Resistance is a fraught term. I am told to fear it: this is the last word that I ever want to hear from my doctor. But in resistance there is also power. I want to resist the apocalyptic narratives that I have written for myself, that have been written about me. I want to resist the notion that my HIV diagnosis was inevitable, because I was a faggot, because I was a slut, because I was alone. I want to resist a society that would blame me for my choices, that would reinforce my fears at every turn with laws that criminalize non-disclosure and promote a culture of stigma and apathy that robs everyone of the agency to self-determine their own sexual health and well-being. I want to resist the virus in my body in order to live a long, happy, and meaningful life.