My name is Juan. I’m 32. I come from Tomelloso, a small town in La Mancha, where life is quiet, almost too quiet, and where HIV was something that lived only in rumours, never in reality. I’m an industrial designer. I’ve spent six years designing prosthetics and orthotics, and lately footwear. I love building things that help people move through the world.

I’ve been living with HIV for ten years, but the truth is the virus entered my life much earlier, around 17, long before I had any understanding of sex, risk, or my own body. I didn’t feel sick then. Nothing pointed to what was happening inside me. I carried on with life, completely unaware.

Everything collapsed at once at the end of 2014. It started with my stomach. I couldn’t eat. Food became an enemy. I transitioned from eating everyday meals to soft foods, then to liquids, and finally to baby food, as it was the only thing my body could tolerate. And then came the rest: vomiting, diarrhoea, weight falling off me until I was 45 kilos. In January 2015, Candida took over my oesophagus. I was exhausted, weak, and terrified. By February, I had my diagnosis. By March, I was in a hospital bed, in a body that felt like it was disappearing.

That’s when I learned I wasn’t just living with HIV, I had progressed to AIDS.

The first months were hell. I didn’t recognise myself. My energy was gone. My confidence was gone. Even my voice felt different. Therapy, medical, and emotional support slowly brought me back. Over the course of a year, I rebuilt myself, kilo by kilo, breath by breath. When I finally began to feel strong again, it felt like I had survived a storm I didn’t even see coming.

Telling my family was its own battle. My mother was the first, but even she only knew after a month. Her reaction was shaped by the 80s, when HIV meant death and fear. Everyone she had known who got AIDS died. She didn’t know any other story. At first, she thought it was my fault. That hurt more than any symptom I had. But over time, she understood that I was young, uninformed, unprotected, and never taught anything about sex in my Catholic school. Today, she is my greatest ally. She went from fear to love, and she reminds me every day that people can change.

I had to take a year off from my studies. I had no strength to attend class, take exams, or even sit and concentrate. My life paused completely. In 2016, I returned to university and reclaimed the future I thought I’d lost.

Stigma came from many directions. A doctor in my small town treated me like HIV was the explanation for everything: a cold, a stomach ache, anything. In the gay community, some people rejected me instantly, while others pretended to accept it and then disappeared without a word. It took years for me to learn how to tell people, and even longer to understand that their reactions were reflections of their own ignorance, not a measure of my worth.

Mentally, HIV broke me open. It took six or seven years before I finally walked into a therapist’s office. That decision changed my entire life. Therapy, and later group therapy, gave me the tools to live again truly. I became someone new, someone stronger, clearer, and more honest with himself.

I only went public one month ago. My closest friends had known for years, but telling the world was a different matter. When I posted a video on Instagram, I expected judgment. Instead, I received love messages from friends, colleagues, and even distant family members. I cried every day for a month because the relief was overwhelming. It felt like a weight I’d been carrying in silence that finally left my body.

If I could speak to my younger self, the Juan who was newly diagnosed and scared, I would tell him it’s going to be brutally hard. He’ll feel lost, alone, and exhausted. But life will get better. The darkness won’t last forever. One day, he’ll realise how strong he is. And that asking for help and speaking his truth will save him.

I now volunteer with Apoyo Positivo, supporting individuals who have been newly diagnosed. The first thing I do is listen, really listen. Sometimes people don’t need advice; they need someone who understands the terror and the confusion. And then I help them understand that HIV is not the end. There is life before HIV and life after. Both can be full of hope.

Music helped me, too. My favourite song is “Comiéndote a Besos” by Rozalén. I first heard it in the hospital, not knowing it was about serodiscordant love. When I understood the lyrics, it felt like a small window opening in the dark. It reminded me that I wasn’t alone.

Becoming visible is my way of giving back. I speak not only for myself but for those who cannot. Some people live in families or towns where being open would destroy their lives. I speak for them. I speak for the boy I used to be scared, silent, trying to survive. I come from a rural place where HIV didn’t exist in conversations, where silence was the rule. I want to break that silence. People in small towns deserve knowledge, respect, and healthcare without stigma.

I’ve been following HIV Memorial for years, and about a year ago your work appeared on my feed. I followed you immediately because of the way you speak about HIV and the way you honour people living with HIV around the world. Back then, I wasn’t public yet. But your work stayed with me. It gave me courage.

When I finally shared my story, even my colleagues responded with kindness. No negativity, no judgment. I was ready for cruelty, but it didn’t come. And if it ever does, I know now not to carry it. I look for the good because the good outnumbers the bad.

Today I am surrounded by friends and community, my chosen family. I feel grateful every single day for the people who walk beside me. They’ve held me through the darkest years, and now they celebrate with me as I step into the light.

This is my story.