It’s interesting when I realize that living with HIV is the most manageable part of my life. I’m fortunate to have access to medication that keeps my HIV undetectable, which allows me to attend to other areas of my life. Plus, I don’t carry shame attached to my HIV status. HIV is not getting in the way of me living my life. I’ve been HIV-positive for 20 years.

Shortly after my diagnosis I knew I wanted to be public about my status. I was naive about HIV/AIDS—it never occurred to me that this white, heterosexual woman would be at risk. If I could get HIV, so could my friends. I first shared my story publicly while I was pregnant with my son. He’s now nineteen and is HIV-negative. Yes, I decided to first share my story while noticeably pregnant. I’ve been struggling with anxiety my whole life. I would have never expected that I would get up in front of strangers and speak… about anything. But it gave living with HIV meaning. HIV wasn’t going to get the best of me. I dove head first into HIV activism and have spoken countless times. It became important to me to use my diagnosis to help others.

I was a peer counselor at BABES Network–YWCA for nearly a decade. BABES is a program that offers peer support to female-identified HIV-positive folks. After leaving BABES, I decided to go back to school for my master’s degree in mental health counseling. I’m the only person in my family to have ever gone to college and neither of my parents graduated from high school. A master’s degree wasn’t even something to be considered. I’m now a mental health counselor working in supportive housing. HIV work will always be important to me, but my focus has shifted over the years.

I don’t think I would have ever made it this far if it hadn’t been for the strong female friendships in my life. I’m still friends with my girlfriends from childhood and the relationships I made while working at BABES were life changing. Some of my best friends are these women I worked with—we’ve been friends for 15 years and counting. They’re my family.

I’m currently more concerned with trying to manage working full-time as a single mom when my teenage son has a significant developmental disability and cannot be left unattended. And we’re in a pandemic. And the systems in place to help are only adding pressure to existing oppression already felt.

I feel way more isolated as a parent of a child with a disability than I do as someone living with HIV. It’s like living in a secret world. “You’re so strong,” I always hear. The being put on a pedestal is exhausting. He’s my son and I love him. He’s not a burden—the burden is lack of proper support. Do people know what it is like to be on 24/7… for years? Do people know what it is like to not be able to leave your home without your child… despite their age? Do people know what it is like to be afraid to die due to fear of what will happen to their adult child once they are gone? I find myself brimming with rage when I plead for understanding and much needed support.

I wish the world would slow down… for even two seconds. So I could catch my breath. The daily hustle is no joke. The world expects too much from me.

I often feel like I’m losing myself in all of the roles I’m in. Yes, the roles are a part of me, but not all of me. Do I have to give up my passion and sexuality? Do I have to give up a career that I love and fought for? What about time for my friendships? I’ve been blessed with incredible friends throughout my life, but it is a challenge for me to get out socially.

I don’t want to talk about HIV when my family is being crushed by ableism. I do not live a single issue life. I’m an HIV-positive single mom caring for my adult son just trying to get by.

“There is no such thing as a single-issue struggle because we do not live single-issue lives.” — Audre Lorde