Forty years ago, the world was different. Life was different. HIV entered mine with a whisper, a phone call.

“My boyfriend is sick,” his mother said. Pneumonia, they thought. But something wasn’t right. Her voice trembled as she added, “It might be viral. They’re puncturing his lungs, but nothing is coming out.”

Fear gripped me. I had just returned to Italy after five years in Venezuela, only to find myself in a place where no one truly understood what was happening. People around me were falling ill, wasting away, dying. There were no explanations, tests, answers, and only silence and loss.

A friend pulled me aside and shared the quiet murmurs circulating in medical circles. My heart pounded. I needed to know. A private doctor examined me, pressing gently on my lymph nodes before meeting my gaze. “You should get tested,” he said softly.

It was late 1987 when my results came back. Positive.

I asked, “What do I do now?”The answer was always the same: “Let’s hope. Not everyone dies.”

But I refused to be powerless, to wait. Instead, I searched for knowledge, piecing together information through friends in the U.S. This was before the Internet. There were no quick searches, no online forums, only books, faxes, and late-night phone calls. In New York, doctors tried everything: antibiotics, low-dose naltrexone, and experimental treatments. I learned. I fought to stay alive.

Coming from a Catholic Italian background, I carried the weight of guilt. Was this a punishment? A fate I couldn’t escape? But I also believed in science. And I was right.

Then came a moment that changed everything. A friend, also HIV-positive, needed surgery for something as routine as haemorrhoids. The hospital refused him. I was furious. I picked up the phone and called Domenico Modugno the legendary singer of Volare, then president of the Radical Party. I didn’t know him personally, but I told his assistant everything. Hours later, my story was being discussed in Parliament.

That night, my phone wouldn’t stop ringing. Cardinals from Rome called, urging me to “reframe the story” to soften the hospital’s image. But my friend received treatment, and at that moment, I realised the power of my voice.

Shortly after, a leading immunologist approached me to help establish Anlaids, one of Italy’s first HIV organisations. I signed the founding documents and joined a movement that would change lives.

As my advocacy grew, I saw a critical gap: people living with HIV lacked clear, accessible information. So I started a newsletter to share knowledge about AZT, DDI, and every piece of research that could mean another day, another year, or another chance.

I took AZT early. My CD4 count was still 570, but my immunologist believed in intervention before the decline. It was controversial. But I trusted him. I wanted to live.

By 1996, my aerospace career was ending as Italy moved away from military aircraft development. It was time to prioritise my health. That same year, the government began funding social projects for people with HIV. I applied and secured funding to turn my newsletter into something professional. It worked. It thrived.

Pharmaceutical companies took notice. Glaxo Wellcome, Roche, and Boehringer Ingelheim wanted to help. With their support, Delta became Italy’s leading source of HIV information. It wasn’t for doctors. It wasn’t for the general public. It was for us. For those living with HIV, searching for answers, fighting for hope.

Then, in 1997, my life changed again.

While volunteering, I received an English-language call asking if Anyone would be interested in joining the EATG. I ran to the first meeting and soon took charge of finance and conflict resolution. My role quickly became full-time. I co-founded ECAB, worked on clinical trials, and saw the urgent need for a Treatment Activists Network in Italy, so I built one: Nadir.

Nadir. A term for the lowest CD4 count. The lowest point before you rise.

In 2010, after the Swiss Cohort Study, Dr. Julio Montaner declared at the Vienna WAC that HIV treatment prevents transmission. A few months later, I met someone, a young man who knew little about HIV. I shared the research with him. He trusted me. He said he didn’t want to lose me and was willing to take the risk.

A few years later, we became part of the PARTNER 2 study as a serodiscordant couple. We helped prove what Dr Françoise Barré-Sinoussi, the scientist who first isolated HIV, declared in 2016: Undetectable = Untransmittable. Fifteen years later, we are still together. He is still negative.

If I could speak to someone newly diagnosed today, I would tell them:

Build a relationship with your doctor. Make sure they understand your struggles, your needs, and your life. Communication is everything and to those afraid to disclose, fearful of judgment? Take your time. But don’t let fear define you. One day, when you’re ready, step into the light.

You are not a secret. You are not a shadow.

I rose from my lowest point. And so can you