Hey, I’m a 30th transwoman, and if you’re here, chances are you’ve felt the weight of loss, the sting of stigma, or the crushing loneliness of navigating life with an STI. I get it — because I’ve lived it. Eight years since my diagnosis, and some days, it still feels like I’m stuck in that moment, like life split into "before" and "after." Before, I was just another person figuring things out — love, career, future. After? It felt like all of that was put on pause. Like I had to grieve the version of myself I thought I’d always be.

I’ve done the therapy, taken the meds, kept myself healthy, but grief? Grief doesn’t have an expiration date. It lingers, sometimes in obvious ways — through sleepless nights, through the quiet ache of loneliness — and sometimes in the smallest, strangest moments. A passing comment. A doctor's visit. Filling out a medical form. It has a way of creeping in, reshaping you into someone you barely recognize. And when you mix that with the stigma, the shame, the fear of never being seen as “whole” again — it can feel like too much to carry.

If you’ve ever felt unlovable, undeserving, or just *tired* of carrying it all — this is for you. Let’s talk about what it really means to grieve, to grow, and to rewrite the story we tell ourselves. Because even in the mess, even in the pain, there’s still a way forward.

## **The Day Everything Changed**

I was 27 when I tested positive. No symptoms, no warning — just a routine check before getting birth control at Planned Parenthood. One moment I was filling out paperwork, thinking about my plans for the weekend, and the next, I was sitting in a cold, sterile room, hearing words that would split my life into *before* and *after.*

I remember the exact day. The way the air felt heavier. The way the shock settled in my chest, cold and unshakable. I remember nodding at the doctor, trying to absorb everything they were saying, but my brain had already gone numb. *This isn’t real. This can’t be real.* I walked out of the clinic that day the same person I had always been, but suddenly, I felt like a stranger in my own body.

I started treatment immediately and became undetectable within two weeks. Logically, I knew I was lucky—medicine had come so far. My life expectancy hadn’t changed. My health was intact. But emotionally? That was a battle I wasn’t prepared for. Because no one tells you how an illness you can manage physically can still control you mentally. How it can rewrite your sense of self, slip into the cracks of your identity, and echo in your relationships long after the initial shock fades.

And when grief enters the equation — whether it’s mourning the person you used to be, the future you thought you’d have, or the loss of someone who made you feel safe—it can feel unbearable. Like you're carrying a weight that no one else can see. Like no matter how much time passes, you're still frozen in that moment, trying to figure out how to move forward when everything you once knew has changed.

## **The Weight of Two Battles**

Losing my grandmother was a heartbreak that cut deeper than anything I could have imagined. She wasn’t just my grandmother — she was my rock, my protector, my best friend. I’d been through so much in my life, but it was with her that I truly felt safe. She raised me, loved me unconditionally, and was the one person who knew me in a way no one else could. When she passed, it felt like the world as I knew it crumbled beneath me. I lost not just a family member, but a piece of myself.

Her absence hollowed me out in ways I wasn’t ready for. The grief was overwhelming, all-consuming. And yet, through all that pain, I never told her about my HIV status. Not because I didn’t trust her love, but because I didn’t want to burden her with the fear of losing me. I didn’t want her to worry. I convinced myself that she was better off not knowing, that it was a burden I could carry alone.

But now, I wonder: *Would her acceptance have helped me accept myself?* Would I have felt less alone in my journey if she had known? There’s a lingering ache in my heart as I think about that possibility, an unresolved piece of grief that weighs heavily on me. Her absence still feels like a wound that hasn’t healed, but the questions I didn’t ask, the things I didn’t share  —those continue to haunt me.

There’s a strange parallel between the grief of losing someone and the weight of living with an STI. They both carry an invisible burden, an isolation that feels impossible to articulate. To the outside world, everything might seem fine. They don’t see the invisible struggles, the emotional toll of constantly managing something that feels like it belongs to a version of you that no longer exists.

And just like with grief, the world expects you to move on. People go about their lives, as they should, but inside, you're stuck. You’re not just mourning the life you had before your diagnosis, but also mourning the life you thought you’d have — the future that was suddenly taken from you.

The feeling of being stuck, of trying to adjust to a reality that doesn’t quite fit, is isolating. People talk about grief as though it’s something you eventually “get over,” but that’s not how it works. Grief stays with you, reshapes you, and makes you constantly question what it means to move forward. And living with an STI is the same way. It’s not something you ever truly “get over.” It’s a part of you now, an invisible scar that alters your path in ways you can’t always explain.

## **Rewriting My Story**

For years, I let the stigma surrounding my HIV status define me. I internalized every negative word, every judgment, and I believed the whispers that told me I was less than — unworthy of love, unclean, unworthy of acceptance. Despite the medical facts, despite the advances in treatment that made me undetectable, I still felt trapped in a narrative that was rooted in shame and fear. I let the diagnosis consume my identity, and no matter how many times I was told I was healthy, it felt impossible to believe.

At my lowest points, I coped in the way so many of us do: by distracting myself. I turned to drinking, to partying, to losing myself in the noise of the world around me. It was easier that way. As long as I kept moving, as long as I kept filling up the empty spaces with temporary distractions, I didn’t have to face the silence that came with sitting alone with my thoughts. I didn’t have to face the pain of feeling unworthy, of feeling like I was too broken to ever truly be loved or accepted.

But slowly, things began to shift. Therapy helped, but not in the way I expected. It didn’t provide a magical fix. It wasn’t an immediate healing. But what therapy did give me was the space to challenge the way I saw myself. It helped me begin to dismantle the negative self-talk that had become my inner monologue. It allowed me to peel back the layers of shame and start to rebuild.

Radical self-acceptance was a concept that took me a long time to grasp. I used to think accepting myself meant giving up on being better, on striving for something more. I didn’t realize that true acceptance isn’t about complacency — it’s about honoring where you are and choosing to love yourself in spite of it. I began to understand that my worth isn’t tied to a diagnosis, to what people think, or to what society says is acceptable. I started recognizing that I was more than my status, more than a label, more than the stigma that clung to me like a second skin.

But the real game-changer came when I started speaking to myself the way I would speak to someone I love. I asked myself: *Would I ever call a friend “damaged” for something beyond their control?* Of course not. I would lift them up, encourage them, remind them of their worth. So why was I doing that to myself? Why was I allowing the voice in my head to be so cruel to someone who had already been through so much?

The shift wasn’t instantaneous, but over time, I learned to treat myself with the same compassion, the same kindness I would offer a loved one. Instead of allowing the stigma to define me, I started defining myself. I no longer saw myself as broken or unworthy. I began to embrace the reality that I am deserving of love, of acceptance, and of all the beauty life has to offer — even with my scars, even with my status.

Rewriting my story was one of the hardest things I’ve ever done, but it’s also been one of the most empowering. I had to unlearn the negative beliefs I’d been carrying for so long and replace them with truths that aligned with who I really am. I had to fight against the narrative the world tried to impose on me, and in doing so, I learned how to build a new, more authentic story — one where I am whole, I am worthy, and I am enough.

## **Finding Light in the Dark**

If grief has taught me anything, it’s that life is short — and it’s far too precious to spend it hiding, fearing, or holding onto the things that weigh us down. We spend so much time worrying about judgment, rejection, and the unknown, but in the end, those fears often pale in comparison to the regret of not fully embracing life, not fully being ourselves. We put up walls to protect ourselves, thinking it will shield us from pain, but in doing so, we rob ourselves of the chance to experience life in its fullest, rawest form.

Looking back, I realized I didn’t lose friendships because of my HIV status. I didn’t lose love. In fact, I’ve been loved deeply — despite it. The people who truly matter in my life never saw me as a walking diagnosis. They never reduced me to my status. They saw me — the person I am beneath the label. They saw my heart, my resilience, my fears, my dreams. That love wasn’t conditional on my health, and that’s been one of the most profound realizations of my journey. The right people will love you not in spite of your struggles, but alongside them. They will see you fully, and they will stand with you in the dark, even when the world feels like it’s too heavy to bear.

For anyone navigating this dual weight of loss — whether it’s the loss of a loved one, the loss of your own sense of self, or the weight of living with something that makes you feel “other” — know this: you are not alone. I know it feels like it sometimes. The loneliness can be suffocating. The shame can creep in, whispering that you’re unworthy or broken. But you are not defined by what’s happened to you. You are not defined by your grief or your status. You are not defined by the weight you carry.

It’s okay to be angry. It’s okay to grieve. It’s okay to sit in the heaviness of it all. Some days, that weight feels unbearable, and you don’t have to pretend like it isn’t. But also remember: while grief may shape you, it doesn’t have to steal your future. Don’t let it take away the possibility of joy, of love, of hope. Yes, you’ve been through something incredibly hard, but you are still here. You are still standing. And that, in itself, is something worth celebrating.

So build your safe space. It doesn’t have to be big or grand. It just needs to be somewhere you can breathe, somewhere you can process and heal. Lean on the right people — the ones who love you for who you are, not for who they think you should be. And most importantly, be kind to yourself. Don’t punish yourself for your pain. Don’t turn your grief inward. You deserve love. You deserve compassion. You deserve understanding, especially from yourself.

Because if there’s one thing I know for sure, it’s this: love, real love, isn’t conditional. It doesn’t come with an asterisk or a list of requirements. And that includes the love you give to yourself. If you can learn to love yourself through the darkness, you will find the strength to step into the light, no matter how long it takes. You are worthy of that love — every single part of you.

## **Closing Thoughts**

I’ve learned that healing isn’t linear. There are days when the weight of it all still feels too much to bear, and that’s okay. I’ve learned that it’s okay to not have it all figured out. It’s okay to take small steps, to stumble, to falter. Healing doesn’t demand perfection — it just asks for presence. For showing up, even when you’re not sure what the next step looks like. And sometimes, the most important thing you can do is simply keep going.

If you’re reading this and feeling like you’re carrying a burden too heavy to hold, know that it will get lighter with time. Not because the grief or the pain disappears, but because you will learn to carry it differently. You will grow. You will learn to make space for joy, even in the midst of sorrow. You will realize that you are so much more than the struggles you face. You are resilient. You are worthy. And you are never truly alone, even on the hardest days.

We are all in this together, navigating our own battles, facing our own grief, our own fears. But together, we create a community of strength, understanding, and love. We are not our diagnoses. We are not our grief. We are human, with a story to tell, with dreams to chase, and with love to give.

So, to anyone out there who is struggling, who feels unseen, or unloved, please know this: you are enough. Right now, just as you are. You are more than your circumstances, and your journey is far from over. There is so much life to be lived, and there is so much love waiting for you.

Thank you for reading, for sharing this space with me. Let’s keep rewriting our stories — together.

**Also Read: Nico's** [**<u>HIV experience</u>**](https://www.shamelesspath.com/blog/std-stories/hiv-positive-teen-love-struggles)

<p>How HIV reshaped my understanding of love, loss, and healing — a raw reflection on grief, stigma, and finding self-worth again.</p>

How HIV Changes the Way We Love and Mourn

How HIV reshaped my understanding of love, loss, and healing — a raw reflection on grief, stigma, and finding self-worth again.