The word “herpes” feels a bit like the real-life equivalent of Voldemort in Harry Potter. People will say cold sore, HSV, anything other than the name itself. As if avoiding the word somehow avoids the shame, guilt and disgust we’ve collectively attached to it.
When I was diagnosed, that shame hit me instantly. Overnight, I became the punchline of jokes I’d once laughed along to. Sitting in the doctor’s chair on the day of my diagnosis, I remember thinking: But I did everything right. I was careful. I followed all the rules.
What I didn’t yet understand was that there are no rules that guarantee protection. Condoms don’t fully safeguard against herpes because it can be passed through oral sex and skin-to-skin contact. The World Health Organisation states 3.8 billion people under the age of 50 carry HSV. Many are asymptomatic. And most standard STI screenings don’t even test for it.
But none of that seemed to matter. Learning this information didn’t soften the blow. What hurt most was the way the stigma flattened all nuance. Even people with oral cold sores – caused by the same virus – often created a distinction between them and me. They were “normal.” I was “dirty.” Promiscuous. Reckless. Despite the fact that they, too, could pass genital herpes to someone in the future.
I would go as far as to say the stigma was heavier than the condition itself. After my initial outbreak, my body returned to normal. But mentally, I didn’t. The shame followed me everywhere. I branded myself “damaged goods,” as though my value had depreciated overnight.
I spiralled. I binge ate. I doom-scrolled. I tried to numb myself in any way I could. I felt unbearably alone, convinced no one else could possibly understand what I was carrying, physically, but more so emotionally.
Then, in 2022, I had the opportunity to climb Mount Fuji, and I very quickly realised how disconnected I’d become from my own body. Unfit, unconfident, a complete shell of myself. And for the first time in a long while, I decided I didn’t want to disappear. I wanted to change.
Very impulsively, I signed up for a charity place in the London Marathon. I couldn’t run a mile. I definitely did not feel like a “runner.” But I needed something to work towards; something that required me to show up for myself and prove that I could get through hard things.
Running changed everything for me.
At first, it was small milestones: my first 5km, then 10km. Slowly, mile by mile, I began to realise that my body wasn’t broken. It was not “damaged.” It could carry me for miles.
The more I ran, the more I realised how much of what had been holding me back wasn’t physical at all – it was mental. The stigma only had power if I allowed it to. Like a snowball, I started testing that theory in other areas of my life.
I started dating again. I downloaded the apps. I put myself in situations where rejection was possible, and survived it. I met my partner, with whom I’ve now been for over three years. I crossed the finish line of the London Marathon. My confidence, which had once felt irreparable, slowly grew again.
Eventually, I began sharing my running journey online, initially just to document slow, realistic progress in a space that often glorifies speed and perfection. But as my platform grew, a question began to sit heavier with me: How many people watching me are suffering silently, the way I once did?
So, when I finally felt strong enough, I decided to talk about my diagnosis publicly.
It felt like the day I told my partner I had HSV, except this time, the audience was the entire world. The moment I pressed “post,” I chucked my phone across the room and ran from it. When I eventually had the courage to check it, the response was overwhelming. I received thousands of messages from people who felt seen for the first time. People who had never told their friends or family. People who believed they were unlovable. Some admitted they had contemplated suicide after their diagnosis.
Of course, there were cruel comments too. People calling me “gross” or saying I’d “be alone forever.” But I’ve learned that most of these comments come from ignorance. And ignorance thrives in silence.
Sex remains one of the most taboo subjects we have. Rather ironic considering every single person on this planet exists because of it. This taboo breeds misinformation, fear and judgment. And stigma flourishes where knowledge is lacking.
I don’t believe stigma disappears overnight. But I do believe it weakens when we stop whispering. When women realise they’re not alone. When we stop letting stigma decide our bodies' value.
Running taught me that. And sharing my story taught me something else entirely: stigma doesn’t survive in the light.
Your sex life isn't over. Seriously.
