About Steph
I still date. I still have sex. I still get outbreaks.
I’m not a doctor and I’m not a guru. I’m the friend who already went through the part you’re in now, and I’ll tell you what actually happened.
I was in college when I was diagnosed.
Within days, the whole school knew. Girls I’d lived with made it their mission to make sure I was never happy again. I medically withdrew. I wasn’t well.
It was like walking around with a scarlet letter. I knew the people I passed in class were whispering. So I put on armour, and I denied, denied, denied.
I believed I’d have to walk on tiptoes in every relationship. That only a tiny pool of people would ever want me. That I’d always be the one punching above my weight, overcompensating to deserve a seat.
If I’m honest, I felt contaminated. And I thought that if someone really loved me now, there must be something wrong with them.
Then my body joined in. For seven years, almost every time I made plans to go out, I’d feel the warning tingle, then get an outbreak. Seven years without the sex I wanted. I thought that part of my life was over.
It wasn’t.
I was living in Hawaii when I met Connor. He asked to see my outbreak. Not to check. Out of curiosity. He was amazed by my body, and he taught me I was bigger than my diagnosis.
Nobody had ever looked at me like that. Including me.
It didn’t look flawless. A lot of those years I was in survival mode, and I honestly don’t know how I got through them. But I became bigger than it.
So let me save you the other six years.
Birth control. When you were last tested. Herpes. It’s housekeeping, and you can ask about their status too.
The talk is the fastest compatibility test there is.
I’m never going to tell you it’s no big deal. We name it. Then we move. Forward is the way through.
Herpes may be lifelong. The story you inherited about it doesn’t get a lifetime contract.
I’m not a clinician. I’m someone who’s lived it, on purpose and out loud.
And I’ve trained in how the body holds shame and fear:
No backstory. No explaining. No proving you’re still normal.
I won’t just nod along and reassure you. I’ll give you honest advice, and lovingly challenge whatever you were told herpes makes you.
Show up however you want
Camera off. Audio only is always welcome.
Chat only. Type, don’t talk.
Anonymous. A fake email and a Zoom name like djskfhd is genuinely fine.
What I’m not
I’m not a doctor, and nothing I share is medical advice. For diagnosis, treatment, transmission or pregnancy questions, talk to a licensed clinician.
I’m not a crisis service. If you’re thinking about hurting yourself, call or text 988 in the US, any time. Outside the US, findahelpline.com lists your local line.
What I am: the person who’s already been where you are and gotten through it.
My numbers. In almost ten years, I’ve had two bad responses. One guy turned out to be cheating. The other turned out to live with his mom. Herpes didn’t lose me anyone worth keeping.
“Holy crap. I feel so seen.”
Guide reader
“I have let go of the fear of being rejected.”
Reader
The free guide. How to bring it up so it feels light and natural, how to practise saying it, and what’s worked for me after almost ten years of trial and error.
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