Category: Mindful Living

I Didn’t Relapse. I Chose to Use.


I’ve never loved the word relapse.

In abstinence-based recovery, it gets thrown around like a scarlet letter. Relapse means you failed. Relapse means you’re “back out there.” Relapse means you’ve lost your chip, your clean time, your credibility. It’s all-or-nothing, black-and-white, success-or-failure.

But here’s the thing: life isn’t black and white. And neither is recovery.

That’s where harm reduction has been such a gift to me. Instead of demanding perfection, it allows me to ask a more useful question: How can I reduce harm, no matter what choices I make?

When “Relapse” Becomes a Roadblock

The problem with calling it a relapse is the shame that follows. That shame can be louder than the actual use itself. I could spend a weekend beating myself up, convincing myself that I’ve ruined everything, that I should just give up. And ironically, that shame spiral is more likely to push me into more use – not less.

When I think about my own journey, relapse just doesn’t fit. Sometimes, yes, I make a choice that doesn’t line up with my intentions or my values. Sometimes I pick up something I’ve been avoiding. But that doesn’t mean I’ve suddenly undone all the progress I’ve made or that I’m back at zero. It means I made a choice – sometimes a healthier choice, sometimes a riskier one.

Harm reduction flips that on its head. It says: You’re still here. You’re still worthy. Let’s talk about what happened without judgment.

A Different Kind of Honesty

I want to be able to say:

  • “I chose to use because I was hurting.”
  • “I made a decision that didn’t line up with my values, and I want to unpack why.”
  • “I was stressed and slipped into an old pattern, but I’m not starting over at zero.”

That kind of honesty matters. Not because it excuses risky choices, but because it makes space to talk about them without fear. The real danger isn’t the choice itself. It’s the silence that stigma creates.

Words Like Overdose Don’t Always Fit Either

Even the language around risk needs reframing. “Overdose” implies I took too much. But often, the truth is scarier: I didn’t take what I thought I was taking at all. I may have signed up to use meth, but I didn’t sign up to smoke fentanyl. That’s not “overdoing it” – that’s contamination in a poisoned drug supply.

When we keep using the old language, we keep reinforcing old narratives: that the problem is the person, not the system. But if we reframe it, we see the truth. The real problem is unsafe supplies, criminalization, and a lack of support.

Moving Forward Without Shame

So I’ve stopped saying relapse. I’ve started saying: I chose to use.

That doesn’t make the choice “good” or “bad.” It just makes it mine. It keeps me honest without putting me in the box of failure. And it leaves room for growth, for reflection, for harm reduction.

I’m not back at square one. I’m still on the path. And maybe that’s the point: recovery, or whatever we want to call this messy, human process, isn’t about perfection. It’s about progress. It’s about staying alive. It’s about learning to meet ourselves where we are—without shame, without silence, and without that old, heavy word: relapse.

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.

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.