My name is Andrew Liam Oakes, and I’m from Wigan, born and bred. My story, well, it’s not an easy one to tell, but it’s mine. I grew up in an abusive household, and by the time I was 15, I’d had enough. I walked out and ended up in homeless hostels. Four years of my life were spent in those places, surrounded by people trying to survive. I was just a kid trying to figure out who I was, what love was, and where I belonged.

But I didn’t have anyone to guide me. No one ever sat me down and told me what healthy relationships looked like, especially as a young gay lad. I had no idea how to protect myself. My self-esteem was at rock bottom, and I thought I deserved whatever scraps of affection I could get. And then Grindr came along. It was new back then, and for someone like me, it gave me hope to find love and an emotional connection.

Older men would take advantage of the fact that I was vulnerable. I was in hostels with no parents and no rules. A lot of things happened to me, including emotional, sexual abuse and rape. I thought that was just what love was supposed to be. That this was all I was worth. It left me broken, and I carried that brokenness with me into my twenties.

When I was 28, my mental health was in pieces. I ended up sleeping with someone aggressive, and that’s how I contracted HIV. At first, I didn’t know. A few weeks later, I got sick and could hardly get out of bed. It was during the COVID-19 pandemic, so I initially thought it was that. But my symptoms didn’t match entirely. My body was covered in rashes, I kept spitting up blood clots, and after seeing the dentist, they referred me to a dental cancer treatment hospital as they thought I had mouth cancer. My gums looked like they’d been burned. The dentist thought it might be mouth cancer and sent me to the hospital.

By then, I couldn’t eat anything; ice water was the only thing my body could handle. I’d lost so much weight I barely recognised myself. I was sent for test after test, and one stood out when the results started coming back, and that’s the test result that came back positive with HIV.

I’ll never forget that moment. It was Christmas Day. They called and told me to come into the hospital. I told them, ‘Look, I think I know what this is. Can you tell me over the phone?’ But they insisted I come in. My dad took me. He’s always been my best friend, my rock. He waited in the car while I went inside. And they told me. I had HIV.

Strangely enough, I’d prepared myself for it. When they said it, I wasn’t shocked. I just nodded and asked what happened next. They explained the process, the clinics, and the treatments. I thanked them, walked out, and got into the car.

When I told my dad, his reaction wasn’t what I expected. He didn’t cry or hug me. Instead, he looked at me, completely shattered, and said, ‘How could you be so fucking stupid? You’ve destroyed your life.’ I’ll never forget those words. They felt like a punch to the gut. He was so upset he had to pull the car over. He broke down, crying uncontrollably. And there I was, sitting next to him, feeling like I was the one who needed consoling. But instead, I found myself saying, ‘It’s going to be okay, Dad. I’m going to be okay.’

When we got home, I begged him not to tell my stepmom or little sisters. I wasn’t ready. It was Christmas, for God’s sake. But he said he couldn’t keep it to himself. So I went in first and asked my stepmom to send my sisters upstairs. She was busy making Christmas dinner, and I’ll never forget the look on her face when I told her. She panicked, trying to make sense of it all. My dad came in after, still distraught, and we all sat there, the three of us, in this surreal, painful moment.

That was the day everything changed for me. The day I realised how fragile life is and how quickly everything can shift, But it was also the day I decided I wasn’t going to let HIV define me. I wasn’t going to let it break me. If anything, I would let it show me just how strong I could be.”

“After my diagnosis, I went through a rollercoaster of emotions. There was shock, fear, anger—but there was also this overwhelming sense of determination. I remember sitting alone one night and thinking, ‘This doesn’t have to define me.’ I knew from that moment on that I wanted to use my story to make a difference, to help others understand that HIV is not a death sentence, and, most importantly, to challenge the stigma that still surrounds it.

I started small, just talking to friends and family, educating them about what it means to live with HIV today. I told them about U=U—undetectable equals untransmittable—something even I didn’t know before my diagnosis. It blew their minds. ‘You mean, you can’t pass it on?’ they’d ask, and I’d see that light bulb moment when their fear gave way to understanding. Those conversations gave me the confidence to speak out on a bigger scale.

Now, I work with organisations supporting people with HIV, like George House Trust. I help create spaces where people feel safe to share their stories, just like I’m sharing mine now. I’m part of workshops and community groups where we talk openly about living with HIV and tackling the misconceptions head-on. We discuss everything—from mental health and relationships to the science behind antiretroviral therapy. It’s about showing people that we’re just like anyone else, that HIV is just one part of who we are, not the whole story.

I also do a lot of public speaking. I’ve stood in front of rooms full of strangers, shared my truth, and watched as the fear in their eyes melted into empathy. It’s powerful to see how a story—just a human story—can shift someone’s perspective. I’ve had people come up to me after events, tears in their eyes, saying, ‘Thank you. I didn’t know. I didn’t understand.’

Social media is another tool I’ve embraced. It’s incredible how far a single post or video can reach. I share my journey online, not just the highs but also the lows. I talk about the stigma I’ve faced, the moments of doubt, and the times I’ve had to remind myself of my worth. But I also celebrate the joy, resilience, and fantastic advancements in HIV care that have given people like me a whole, healthy life.

For me, it’s about normalising the conversation. HIV is not a dirty word. It’s not something to whisper about in shame. I refuse to let anyone feel they must hide who they are because of it. Whenever I speak out, I think of that 15-year-old boy I once was, lost and scared, who didn’t know how to protect himself if I could reach someone like him and show him that he’s not alone and has a future.

I also work to educate healthcare professionals. I’ve seen firsthand how ignorance can harm. After my diagnosis, some of the questions and assumptions made by the medical staff were shocking. So now, I advocate for better training and awareness in the medical field. People living with HIV deserve compassion and respect, not outdated stereotypes.

I’m not just fighting for myself. I’m fighting for everyone who lives with HIV, for those who’ve been silenced, and for those who’ve lost their lives to this virus. Every conversation, every talk, every post—it’s a step towards a world where HIV doesn’t carry the weight of stigma anymore. I believe we’ll get there. And until we do, I’ll keep speaking out, sharing my truth, and standing proud.”