Ellie

Ellie Harrison: Still Here

I was 21 when my world split open.

I was just like any other University student, half-dreaming, half-struggling. I was in a relationship, working part-time, finishing assignments last minute, and always running five minutes late for everything. I wasn’t reckless. I wasn’t scared. Life felt full and unwritten.

A routine check-up was supposed to be just that. Routine. Something you do when you’re responsible. I had no symptoms, so there was no reason to worry. I’d tested negative before. My partner and I had been in a long-distance relationship. We’d broken up, got back together, broken up again. Messy love. But love, still.

Then came the message:

“Please call the clinic.”

I remember sitting outside Greggs on my lunch break, phone in hand, wondering why my stomach had suddenly tied itself in a knot. The nurse mentioned a “reactive” result. She told me not to worry, that it was probably a false positive.

It wasn’t.

A few days later, I sat in the clinic, staring at the wall, willing someone to say they’d made a mistake. I kept saying it “Are you sure?” as if repeating it might bend reality.

But HIV doesn’t listen to pleading. It just is.

I walked out of that clinic and felt like I no longer had a place in the world. The girl who walked in was gone, replaced by someone I didn’t recognise. Someone with a secret. Someone with a virus. Someone I didn’t want to be.

I called my mum in tears. She and my dad jumped in the car and came straight to me. She tried to stay positive. But we were both scared, both clinging to the idea that maybe, just maybe, it was all wrong.

It wasn’t.

The days that followed blurred together. Waiting for more tests, for confirmation, for answers. They ran a genetic test to see which meds I could take. But I couldn’t stand the waiting. I needed something to do, something to fight. Sitting in limbo with HIV pulsing silently through me… it nearly broke me.

My ex got tested too. His results danced between positive and negative. In the end, he blocked me. We never spoke again. Hurt does that. It makes people cruel.

I thought I was dying, even though I wasn’t.

I thought my life was over, even though it wasn’t.

I stopped wanting to wake up.

Because I didn’t know how to be anymore.

I didn’t know anyone else living with HIV. Not one single person. It felt like a sentence I’d been given alone. I imagined grey clinics, older men, people who looked nothing like me. I couldn’t picture myself among them.

So I stayed silent.

And silence nearly swallowed me.

I told my closest friends slowly. One by one. Testing the waters. Some leaned in. Others drifted. A few disappeared entirely. That’s the part that hurt the most, not the virus, but the way people looked at me differently, like I was something to fear.

A guy I dated told his mates. They warned him to be careful, as if I were a ticking bomb.

That kind of rejection doesn’t just sting. It scars.

However, gradually, others emerged. The ones who stayed. The ones who said, “Thank you for trusting me.” The ones who asked questions without judgment. Who didn’t flinch?

And those people? They saved me.

Eventually, I started to speak. Publicly. Online. In rooms full of strangers. Not because I felt brave, but because the silence became heavier than the fear. Every time I told my story, I felt lighter, more me.

I started meds. Just one pill a day. A little blue one. Within two weeks, I was undetectable. That means I can’t pass HIV on. That one sentence, “You can’t pass it on”, should be shouted from rooftops and tattooed on every waiting room wall. It’s everything.

Still, every morning, that pill is the first thing I think about. Some days, I hate that. Other days, I hold it in my hand and think: this is why I’m still here.

HIV didn’t ruin me.

It stripped me down.

And I rebuilt myself from the rawest parts.

I’m not scared of living with HIV anymore.

I’m scared of how the world treats people like me.

So I speak. I share. I post. I tell the truth. Not to educate others, necessarily but to find others. The ones like me. The ones who feel alone. The ones still sitting on benches outside Greggs, staring at their phones, watching their lives change.

I want them to know:

You’re not dirty.

You’re not broken.

You are not your diagnosis.

I want them to hear:

You can still fall in love.

Still go to weddings.

Still dance until your knees ache.

Still live a messy, beautiful, ordinary life.

I’m Ellie.

I have HIV.

I’m still here.