My name is Alan Power. I can tell you the exact moment my life changed. It wasn’t a grand, dramatic event—no car crash, no sudden explosion. It was a phone call, a quiet, ordinary thing.
I’m from Kilkenny and worked in a restaurant there when I got the call.
“Your bloodwork came back invalid,” they said. “We need you to redo the test.” I arranged a time and date to see them and put it in the back of my mind, thinking nothing of it, only dreading getting more bloods done.
I went to the Mater Hospital. A nurse brought me in, and then I saw the doctor. That’s when I knew. Doctors don’t sit in for routine STI results. My heart pounded. Then the words came: HIV.
I froze. My mind was both blank and overflowing all at once. HIV? I didn’t even know what that truly meant. I had gone to a Christian school where sex education was nothing more than a couple of diagrams and a silent prayer. No one ever told us about STIs beyond “just don’t have sex.” I had no reference point for what this meant, for what my life would become.
The doctor was kind. He explained everything and reassured me I’d be okay and that I’d start medication in a week. I nodded along, but I wasn’t there. I felt like I was floating outside my body.
That night, I checked into a hotel. I stood in front of the mirror, staring at myself, trying to recognise the person looking back. The world had already been unravelling—COVID, lockdowns had happened, and friendships had fallen apart. And now this?
Then, something inside me hardened. I would not let this break me.
A few days later, I was in the Wicklow Mountains, working as a boom operator on Vikings: Valhalla. The funny thing is, I wasn’t even supposed to hold the boom pole—trainees didn’t get to do that—but my boss knew I was good. And in that moment, standing there, holding that pole, I felt it. A win. Proof that life wasn’t stopping just because of my diagnosis.
Still, I carried something heavy. A voice in my head kept whispering: You’re riddled with HIV. I knew it wasn’t true. I knew the science. But knowing something and feeling something are two very different things. I was anxious to start medication—to take back control.
But it wasn’t immediate. More tests. More bloodwork. I fainted when I got blood taken, so they had to move me to another room to lie down. Looking back, it’s funny. At the time, it wasn’t.
When I finally started treatment, something shifted. I could breathe again. Life didn’t just go back to normal—it expanded. I moved to Dublin, found work in animation, and threw myself into new things—fashion shows, pole dancing, activism. I wanted to be in spaces where people were alive, where HIV wasn’t a shadow hanging over me.
Of course, I’ve faced stigma. I once told a guy I was seeing, and he ghosted me. Later, he messaged me, saying people like me should be locked up, but I knew then that his ignorance was not my shame. As one friend put it to me, he’s negative and a negative person. I’m positive, and I’m a positive person.
If someone newly diagnosed came to me, scared and lost, I’d tell them this:
This is not the end. Life does not stop. You will be okay. Keep busy. Keep moving. Find joy. I’d tell them my story—not because it’s perfect, but because it proves that you can live, truly live, with HIV.
Because here’s the truth: I’m still here. I’m still thriving.
And why wouldn’t I be?