There are moments when the weight of my story presses so hard against my chest that I wonder if I’ll ever breathe freely. Being HIV-positive for over two decades has taught me resilience, but it has also exposed me to a world that often doesn’t know how to embrace people like me. I’ve learned to navigate love, stigma, and survival while raising three children in a society that still whispers about HIV in hushed, fearful tones.
But I refuse to be a whisper.
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I was 19 when an HIV testing counselor slid a paper with a big red plus sign in a circle in front of me, confirming my diagnosis with a silent nod. At the time, HIV was deeply misunderstood, especially in Black communities. I internalized that fear, believing I would never find love, have children, or live past a certain age. The silence and shame nearly swallowed me whole.
From Silence to Advocacy
For years, I struggled under the weight of stigma — until the day I decided to fight back.
My advocacy work became my purpose. As a spokesmodel for the HIV Stops With Me campaign, I put my face to a cause that so many fear. I serve on the New York City HIV Planning Group, ensuring policies reflect the needs of those they affect. Every day, I stand in spaces where Black women, HIV-positive individuals, and single mothers are often overlooked — and I demand that we be seen.
This is why National Black HIV/AIDS Awareness Day, Feb. 7, is critical. It’s not just about education; it’s about empowerment. It’s about making sure Black women know their worth, their rights, and their power.
The Reality for Black Women and HIV
Black women make up over half of new HIV diagnoses among women in the U.S. despite being only 13% of the female population. This disparity isn’t about behavior—it’s about access. Limited healthcare, systemic racism, medical mistrust, and economic inequality all play a role. Yet, our voices are often missing from larger conversations about HIV.
I’ve dedicated my life to changing that. As a linkage to care specialist, I’ve helped countless newly diagnosed individuals take their first steps toward treatment and self-acceptance. I’ve worked with people who sat in the same darkness I once did—believing their lives were over. I’ve seen the tears, the fear, and the shame. But I’ve also witnessed transformation. With the right support, people don’t just survive HIV — they thrive.
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For many Black women, however, thriving is a battle. We face stigma not just as people living with HIV, but as Black women in a society that already marginalizes us. The judgment we endure — from healthcare providers, partners, and even our communities — makes it harder to seek treatment, disclose our status, or demand better care. HIV stigma is killing us faster than the virus itself.
The current administration’s policies have also had a profound impact on people living with HIV, especially Black women facing intersectional struggles. Despite some positive strides, the rollback of healthcare protections, the erosion of the Affordable Care Act, and the politicization of healthcare have created an environment where stigma thrives.
HIV Is Not a Crime — But It Feels Like One
I know firsthand how discrimination can take everything from you. Despite being on treatment, healthy, and undetectable, I was pushed out of employment due to my status. I became homeless, left to fight for survival in a world that saw me as a liability. My status was used as a weapon against me, reinforcing the dangerous reality that HIV stigma is more powerful than the virus itself.
This is why HIV Is Not a Crime Awareness Day, Feb. 28, also matters. Across the country, people living with HIV are criminalized for their status — facing arrests, job loss, and even prison sentences for simply existing. HIV criminalization laws are outdated, unscientific, and disproportionately impact Black people and women. These laws do not reflect modern science, which shows that undetectable people cannot transmit the virus. Yet, they remain in place, punishing people for a medical condition.
Access to affordable treatment is a daily struggle for many, and we’re witnessing a generation of Black women, already vulnerable to HIV, being left behind. For me, and many others, it’s a constant fight against a system that seems to care little about the lives of HIV-positive individuals. The economic barriers are real. Without access to proper care, people living with HIV, especially those in Black and Brown communities, continue to be at risk of falling into deeper disparities.
I speak my truth not for sympathy, but for change. I tell my story because I know that someone, somewhere, needs to hear it. Someone needs to know that they are not alone, that they are not broken, and that HIV does not define them.
I have survived homelessness, depression, and discrimination. I have raised my children through hardship. I have fought to be here.
And I am still here. Unapologetically alive.