Author: ctfuqua

I see life as full of possibilities and the world full of beautiful people possessing unique and often untapped talents. I’m a learner and connector, seeking ways to leverage the abundance in this world through strong community.

Understanding the Emotional Impact of an HIV Diagnosis


“It took me nine years to really begin processing my diagnosis.”

When I was first diagnosed with HIV, I didn’t fully grasp how traumatic that moment was. I understood the medical facts, but what I didn’t understand was the grief – the dreams I thought I lost, the fear of stigma, and the quiet loneliness that followed me for years.

It took me nine years to finally begin dealing with my diagnosis. Nine years before I let myself acknowledge the loss, the shame, and the resilience I would need to rebuild my life. Looking back, I can’t help but feel that the system failed me—or at least, it could have done better.

We don’t just need medical care after a diagnosis. We need mental health care too.

Imagine if, six months after someone tests positive, their care coordinator or peer HIV navigator sat down with them for a simple mental health screening. Not a rushed checklist, but a real conversation. A chance to ask: How are you coping? What’s hardest for you right now? Where are you finding strength, and where do you need support?

I recently used a tool that reminded me how powerful those questions can be. It’s a simple worksheet that invites people living with HIV to reflect on different areas of life: identity, health, stigma, relationships, hope, and emotional wellbeing. In a support group, we each scored ourselves, shared our highs and lows, and talked about what mattered most. The therapeutic value was extraordinary – not because of the paper itself, but because of the way it opened space for one person to help another. HT to Robin who helped author this tool.

Hiv Discussion Worksheet (1)Download

That’s why I want to share this tool, not as a solution in itself, but as a conversation starter. It can be used by providers, peer navigators, or anyone supporting people living with HIV. It creates an opening to talk about the emotional journey, not just the lab results.

For me, it shouldn’t take nine years to reach that point. If we build mental health check-ins into HIV care – whether at six months, a year, or whenever someone is ready – we can help people grieve, heal, and find resilience much earlier.

Because living with HIV is not just about managing a virus. It’s about reclaiming hope, rebuilding purpose, and reminding people: you are more than your diagnosis.

Keep tellin’ the story,

Professor Peacock

Note: These are my thoughts and my story. I used AI to make helpful edits to my ramblings and online journaling, including some organization to be more blog-friendly. AI created the featured image used in my blog.

I Don’t Need a Specialist Anymore — And That’s a Good Thing


When I was first diagnosed with HIV in 2012, the idea of seeing anyone other than an infectious disease specialist would have felt reckless, even dangerous. This was before PrEP, before U=U. Specialists were the gatekeepers – the people who knew the ever-changing science, the ones who gave me the sense of being in the safest possible hands. For a long time, they were the difference between life and death.

So when I learned today at my routine HIV lab follow-up that the Damien Center is shifting away from relying on infectious disease doctors, and instead training primary care physicians to handle HIV, my first reaction wasn’t celebration. It was shock. Fear. Even a little sadness. A part of me wanted to feel special, to believe that my care required the highest tier of expertise, that my condition set me apart in a way that demanded more than “just” primary care.

But sitting with that discomfort, I realized something important: this change is a milestone.

It’s not about being less cared for. It’s about HIV care becoming ordinary in the best possible sense. What was once an emergency requiring specialists is now a chronic condition that can be managed alongside everything else. Just like diabetes, high blood pressure, or asthma. And just as most people with diabetes don’t see an endocrinologist every month, most people living with HIV don’t need an infectious disease doctor at their side for every check-up. We need skilled, compassionate primary care providers who are equipped with the right training. That’s exactly what this new model is delivering.

The truth is, the biggest factors in HIV health today aren’t whether you have access to a specialist; they’re whether you can access care at all, whether your doctor treats you with dignity, whether you have support for housing, food, mental health, and transportation. Medicine has advanced so much that the day-to-day fight isn’t with the virus itself – it’s with the systems that surround care. And if we’re honest, it’s with stigma itself. Stigma kills.

When I was first diagnosed, I was in the hospital. A case of misdiagnosed stage-2 syphilis landing me in the ER. Thankfully, my visit to the ER is the reason I was diagnosed so soon after being exposed to the HIV virus. My infectious disease doctor told me they caught my HIV very early – he only saw a handful of cases each year like mine. I was lucky to be in his hands.

Around the time I was diagnosed in 2012, newer medications were available, and the medical advice began to shift towards starting treatment right away. Why? Because the side effects of the latest antiretroviral treatments (ARTs) were much milder, making it smarter to begin medication quickly to lower the viral load. This was all before the idea of U=U was introduced.

So, I’m very thankful for my infectious disease specialist, because he caught me “on the forefront of change.” Looking back, that was huge step forward.

Now, 13 years later, the fact that I don’t “need” one anymore isn’t a downgrade — it’s proof of progress. It means that medications work so reliably, and outcomes are so good, that HIV can finally be seen for what it is: not a death sentence, but a manageable chronic condition.

Of course, specialists still exist for rare or complicated cases – and that’s important. But the default has shifted. HIV no longer requires a small elite circle of experts. Instead, it belongs in the hands of everyday doctors, woven into the fabric of routine healthcare.

That’s not loss. That’s victory.

So yes, there was some grief in letting go of the idea that I needed a specialist. But in the end, this shift means something profound:

I am not defined by HIV. My care is not extraordinary because of this virus.

This disease is not terminal. It’s ordinary.

And that’s extraordinary.

Keep tellin’ the story,

Professor Peacock

Note: These are my thoughts and my story. I used AI to make helpful edits to my ramblings and online journaling, including some organization to be more blog-friendly.

Aging Out Loud: What Gay Culture Taught Me About Desire, Rejection, and Growing Older


There are moments I scroll through hookup apps and feel like a ghost in a room I used to be welcomed into.

I’m still here. Still queer. Still alive in this beautiful, ridiculous, aching body of mine. Still hungry for connection. Still flirting. Still hopeful. But something has shifted—and it’s not just the algorithm. It’s how I’m seen. And maybe, too, how I see myself.

I don’t write this with bitterness. I write it with curiosity. With a little heartache. And with a lot of honesty.

Because as much as I feel hurt by the way gay culture sidelines older queer men, I also have to admit – I’ve done the sidelining too.

I Was Ageist Before I Aged

I used to filter people out by age without a second thought. I thought it was just preference. I’d scroll past men who reminded me too much of my father, or who didn’t fit my fantasy. I didn’t stop to think about what that felt like on the receiving end. I didn’t have to think about it.

Back then, I was what the culture rewarded: younger, thinner, newer. Now, I’m on the other side of that invisible line. And I feel it.

The messages come slower. Or not at all. Sometimes, when I do get responses, they come with qualifiers: “you’re hot for your age” or “I usually don’t go this old, but…” You learn quickly how conditional your desirability becomes.

It’s a strange thing, being both hurt by something and complicit in it.

Desire Isn’t a Crime—But Conditioning Is Real

I’m not here to shame anyone’s attraction. Desire is weird, layered, deeply personal. But it’s also shaped by culture, and our culture – gay culture, hookup culture, digital queer spaces – is soaked in ageism. Youth is not just fetishized; it’s framed as the ideal. Everything else is a compromise.

Even now, I catch myself gravitating toward younger men. Sometimes I’m chasing vitality. Sometimes I’m chasing the version of myself I used to be. Sometimes I just want to feel wanted by someone who represents possibility, not limitation.

But what am I reinforcing when I do that? What mirror am I holding up for others—and for myself?

The Cost of Invisibility

It’s hard to talk about this stuff without sounding fragile. But the truth is, there’s grief in this. Not just about not getting laid as easily (though, yeah, that too), but about the quiet ways we’re taught that our worth expires with our youth.

And I think what hurts the most is not the rejection itself—it’s the accumulation of being unseen. Of being looked through, not looked at. Especially when I know I’m still vibrant, still sexy, still full of spark and stories and tenderness.

I want to be desired not despite my age, but with it. Because of it.

How Can We Do Better?

I don’t have a blueprint. But I think it starts with asking better questions. Of each other. Of ourselves.

Why do we equate youth with value?
Why do we treat older bodies as either comic relief or invisible burdens?
Why are we so afraid to look in the mirror and see time?

I think we can celebrate queerness across every age. I think we can uplift the beauty of experience, the dignity of survival, the sexiness of someone who knows their body and their mind.

And I think we can make space for intergenerational friendships, for mentorship, for flirtation that isn’t transactional, for community that isn’t just curated around desirability.

How Can I Do Better?

I can start by offering grace. To others, and to myself.

I can notice when I’m seeking youth as validation and pause.
I can stop ghosting people just because they’re older than my fantasy self.
I can consider my choice of models and seek out older representation in my art.
I can show up as fully myself, without apology. And trust that I’m not “less than” – just more lived-in.

I can remember that queerness isn’t a trend I’m aging out of. It’s a lifelong becoming.

So here I am, still swiping sometimes. Still showing up. Still believing in the possibility of being seen, felt, held. Not because I’m clinging to youth, but because I’m not done growing.

And maybe that’s what aging with pride really means.

Let’s Talk

Have you felt this too? Whether you’re 23 or 63, how has age shaped your experience of queer community and connection?

Drop a comment or share your story, I’d love to hear from you. Let’s talk about how we’re aging, desiring, and becoming… together.

Note: I used AI to make final edits to my ramblings and online journaling, including some formatting and organization to be more blog-friendly.