When I was diagnosed with HIV in the mid-1980s, I was told I had perhaps two years to live. The news felt like a death sentence—a stark, definitive end to a life barely begun. I remember leaving the clinic in a daze, the world around me blurring into gray. Friends and family recoiled, unsure how to comfort me. I began planning my own funeral, certain I would never see my 30th birthday.
But the human body and spirit have a remarkable capacity for defying expectations. Decades passed, and I didn't die. Antiretroviral therapy emerged in the late 1990s, transforming HIV from a fatal illness into a manageable chronic condition. I took my pills religiously, weathered the side effects, and learned to live with uncertainty. Each year that ticked by felt like borrowed time—a gift I never expected to receive.
Now, 40 years later, I find myself reflecting on that moment of diagnosis. How did I survive? Part of it is medical luck: I had access to treatments that many still lack. But part of it is a stubborn refusal to let fear rule my life. I have watched friends die, mourned them, and then kept moving forward. I have fallen in love, built a career, and traveled the world. HIV is no longer the center of my identity; it's just one part of a long, complex story.
Some people ask if I feel survivor's guilt. The answer is yes, but I also feel an immense gratitude. I have lived to see my nieces grow up, to witness scientific breakthroughs, to experience joy I thought was impossible. The death sentence I received was real, but it wasn't final. It turned out to be the beginning of a different kind of life—one lived with deeper appreciation for every ordinary moment.
'I had thought my life was over, but it was really just starting—in a way I could never have imagined.'
Today, I share my story not to inspire false hope, but to remind others that medical prognoses are not prophecies. We are more than our diagnoses. And sometimes, against all odds, we survive long enough to see the world change.