First-hand: How storytelling became my tool for healing and hope

My journey into HIV advocacy started long before I ever called myself an advocate. It began the day I discovered I had been born with HIV. I was sixteen, preparing for my national exams, and trying to make sense of a world that had only ever spoken about HIV through fear and shame.

Growing up in Zimbabwe, HIV was often described as something that happened to “people who behaved badly.” I heard it in school, in church, in conversations at home. When I learned about my own status, it didn’t just scare me, it shook everything I thought I knew about myself.

With time, support, and accurate information, I realised something important; HIV wasn’t a moral issue. It wasn’t a punishment. And it wasn’t the end of my future. That realisation was the beginning of my work.

More than a story, a responsibility

Telling my story started as a way of healing, but it soon became something bigger. It became a responsibility. When I went public about my status years later, I began receiving private messages from young people, parents, and even public figures who were struggling quietly.

Some had just been diagnosed. Others were living with shame. Many more were misinformed because no one had ever told them the truth. That’s when I understood that storytelling is not just sharing. It’s creating a safe place for others to breathe.

I realised that being open about my life made me a point of connection. People trusted me with their questions, their fears, and their loneliness. And once someone sees you as a safe person, they come to you not just for information, but for comfort.

My role has become much more than educating. It is now to accompany. Sometimes that means explaining treatment. On other days it means reassuring someone that undetectable really means untransmittable. Then on other occasions it means holding space for tears or anger or exhaustion.

I soon realized that this work requires heart. And it requires honesty.

Why storytelling matters

At first, I didn’t think my personal journey would matter to anyone outside my small circle and network. But the response taught me otherwise.

One message, in particular, stayed with me. A teenage girl had stopped taking her medication after being mocked at school. She was quietly harming herself, not with a blade or a rope, but by defaulting - “slow suicide,” as some call it.

She found my YouTube video unexpectedly. Something in my story gave her strength to get up, return to the clinic, and try again.

That moment changed me. It reminded me that stories don’t just inform, they revive. People may forget statistics, but they remember a story that makes them feel less alone.

A stigma we still need to confront

A lot has changed over the years, but stigma still shapes many conversations around HIV. Even today, people ask me if someone in a sero-discordant relationship is “playing with fire.” Others doubt that U=U, or whisper myths that are both harmful and outdated.

One experience cut deeply. Before I ever went public, I disclosed my status to someone studying medicine. Instead of compassion, I received rejection and misinformation. The idea that even a future healthcare worker held such beliefs showed me how much work still needed to be done.

These harmful narratives are the reason I keep speaking. And my message remains the same. I remind people that people living with HIV deserve relationships, families, joy, and futures without shame. HIV is manageable. HIV is treatable. HIV does not reduce a person’s worth.

The more we speak openly, the faster we dismantle the silence.

Meeting people where they are

Today, most of my advocacy happens online. Social media allows me to meet people in spaces where they already feel at home. TikTok for young people, Facebook for families, LinkedIn for professionals, radio for those offline.

People ask real, personal questions that textbooks don’t always answer. 
Questions about love. 
Questions about fear. 
Questions about treatment. 
Questions about disclosure.

Creating these conversations helps replace shame with clarity. It ensures that reliable information is easier to access than rumours. And it makes HIV a topic we can speak about without whispering or hiding.

Small wins that keep me going

The work can be heavy. Some days I carry people’s pain long after our conversation ends. Some nights I think about the messages I couldn’t reply to quickly enough.

But the wins, however small, keep me hopeful. When someone returns to the clinic after defaulting. When someone messages me saying, “My viral load is undetectable now.” When a young woman says she gained confidence to disclose early. When a couple in a sero-discordant relationship sends an update that they’re doing well.

These moments remind me that change doesn't always happen loudly. Sometimes it begins quietly, through courage, consistency, and community.

Advice for young women navigating similar journeys

To every young woman living with HIV, I want to say this clearly: You are not your diagnosis. Your dreams are valid. Your goals are possible. Your worth does not decrease because of HIV. Remember to seek support when you need it. Don’t settle in relationships because you fear rejection. And do not hide yourself to make others comfortable.

Life is still yours. Fully. Completely.

When I tell my story, I hope people see beyond the myths and misconceptions. 
I hope they see people living with HIV as human beings first - capable, ambitious, loving, and strong.

I hope they understand that HIV stigma is a social problem, not a personal failing. And I hope they learn to trust science, truth, and compassion over rumour and fear. But most of all, I hope they remember this: Living with HIV is living fully, loudly, and with possibility.