This is Lisa. She told me her story with such clarity. I’ll never forget the moment that shattered my world and rebuilt it all at once. It was 2005, and I was a year into recovery from years of drug addiction, a fragile, hopeful year that felt like the first breaths of freedom after suffocation. I was already attending a 12-step recovery group; I’d finally started showing up for myself, facing the wreckage of my past, and trying to heal. It was during one of those moments of accountability that I walked into the clinic to get tested for hepatitis C. That’s what I was expecting, hep C. As an injecting drug user, I was educated enough to know that hepatitis C was a risk, and I also knew that it was a much more robust virus than HIV. Although no one spoke about having hepatitis C due to stigma, it was a given that it was a reality; posters were plastered on the walls of drug services, and services urged testing.

But the nurse couldn’t even draw blood. My veins were wrecked from years of injecting. “Come back later, in a few months,” they said, “we’ll try again.” It felt like the universe was giving me a chance to ignore or postpone the inevitable, but oddly, the clinic called me a few days later, saying that if I came back that day, there was a consultant who could take my blood a different way, so I returned. Whilst they could get blood, I thought, “Why not test for everything?” A decision of taking responsibility.

Three days later, a call summonsed me back to the clinic. “You’re negative for everything,” the nurse said, “but you’re HIV positive.” I could hear the words, but they didn’t sink in. HIV? Me? I’d never really contemplated HIV. I didn’t believe I had put myself at risk of HIV either through sex or drug use; it seemed ridiculously ironic. Hep C was the risk I’d been bracing for, not this. This was something outside of my expectations. I had never, to my knowledge, met anyone who was HIV positive, and I was feeling totally out of my depth.

The truth slowly began to sink in like a jigsaw puzzle; certain things started to slot into place. My boyfriend at the time, the man I’d been building my fragile recovery with, had known all along. He was HIV positive and hadn’t told me. Worse, he had tried to stop me from getting tested, wrapping his fear in excuses that I hadn’t questioned at the time. When I confronted him, his silence screamed the truth louder than words ever could. He later denied it but then, within weeks, admitted his status.
The betrayal was staggering, but the pain that followed was even worse. For three more years, I stayed in that relationship. He wielded my diagnosis like a weapon, telling me I was damaged and that no one else would ever want me. And for a long time, I believed him. But my diagnosis, as much as it broke me, also gave me something unexpected: clarity. It forced me to look at my life and ask the hard questions. What was I willing to tolerate? Who did I want to become?
Thankfully, my recovery friends and mentor supported me to work on my fears and personal development. My mentor in the 12-step fellowship I attend was brutally honest with me, telling me unequivocally that I had no excuse to return to drugs no matter what happens in life; drugs can only make a situation worse. It is quite literally a crossroads; one way is life and the joy and sometimes pain that life entails, and the other way is degradation and death.
Eventually, I left him. It wasn’t easy, but I knew I deserved more. HIV had entered my life through pain and betrayal, but it didn’t define me. It was the catalyst that woke me up. I started attending HIV peer support groups, where I could sit with others who understood. I listened to their stories, and I began to share mine. I went back to school, took courses, and found my way into volunteering. Slowly, I built a new life, one that was grounded in recovery, resilience, and hope.
Today, my life is worlds away from where it was. I work in substance misuse and mental health services, helping others who are walking the same path I once did. I am a psychotherapist and trainer covering a wide range of issues. I mentor people in recovery, lead workshops, and speak about living with HIV to break down the stigma that still surrounds it. Peer support remains my cornerstone, not just for myself but for the countless lives it can touch. There’s an extraordinary power in finding someone who’s been where you are and can show you that it’s possible to come out the other side.
But it’s not just about work. My recovery is vibrant and alive, filled with connections and purpose. I mentor others, run personal development workshops, and collaborate with charities to amplify voices like mine. I’ve become a fierce advocate for experiential, dynamic learning because people need to feel the reality of these issues, not just hear about them. It’s my way of giving back, of ensuring that my story might be the light someone else needs in their darkness.
HIV came into my life like a hurricane, causing disruption, fear and turning things upside down. But in the ruins, I found the raw materials for something better. Today, I’m not just surviving; I’m thriving. And if there’s one message I hope my life carries, it’s this: your story doesn’t end with a diagnosis. It begins. You can take that pain and turn it into power, just like I did. This isn’t the end. It’s a chance to rebuild, firmer and brighter than ever before.