Time to read
Growing up in rural Northern Ireland in the 1980s, I always felt different. One of my earliest memories is one Christmas morning, aged 6, waking up to find that Santa had brought me exactly what I wanted – a pram and a doll. I was so pleased, until my dad told me I wasn’t allowed to take it outside like my brothers did with their toys. That was the first time I felt shame for something I didn’t even understand.
Growing up gay felt isolating. My parents had a difficult relationship, and I carried a constant sense of not belonging. I hid my sexuality, convincing myself I was straight at university then falling in love with, and marrying, a woman. My mum told me she’d never seen me so scared as I looked on my wedding day. We moved to Mexico City for my job with the Foreign Office, and within six months, I felt compelled to face the truth: I was gay. She left, and I spiralled into depression.
Eventually, I found my footing and built a new life in Mexico, set up my own business helping Latin American students study in the UK, and finally embracing who I was. But years of repression had left me hungry for freedom, so I partied hard.
I was diagnosed with HIV in 2014, on Valentine’s Day, on a visit to London. When the pin-prick test came back positive, I thought my life was over. I felt toxic and untouchable. At the time, I didn’t know that HIV was a manageable condition, that I wasn’t going to die, that I would still be able to have relationships, sex, and a future. Because my CD4 count was still high, I didn’t start treatment for two years, which was scary, and triggered self-destructive behaviours – more drinking and drugs.
But meeting a peer mentor, seeing someone who had lived with HIV for 20 years and was thriving, gave me hope. Then I started treatment, learned about U=U (undetectable = untransmittable), and began to reclaim my life.
I sought therapy, and through this I also discovered that I had ADHD. It explained a lot: my struggles with emotions, relationships, focus, and impulsivity. Getting that diagnosis helped me understand myself better, and I’ve learned to manage my condition, in part by running (I ran the 2025 London Marathon).
Since my HIV diagnosis, I’ve become deeply involved in HIV advocacy. I now work as a peer mentor myself within an NHS clinic, supporting people who’ve just been diagnosed, many of whom feel just as scared and lost as I did. I see a lot of older women getting diagnosed through the A&E opt-out testing scheme, who never imagined they could have HIV. I’m there to reassure them, to tell them it’s going to be okay, like my own peer mentor did for me.
I’ve joined the National AIDS Trust’s Community Advisory Group to make sure the voices of people living with HIV shape policy, and I also share my story in schools, hospitals, even prisons, breaking down stigma.
HIV didn’t ruin my life. In many ways, it saved it. It forced me to face myself, to take control, to heal. If you’re afraid of getting tested, do it. If you’re positive, I can tell you: life will go on, and it can be beautiful, full, and worth fighting for.