"People wait in line to see me, saying there's plenty of living to be done even if you have an HIV diagnosis. People say they are 10- or 15-year survivors and still moving forward"

Greg Louganis’s words capture a cultural and medical turning point: the journey from silence and fear to visibility and momentum. The image of people waiting in line is more than fandom; it is a gathering of witnesses who want to be seen and to see one another. They are not waiting for a cure so much as for confirmation that their lives, right now, are worth inhabiting fully. “Plenty of living to be done” rejects the old framing of HIV as a foregone ending and insists on a future tense, work to pursue, love to give, art to make, communities to build.

Those who identify as 10- or 15-year survivors mark time the way athletes mark seasons or people in recovery mark sobriety: not as a countdown but as an accumulation of practice, resilience, and care. Each year survived rebuts decades of stigma and misinformation. It points to medical progress, effective antiretroviral therapy, and to the daily discipline of adherence, checkups, and self-advocacy. It also testifies to the power of community: knowledge shared, barriers challenged, and hope distributed through stories, not just statistics.

There is a reciprocal energy in the scene he describes. The audience comes seeking affirmation, yet their presence affirms him as well, turning personal survival into a collective resource. Visibility matters; a champion who disclosed his diagnosis and kept moving forward offers a counter-narrative to shame. The phrase “moving forward” carries the cadence of training: incremental gains, setbacks absorbed, attention fixed on the next dive, the next day.

Not everyone has equal access to care, and stigma has not vanished. Still, a line of people declaring their years and their direction announces a stubborn truth: life with HIV is not a pause but a path. The act of showing up, together, becomes both evidence and promise that the future remains open.