The Test Was Wrong. The Shame Was Not

I wasn’t worried when I got my latest STI screening.

I hadn't had any new unprotected partners since my last test. I trusted my body, my practices, my relationship agreements. I trusted the systems I had carefully put in place to protect my health.

That morning, I had actually texted my doctor for something entirely unrelated: I was hoping to get a quick antibiotic prescription because what I thought was just spring allergies was starting to feel more like a sinus infection.

I use a concierge medical service, and I love how easy it usually is—no waiting rooms, no phone trees, just a quick text and done. Normally, my doctor would respond with something like “Sure, I’ll call it in” and I’d move on with my day. But this time, he replied:

“I’ll give you a call after I finish with my next client.”

And just like that, my stomach dropped.

Doctors don’t schedule calls for allergies.

When he finally called, his voice was calm, measured—too measured.

He told me my STI panel had come back. Everything was negative, as expected—except one thing: my HIV test was reactive.

I remember just blinking. I couldn’t speak.

Then he started walking me through next steps. Because of state reporting protocols, the result had to be reported to the health department. And because of that, the front office staff was now aware of my result. What had begun as a private text about sinus pressure had suddenly spiraled into something far more vulnerable—and far less confidential.

Now I was calling the health department. Now I was refreshing my patient portal every 30 seconds. Now I was spiraling.

The waiting room at the health department smelled faintly of disinfectant and too much air conditioning. I sat there trying to feel my body—my hands, my feet—but I felt like I was floating several feet above myself, tethered only by a thin string of dread.

I kept telling myself not to panic. I reminded myself that false positives happen. I told myself that no matter the outcome, I was still whole. I was still worthy. I was still me.

But shame is a cunning creature. It knows how to slip past logic and wrap itself around your heart.

Sitting there, I felt the heavy weight of every stereotype ever weaponized against women like me—women who live fully, love openly, and refuse to shrink themselves to make others comfortable. The world likes to call us reckless. Immoral. I could already hear the imaginary accusations ringing in my ears:

"What did you expect?"

"That’s what happens to people like you."

It didn’t matter that I had done everything right.

In that moment, the narrative felt bigger than the truth.

And it almost swallowed me whole.

My rational mind knew that even if it were true, HIV is no longer the death sentence it once was. With access to treatment and early diagnosis, people living with HIV can lead long, healthy lives—and reach undetectable levels that make the virus untransmittable. But that wasn’t what scared me.

What scared me was the shame.

The possibility that the staff at my doctor’s office might judge me—or worse, gossip about me.

In a small town, people talk. And being a sex-positive, polyamorous woman already puts me under a microscope.

I wasn’t afraid of my health. I was afraid of being dehumanized.

Here’s what I wish more people knew:

A "reactive" result on an HIV screening test doesn’t mean you’re HIV positive.

It means the test noticed something in your blood that looked similar enough to warrant a closer look.

HIV screening tests are intentionally designed to catch even the faintest possibility of infection. They prioritize caution over certainty, which means they sometimes flag things that aren't actually HIV.

In my case, I had been recovering from that sinus infection—the one I originally texted about. My immune system had been on high alert, pumping out antibodies to fight whatever bug had moved in. And HIV screening tests, especially the fourth-generation ones, are so sensitive that they sometimes mistake an overactive immune response for something more serious.

That’s why confirmatory testing exists—to slow down the panic, to bring science and specificity back into the picture.

It’s not about trusting less. It’s about understanding more.

And if you take nothing else from my story, let it be this:

Getting tested—even when it’s scary—is an act of love.

Love for your body. Love for your partners. Love for your future self.

Love that is bigger than fear.

Learning the science behind false positives brought me a wave of relief, but it didn't immediately quiet the deeper ache that had been stirred up inside me.

Because the real wound wasn’t just about the test.

It was about the way fear wrapped its fingers around my sense of self—the way shame tried to worm its way into a body I had spent years learning to love without apology.

It made me realize how fragile even the strongest self-trust can feel when old cultural narratives come roaring back.

How quickly empowerment can start to shake when the world still tries to tell you that your sensuality is a sin, that your body is a liability, that your freedom is a threat.

It wasn’t my blood that betrayed me.

It was the story the world has always been ready to tell about women like me.

And so, healing from this moment isn’t just about celebrating a negative result.

It’s about reclaiming the deeper truth:

That my body was never the danger.

That my openness was never the shameful thing.

That living fully, loving freely, and daring to trust my own desires is still—and always will be—sacred.

This wasn’t the lesson I asked for.

But maybe it’s the one I needed.

The kind that strips you down to the bone, reminds you that strength is not the absence of fear, but the willingness to keep breathing through it.

I am walking forward carrying new wisdom, new softness, and an even deeper devotion to living unashamed.

Because I know now—more than ever—that a life lived close to the skin, close to the heart, will never be a mistake.

Not even for a moment.

I choose love over fear. Always.