My Love Life Has a Third Wheel

October 7, 2026

The first thing I do every morning is check the clock. It’s always 6:17 AM.

My body wakes itself up 17 minutes before the alarm, a Pavlovian response to 27 years of medication. The second thing I do is count the pills: three white ones, one blue, two yellow.

I never had that big moment. You know that sit-down where somebody explains life to you. My HIV was just always there like the color of my skin or the fact that I’m left-handed. My mom got it from my dad. He got it from needles back in the 1980s. They died before I was old enough to miss them properly. So, my grandma raised me. In her  house, we didn’t talk about HIV. It was just “the medicine.” Seven a.m. sharp, every single day. That was the rule. I couldn’t ask her any questions, just take the pills.

Growing up in our neighborhood, you learned to keep things to yourself. Everybody’s got something; some weight they’re carrying. Mine just happened to be a virus. I remember in high school there was this boy, Jamal, with the prettiest smile. We were at his house, watching movies, and things got physical. He reached for the condom drawer, and I just froze. I had to say it. “I have HIV.” The way he looked at me changed in a second. Like I went from being this girl he liked to his problem. He still used the condom, but the mood was dead. He drove me home in silence and never answered my texts again. That was my first lesson in how people’s faces change when they find out.

College was supposed to be different. I thought I’d escaped. I studied marketing, joined the Black Student Association, and tried to be normal. I met this guy, David, in my sophomore year. He was studying to be a lawyer, smart and funny. I waited way too long to tell him. We were already in too deep, even talking about moving in together when we graduated. When I finally told him, he just got quiet. Real quiet. He said, “I respect you for telling me,” but I could see it in his eyes. He was already gone. Two weeks later, he said he “needed space.” Space turned into forever. That’s when I learned it doesn’t matter how good things are. The virus always has the final word.

 

I work in marketing now for a tech company. I’m good at my job. I make good money. I have a nice apartment in a nice building. But dating? That’s a whole other battlefield. There’s this moment, every single time, where I have to decide. Do I tell them now and risk the look or, do I wait and risk the fallout?

Last year, I met this man, Michael. He was perfect. A veterinarian who loved dogs and old soul music. We dated for three months, before I told him. We were at a jazz club, and the music was so good. I remember the night felt so right that I just went for it. He held my hand, listened and nodded. “Thank you for trusting me,” he said. We dated for another year. I thought he was the one. Then one day he told me he couldn’t do it anymore. “It’s not you, it’s me,” he said. “I can’t stop thinking about it. Every time you’re sick, I panic.” That was that.

Some days I get so angry. It’s not at Michael, not at Jamal, not at David, but the at the whole damn situation. I see my friends getting married, having babies and posting ultrasound pictures on Facebook. Sure. I’m happy for them. I am. However, there’s this part of me that feels like I’m watching life from behind a glass wall. My doctor says my viral load is undetectable. She says I could have a baby, a healthy baby, but that’s a whole other conversation. Isn’t it? That’s not just telling one person. It’s telling everyone. That’s bringing a child into a world whose mother has a mark on her.

The thing people don’t understand is that it’s not just the physical part of having HIV that is a burden. It’s the mental load. It’s the constant math in your head, the timing of the pills, the doctor’s appointments, the blood tests and all the little lies you tell. It could be “No, I can’t stay over, I have an early morning,” or “My stomach’s been bothering me, that’s why I’ve been tired.” It’s exhausting. It’s a full-time job on top of your actual full-time job.

Then, there are other days. Days where I think about how strong this has made me. How clear it’s made my understanding of what’s real and what’s not. I’ve seen people’s true colors. It’s scary, but it’s also freeing. You learn who your people are real fast.

My best friend, Tasha, she’s known since we were 19. She was the one who supported me in her dorm room, when I came back from that date with Jamal. She’s the one who reminds me to take my pills, when we’re on vacation. She’s the one who says, “Girl, any man who can’t handle your truth doesn’t deserve your awesomeness.” She is amazing.

Some days I think about what it would be like to just put it all out there early. I would just tell a new guy on the first date. I’d say, “Hi, I’m Chanel. I like old movies, spicy food, and I was born with HIV. Your move.” Would it be a disaster? Maybe. Probably. Possibly not. However, I think it would be better than this slow burn of hope and disappointment. I would know early and quick how someone felt about me.

I’m 27, and I don’t know what’s next. I’m tired of the reveal. I’m tired of the math, but I’m not tired of living.