When I was diagnosed with HIV, my world froze. A numbness took over, swallowing me whole. THT was there to support me, but I couldn’t bring myself to tell my friends—I was terrified of their judgment. Worse, I didn’t even know what I thought of myself. Living at home, I kept it from my mum. I didn’t want her to worry, and honestly, I barely understood HIV myself. Had we even learned about it in school? All I knew were the whispers on the gay scene: "Don’t sleep with him, he has HIV." The cruel words on Grindr: "Clean only."

So why would I tell my family? I felt like I was carrying a death sentence. Would I end up in a hospital bed, fighting for my life?

THT shattered the myths I had believed for so long. They reassured me—I couldn’t pass it on. I wasn’t a danger. But still, I kept quiet. The way people spoke about HIV in our community, the stigma that clung to every mention of it, made silence feel safer.

Then, everything spiraled out of my control. A so-called friend at work rummaged through my bag, found my tablets, and spread my secret. The people I trusted turned their backs on me. I shut down, withdrew from the scene, and lost myself in self-destruction. Relationships crumbled before they could even begin.

HIV didn’t break me. But the way the world reacted almost did.

I got lucky—really lucky. I stumbled into a group of friends who saw me for who I was, not for my diagnosis. They didn’t flinch when I told them. They already knew people with HIV, understood the medication, the science, the reality. They listened. They supported. And for the first time in a long time, I felt seen.

I was young, brash, always ready for a fight—because, honestly, didn’t I have to be?

Telling my family? That was a different story. My mum knew before I even said a word. Living at home, leaving my meds in my bag—it was only a matter of time before she found them. To be fair, I gave her plenty of chances, always leaving my lunch in there. But instead of freaking out, she did something incredible—she went off, did her own research, and came back ready to support me. We had a cry, we talked, we moved forward. She made sure I was okay, and I told her what I knew at the time. She was amazing. But damn, it felt like coming out all over again.

Dating? That was its own battlefield. Telling potential partners was nerve-wracking. Some looked at me like I was tainted. "Unclean." or telling me "I just can’t risk it." Even though I always emphasised safe sex, especially with those I didn’t know, the ignorance stung.

But here’s the thing—I’m strong. Strong enough to see those reactions for what they were: a filter. A way to weed out the people who weren’t meant for my life. Because if someone couldn’t be bothered to learn the truth, they had no place in my world.

Over the last two years, I’ve grown—I’ve learned to speak openly about HIV, to own my story instead of letting it own me.

But this? This is it. My moment. My truth. This is me coming out to everyone.

How do I feel? Honestly? A little nervous. But more than that, I feel ready. Ready to tell my story. Ready to remind people that HIV isn’t some distant, abstract concept—it’s part of our world. And more importantly, the people living with it? We’re here. We’re alive. We’re thriving.

The stories most people know about HIV are Philadelphia and It’s a Sin—powerful, yes, but always drenched in tragedy. Even when shows like EastEnders touch on HIV, it’s never enough. There’s still so little—excuse the pun—positivity when it comes to people actually living with HIV.

HIV is not a “gay disease.” The stories in this project prove that.

My goal? To push people to get tested, to understand that HIV is not a death sentence. To highlight how far we’ve come in treatments, how life-changing support services like THRIVE with The Spencer Trust can be. And above all, to remind people of something simple yet so often forgotten:

Be kind.