Disclosure, Part 1

What is disclosure all about? Why is it such a demonizing experience that we impose on those who are made to believe that something within them is wrong or broken? Let's start with the definition. Disclosure is the action of making new or secret information known. This definition sounds much less stigmatizing and fearful than the reality of opening up about yourself, which often brings an overwhelming cascade of fear, shame, anxiety, and guilt. This happens because, on a surface level, we know that some people will judge and ultimately reject us for what makes us the people we have grown to love and be comfortable with.

I remember how disclosure has been used as both a tool and a weapon against me, simply for being who I am.

Reflecting on my life, there are many things about myself that I haven't necessarily kept secret, but I also haven't shouted from the rooftops. I remember how disclosure has been used as both a tool and a weapon against me, simply for being who I am. At the time of my HIV diagnosis, I was battling a healthcare system that was far less inclusive than it is now. I was on a journey of self-discovery and wanted to medically transition from male to female. At this point, I had been living as a woman for many years but needed medical intervention to complete the process. Navigating that process was hard enough, but the new tenant that had just moved into my body's immune system was about to make that transition goal much harder to obtain.

Prior to working in healthcare, I assumed as a patient I was protected and looked after. You can imagine my dismay when a younger me was told to come back into the doctor's office for a follow-up from the visit I had a week ago. As I walked down what seemed like the longest and scariest halls of any doctor's office I had ever been in, my anxiety-ridden brain filled with a sense of dread and confusion. Why was I asked to come back? Why was all the staff being so standoffish towards me? What did the nurse at the front desk mean by, "Oh, you're Kim."

Is this how they tell people they have cancer or worse, that they are dying? The thoughts in my mind were running way faster than I had ever physically run in my life. "Ok, Mr. S." Yup, this nurse most certainly did misgender me. "You can have a seat here, and the doctor will be right with you." I walked over to a chair as the door closed slowly behind the rude ass nurse who certainly saw all this femininity and 22-inch bundles of hair but still had the audacity to call me “Mr.”

A few moments went by, and into the exam room walked not one, but five white coats—three men and two women. I can't recall much about them other than the fact that none of them could look me in the eye. "Hi Kim, I brought some of my residents in with me to observe today's visit, okay?" To this day, I wish he had asked me instead of just "kindly" telling me. He then went on to say that he had received my bloodwork and needed to tell me in person—and apparently in front of an audience—that I had tested positive for HIV.

Reflecting on my life, there are many things about myself that I haven't necessarily kept secret, but I also haven't shouted from the rooftops.

He asked if I had any questions. I wanted to ask why it took a team to deliver such shocking and sensitive information, but I just said, "No." I said no not because I didn't have tons of questions, but because the feeling of being judged by complete strangers and the overwhelming shame made me want to get out of that office as fast as humanly possible.

The doctor then explained that although I was originally seeking services to medically transition, my HIV diagnosis now meant that this would not be possible. He said I would be connected to an HIV specialist to begin treatment and get "healthier before you think about getting your boobs done." That was the statement said to me as I sat in an exam room full of medical professionals.

The way this doctor, a healthcare professional, chose to disclose my diagnosis traumatized me in ways that I am only now beginning to fully understand. As I continue to blog and open up about my story for the first time, I hope to give readers insight into how a former barber from Rancho Cucamonga, California, turned an HIV diagnosis into the biggest blessing of her life. I became a highly respected and award-winning healthcare professional, advocating for inclusion, diversity, and changing the face of gender-affirming health in Palm Springs, California, forever.

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