It was February 2021 when I found out. It felt like a punch in the stomach. I had moved to the UK in 2011, but this moment, this diagnosis, shattered something deep inside me. I had transitioned when I was 14, and when I moved here, I was already living as a woman. But this was something I wasn’t prepared for.

In December 2020, I fell sick. Not just any sickness, but the kind that feels like it’s swallowing you whole. I was so ill for weeks, and it was during the second COVID lockdown. The world felt like it was closing in, and I was trapped in my own body. Recovery from COVID was slow and painful. It stretched into January, and that’s when I thought, “Maybe I need a fresh start.” So, I decided to get an STI test to check everything. A clean slate, or so I thought.

The results were negative for everything, except HIV.

I remember the moment like it was yesterday, the phone call from the sexual health clinic, telling me I had to come in the next day. I barely slept. I was numb. The next day, as I walked into the clinic, I had no idea how I would cope with what was about to happen. But there it was: a confirmatory test, and it came back positive.

That moment… it hit me like a wave. I couldn’t even cry, couldn’t find the tears. I was sitting in a room with two nurses, struggling to breathe and make sense of what I was hearing. I couldn’t. They left me alone for a few minutes, but those minutes felt like hours. I couldn’t process it. How could I? How do you process something like that?

Eventually, I spoke with my consultant. She explained the treatment, the antiretroviral medication. I didn’t want to wait. I said I wanted to start right away. I couldn’t sit with this. I needed to do something, anything. I started my meds a week later, and within a month, I was undetectable. It felt quick, almost unreal, but it didn’t take away the weight of everything else.

The hardest part was telling someone. Telling someone that my life had changed in a way I wasn’t ready for. The first person I told was my sister. She’s a nurse in the Philippines. I called her, and I cried for the first time. She didn’t judge me. She didn’t make me feel like I was dirty or broken. She just listened, like only she could. But it wasn’t easy. The second person I told was my ex-boyfriend. That’s when I felt the sting of rejection. He got cold, distant. I felt abandoned. He wasn’t the one who was sick. I was.

But it wasn’t just him. I was hiding everything: the pills, the appointments, the truth. No one knew. I couldn’t talk to anyone. Even my therapy didn’t start until six months later, in September 2021. Those months were unbearable. I was alone with my thoughts. The depression came back, heavier than before. In 2022, it all became too much. I overdosed. I cut myself, my wrists, my legs. I still see those scars as reminders of just how deep the pain went. My flatmates and friends knew what I was going through. They were there for me, even when I couldn’t be there for myself.

It’s not easy to talk about, but I know it’s essential. I want to be real, raw, because there are so many of us out there. HIV doesn’t just affect your body. It attacks your mind. Your soul. The stigma and isolation are all-consuming.

But then something changed. I found Positively UK. I started receiving peer support, and I realised I wasn’t alone. There were others like me. We shared the same questions, the same fears, the same wounds. Slowly, I began to heal. I started attending workshops, and it was there that I met Sylvia Petretti. I wanted to volunteer, to help others. But Sylvia told me to wait. She said, “You need to be diagnosed for at least two years before you can give back.” At the time, I wasn’t sure I would ever be strong enough, but in 2023, I spoke at Parliament for the first time. And that moment it changed everything. It was the moment I realised I wanted to help, to be a part of something bigger than myself.

Being a transgender woman living with HIV is a whole different story. We face challenges that others don’t understand. There’s so much fear, so much shame, so many layers of discrimination that others don’t see. But I want to change that. I want to help other transgender women who are living with HIV navigate these struggles, to show them they don’t have to hide. It’s not just about surviving. It’s about thriving. It’s about flourishing. We don’t just want to be undetectable. We want to live fully, joyfully, with dignity and love.

That’s why I do this. Because I know that my story can help someone, I know that if I can reach one person, one transgender woman, one person who feels lost and alone, then maybe, maybe they’ll see that they too can have a life worth living, a life filled with hope, with possibility, with strength.