HIV has never been just a statistic for me. It has never been a distant concern or a nameless condition existing in the abstract like it is for so many. It has never been something that merely existed as a plotline in a movie. It has never been an unseen boogeyman used as a scare tactic. It has always been real, personal, tangible, and deeply rooted in my life as a Black, sexually fluid man living in the Bible Belt. 

My earliest encounter with HIV would shape my entire life. At a young age during the early 2000s, I watched a family member pass away from AIDS-related complications. A few years later, I found myself talking a dear friend down from planning their suicide after they received an HIV-positive diagnosis. In between these moments, I saw countless others face the fears of being tested, endure the isolation they self-inflicted from shame, and perpetuate the narrative that this very real illness must be shrouded in secrecy due to what others might think or the fear of becoming another statistic. 

So many people in my life and my communities were too concerned with how this disease would box them in, classify them by their skin tone or sexual preferences or location, and spit them out as a number. It was heartbreaking to witness.

These moments reinforced a new reality for me: HIV is here, in our homes, families, and communities. It can’t be swept under the rug or hidden in the attic with family secrets. It must have a seat at the table and be a topic of conversation if we want to strip away the stigma and restore power to the people experiencing it. If we’re to end the epidemic, we must recognize the humanity behind the virus. A person’s worth is not diminished by their status, body, or sexuality. Their story — with all its uniqueness and complexity — is deserving of dignity. 

My own story changed forever in 2013, and I will continue to tell it loudly. Three words echoed in my head for weeks after I heard them. “You are positive.” Over a decade later, I am here to attest that although we are told that an HIV diagnosis is an ending, it became, for me, a new beginning. Yes, it was terrifying and challenging, but it ultimately gave me a deep purpose. 

My status has taught me profound empathy and self-love. It has allowed me to walk alongside others in my community, surviving and thriving. It has deepened my fight for justice and made me a better advocate. 

It has also given me so many incredible experiences, like being Heavy Hitter Pride Ambassador in 2019 and earning awards from Houston’s African-American State of Emergency Task Force, Impulse Group Houston, and The Mahogany Project. 

It led me to share my story with VICE for their “Staying Positive About Being HIV Positive” series. This past year, I also attended The White House Rising Leaders Summit, an incredible gathering of changemakers shaping a future without stigma. 

As the Deputy Director at The Normal Anomaly Initiative, I work every day to serve the Black LGBTQ+ community. These platforms have given me the microphone, but my community and experience have given me the words. 

As we acknowledge National Black HIV/AIDS Awareness Day at the start of Black History Month, I encourage you to expand your picture of HIV beyond the stats. 

Yes, we can see that Black people account for 12% of the population but 40% of the estimated new HIV infections in the United States. We can acknowledge that Black gay and bisexual men are the group most affected by HIV, accounting for 37% of estimated new infections among all gay and bisexual men. 

But ending HIV isn’t just about spreading awareness on one day or reciting alarming statistics. It requires us to roll up our sleeves and dismantle the inequalities that continue to drive health disparities. 

That means confronting systemic racism, homophobia, and stigma. It means addressing poverty, underfunded healthcare systems, and the lack of access to education in Black communities. It demands that we create equity — not just equality — in HIV testing, prevention, and treatment. 

On this National Black HIV/AIDS Awareness Day, I invite you to reflect on the role we all must play, no matter your race or sexuality. HIV impacts us all. There is no “us” vs. “them.” The fight to end this epidemic is our collective responsibility, and it won’t be won by small actions or one-dimensional solutions. It will require courage — courage to have difficult conversations, to act boldly, and to build systems that put humanity at the center. 

If you are living with HIV, know this — you are not alone, and you are not defined by your diagnosis. Take it one breath at a time. If you are an ally or advocate, keep fighting. And for everyone out there looking for small ways to create big changes, keep the dialogue going. 

This will ensure our stories will not be told in statistics but rather through our own tales. We will share our experiences, our moments of human connection and empathy, our vulnerability, and our courage. We are the storytellers, the disruptors, and the builders of a new tomorrow.