hopes that, moving forward, the conversation will shift from shock to understanding, from gossip to empathy.

In the quiet moments after her interview, Sharon sat with the complexity of her emotions. She felt relief at finally speaking her truth, fear about how the world would interpret her words, pride in Kelly’s strength, and sorrow for the battles she still fights. But above all, she felt love—a love so fierce and consuming that even heartbreak becomes bearable when it is woven into the fabric of that love.

Sharon understands that she cannot protect Kelly from the world, nor from her own internal struggles. But she can stand beside her. She can listen. She can support. She can love her through every transformation, every challenge, every moment when the mirror feels like an adversary rather than a friend. And she can speak when silence becomes too heavy, as she has done now.

In the end, Sharon’s silence was not broken out of desperation but out of devotion. She knows that the world will continue to watch Kelly, continue to analyze, continue to judge. But she also knows that beneath the headlines, beneath the speculation, beneath the pressure, her daughter remains the same fierce, funny, resilient soul she has always been. And no matter how much weight Kelly loses—or gains—nothing will ever change the weight of a mother’s love.

In the quiet after Sharon’s interview, when the cameras stopped rolling and the last assistant had packed away the final coil of cabling, she found herself alone in a dressing room that suddenly felt much too large. The silence was thick, almost physical, the kind that presses against the chest and makes every breath feel weighted with memory. She looked at her reflection—her familiar dark hair, her composed smile, the eyes that had seen too much—and felt something inside her tremble. Speaking publicly about Kelly always reopened parts of her heart she tried to protect, especially now, when the world seemed fixated yet again on her daughter’s body rather than her soul. Sharon sat down slowly, letting the exhaustion of honesty settle into her bones. She knew she had spoken because she needed to, because silence had grown sharp and unbearable—but now that the words were out there, floating in the unforgiving universe of public opinion, she felt a familiar vulnerability creeping up her spine. She wondered how Kelly would feel hearing them, wondered whether she would recognize the love behind them or only the fear. Being a mother, she thought, meant loving someone so deeply that even your attempts to protect them can sometimes feel like you’re holding their heart too tightly. She closed her eyes and let memories rise—memories of Kelly as a little girl, toddling through their house in oversized boots, laughing that wild laugh that always made Sharon’s heart swell. Memories of Kelly on stage, purple-haired and defiant, fighting the world with sarcasm because softness felt too dangerous. Memories of long nights when addiction had swallowed her daughter whole, nights spent pacing the house waiting for a call, listening for a door that refused to open. Those memories lived inside her like weather: sudden storms, unexpected sunshine, a sky that never stopped shifting. She had survived all of it, but none of it had hardened her. If anything, it made her more breakable. More human.

Meanwhile, miles away, Kelly Osbourne scrolled through her messages, her fingers hovering uncertainly over the glowing screen. Her mother’s interview had spread quickly—clips going viral, headlines exploding across social media, news outlets dissecting every word. Part of her wanted to throw the phone across the room, to shut the world out entirely. Another part—the fragile, hurting part—wanted desperately to read every message, to understand how people saw her, to feel connected to something other than the storm swirling inside her chest. She took a slow breath and continued scrolling. There were messages from fans praising her strength, messages from strangers expressing concern, messages from critics masked as “well-wishers,” whose sharp judgments cut deeper than any knife could. But the messages that hit hardest were the ones from people who had watched her grow up—who saw not just her weight but her journey, who recognized the resilience beneath the transformation. “We love you, Kel,” one read. “You’re stronger than you know.” She blinked away sudden tears, unsure whether they were tears of comfort or exhaustion. She had never asked to be discussed, evaluated, pitied or admired. She had simply lived. But living in the spotlight meant every step she took cast a shadow larger than her body. She had grown used to it, but never immune.

Kelly walked to the mirror and studied her reflection. Her collarbones were sharper than she remembered, her arms thinner, her face somehow both older and more fragile. She moved her hand across her cheek and noticed how cold her skin felt beneath her fingertips. People online spoke of her “glow-up,” her “dramatic transformation,” as though weight loss were a magic trick, a miracle cure, a symbol of conquered demons. But the truth was far more complicated. She had lost weight, yes—lost it intentionally, lost it through discipline, through routine, through choices she believed were healthy. But she had also lost pieces of herself she didn’t expect to lose. She lost hunger—literal and metaphorical. She lost spontaneity. She lost the sense of ease she once had around food, around her body, around the simple act of sitting down to eat without thinking of the world watching her. She hadn’t realized until now how much of her life had become performance, how even her wellness journey had somehow turned into a spectacle beyond her control.

And then there was her mother’s voice—the voice that had raised her, protected her, fought for her, pushed her, saved her. She knew her mother had spoken from love, but she also knew that love came tangled with fear, with memory, with the ghosts of battles long fought and never fully won. She felt something inside her crumble at the thought of her mother lying awake at night, worrying about her. She wanted to call her, to tell her she was okay, to reassure her with a steadiness she didn’t always feel. But she also knew that reassurance meant confronting her own feelings—the confusion she carried, the pressure she felt, the slow unraveling of certainty that had followed her weight loss. She would need to gather courage before she could face that conversation.

Sharon returned home that night and found Ozzy asleep on the sofa, the TV still flickering with muted colors. She sat beside him, resting her head gently on his shoulder, letting the quiet companionship wrap around her. Ozzy stirred, opened his eyes, and gave her a sleepy smile. “You okay, love?” he asked, his voice soft with age and affection. She nodded, though her throat tightened. “Just thinking about Kelly,” she whispered. Ozzy squeezed her hand, understanding without needing her to elaborate. They had parented their children through storms that would have shattered most families. They had survived addiction, fame, scandal, heartbreak, and more. But parenting never ended—not when the children grew up, not when they moved out, not when they became public figures themselves. The love remained, fierce and unyielding, the kind of love that carried equal parts pride and terror.

Over the next few days, Sharon noticed something subtle shifting within her. Speaking publicly had pulled old emotions to the surface—emotions she thought she had tucked safely away. She found herself replaying her words, worrying she had revealed too much, worrying she hadn’t said enough. Had she protected Kelly, or had she exposed her? Had she spoken from clarity or from fear? These questions haunted her, clinging to her thoughts like stubborn shadows. And yet, each time she considered staying silent again, she remembered the years she wished she had spoken louder—years when Kelly was drowning and Sharon, afraid of public judgment, had stayed quiet for too long. Silence had never saved her daughter. Perhaps honesty would.

One afternoon, Kelly called. Her voice, though steady, had a fragility Sharon recognized immediately—the same fragile strength she had heard years ago when Kelly entered rehab, the same quiet determination she heard when Kelly fought her way into sobriety, into adulthood, into herself. “Mum,” Kelly said softly, “I saw the interview.” Sharon’s heart skipped. She braced herself. But Kelly continued. “I know you spoke because you love me.” Sharon let out a breath she didn’t realize she was holding. “I always love you,” she whispered. “I always will.” Kelly paused. “I’m okay,” she said, but her voice trembled under the weight of those two words. “I really am, Mum. But… I’m also figuring things out. And sometimes I don’t know how to talk about it.”

Sharon felt tears rise, thick and warm. “You don’t have to have all the answers,” she said tenderly. “You just have to let me walk with you. That’s all I want.” There was silence on the line—a quiet so full of emotion it was almost sacred. Then Kelly’s soft reply: “I know, Mum. And I’m trying.”

That conversation did not solve everything, but it healed something between them—something Sharon feared had been stretched too thin by public scrutiny. It reminded them that beneath the noise of the world, beneath the headlines and speculation, beneath the fear and the pressure and the unspoken wounds, they still had each other. And that, Sharon realized, was enough to keep fighting for.

Kelly began to reflect more deeply on her journey. She started journaling again, something she hadn’t done since her early sobriety. She wrote about the pressure she felt to shrink into a version of herself the world would praise. She wrote about how intoxicating compliments could be, how validation from strangers sometimes felt louder than her own intuition. She wrote about the loneliness of being visible, the exhaustion of always being evaluated, the confusion of wanting to take up less space even when her spirit longed to expand. She admitted to herself—something she struggled to admit to others—that her weight loss had not been entirely free of emotional ghosts. That part of her still equated smallness with safety. That part of her feared returning to a body she had been teased for. That part of her found comfort in control when life felt overwhelming.

But she also wrote about hope. About resilience. About the woman she was becoming—someone who wanted to heal, even if she didn’t yet fully understand how. Someone who wanted to reclaim her body as her own, not the world’s. Someone who wanted to live, not perform.

Sharon watched these shifts with cautious optimism. She did not push. She did not pry. She simply held space—space for her daughter’s uncertainties, space for complexity, space for transformation. She learned to listen without fear, to ask questions gently, to trust the strength Kelly had built through years of surviving herself.

And slowly, almost imperceptibly, the conversation around Kelly’s weight began to change. Not because the world grew kinder overnight, but because Kelly began speaking for herself in a new way—calmer, more grounded, more honest. She posted a message on social media, not defensive or angry, but sincere. She wrote about her desire to be seen beyond her weight, her wish for understanding rather than speculation, her struggle to balance wellness with authenticity. She wrote that weight loss did not equal happiness, and that she was still learning what happiness meant for her. She did not owe the world an explanation, but she offered one anyway—not for them, but for herself.

The response was overwhelming. Messages of compassion poured in, messages of shared experience, messages of gratitude from people who felt seen through her honesty. For the first time in months, Kelly felt less alone.

Sharon read the comments too, her heart swelling with pride. She knew her daughter’s strength. She had always known it. But seeing Kelly claim her story in her own voice—without apology, without bravado—made Sharon feel something close to peace.

One evening, Kelly visited her parents. They sat together in the living room, sharing tea, laughter, memories. Ozzy cracked a joke, Sharon rolled her eyes affectionately, Kelly rested her head on her mother’s shoulder. For a moment, there was no fame, no scrutiny, no fear—just family, breathing in the quiet warmth of togetherness. Sharon closed her eyes and let the moment settle into her heart like a balm. She knew life would continue to challenge them. She knew the world would continue to watch. But she also knew that love—this love—was stronger than anything that could shake them.

Later, as Kelly hugged her goodbye, Sharon held her a little longer than usual, memorizing the feel of her daughter’s heartbeat against her own. “I love you, Mum,” Kelly whispered. Sharon smiled, tears slipping silently down her cheek. “Oh darling,” she breathed, “I love you more than you could ever know.”

That night, as Kelly drove home, she felt lighter—not physically, but emotionally. She felt the pull of her anxiety loosen just a fraction, felt a thread of self-compassion weave itself gently into her chest. She knew the path ahead would not be simple. Healing rarely was. But she also knew she wasn’t walking it alone. And that knowledge, fragile and precious, was enough to keep her moving forward.

In the weeks that followed, Sharon continued advocating for compassion—not just for Kelly but for all women living under the pressure of unrealistic expectations. She spoke on talk shows about the harm of body commentary, about the emotional toll of public scrutiny, about the dangerous glamorization of extreme weight loss. She used her voice not to expose her daughter’s struggles but to call for a world that judged less and cared more. And slowly, the conversation began to shift.

For Kelly, the journey became one of self-discovery. She learned to listen to her body again—not through the lens of fear or vanity but through curiosity and care. She rebuilt her relationship with food, with health, with herself. Sometimes she stumbled. Sometimes she fell back into old patterns. But each time, she stood again—with more grace, with more understanding, with more resilience.

And Sharon watched her daughter reclaim herself one fragile moment at a time. Her heart still ached. It always would. But it also swelled with pride, with hope, with a love that transcended fear.

In the end, the story was not about weight loss at all. It was about a mother and daughter navigating the complexities of healing in a world that rarely grants them privacy. It was about breaking silence not to expose, but to protect. It was about grief, love, fear, and resilience intertwining into something raw and beautiful.

It was about the simple, powerful truth that no matter how much the body changes, the bond between a mother and daughter remains unshakable—anchored not in appearances, but in love that endures every transformation.