I Was Born with HIV, But I Refused to Let It Silence Me 

By Nabukeera Doreen 

April 10, 2026

 

I was born into a story I did not choose, but one I have learned to tell with power.  

Twenty-six years ago, before I could speak my name, I was already navigating a world shaped by HIV. My mother carried both me and the virus, and in a limited-resource setting in Uganda, survival was never guaranteed. I grew up on clinic benches, the smell of antiseptic familiar, long before I understood what it meant. Nurses became part of my childhood. Pills small, bitter, and constant became my earliest routine. 

As a child, I did not know stigma by name. I only felt it. 

I felt it in the silence, when adults spoke in whispers about “that disease.” I felt it in the way my status was treated like a secret I had to carefully carry. However, nothing prepared me for the day stigma would become loud, visible, and personal. 

I was rejected at school. When my classmates found out I was HIV positive, everything changed. No one wanted to sit next to me. No one wanted to share books, talk to me, or even play with me. I became the girl everyone avoided. The silence was louder than insults. It made me feel small, dirty, and different in a way I did not understand. 

I remember going home in tears, begging my mother to change my school. I could not bear the isolation. I could not understand why I was being punished for something I did not choose. 

It was the first time I asked myself: Why me? I am the last born of four siblings and the only one living with HIV. That question stayed with me for years. It grew louder in moments of pain, confusion, and loneliness. There was a time when the weight became too much. 

I reached a point where I felt completely overwhelmed by stigma, rejection, and self-hate. I remember taking an overdose, trying to end my life. I was tired of carrying something that made me feel unwanted. Tired of asking “why me” without answers. Tired of feeling like my life had already been decided for me.  

I survived but was changed forever.  

For a long time after that moment, I struggled with how I saw myself. Stigma had moved from the outside world into my own mind. I started believing I was less. I was less deserving of love and less worthy of happiness.  

Even taking my medication became a battle. There was a time I gave up on my treatment for three months. I was fed up. I was tired of the routine, reminders and reality of what it meant. Taking pills every day felt like a constant weight in a life I could not escape, but something shifted. 

Through support groups at the clinic, I found people who understood me not as a patient, but as a person. For the first time, I heard stories like mine. I saw young people living, laughing, loving while still managing HIV. They helped me rebuild. 

They taught me that taking medication was not a burden; it was power. The adherence meant I could live a full, healthy life, and reach an undetectable status, which meant I could not pass on the virus. I realized my life was not over. It was mine to reclaim. Slowly, I began to see myself differently. 

Then came another challenge: relationships. No one prepares you for what it means to navigate love, intimacy, and sexual health, as a young Black woman living with HIV in Uganda. Conversations about sex are already surrounded by silence, and HIV makes that silence heavier. 

For me, relationships were never simple. They came with fear of disclosure, fear of rejection, and fear of being misunderstood. I carried questions in my heart. Will they still love me? Will they see me the same way? Sometimes, I chose silence. Sometimes, I walked away, before giving people the chance to reject me. 

Eventually, I found courage.