Reframing HIV: Dr. Maisha Standifer and Masonia Traylor call for a new narrative for Black women.
The numbers are shocking.
March 10 marks National Women & Girls HIV/AIDS Awareness Day, but we’ve been misinformed about the true impact of HIV on our communities. The numbers are alarming—Black women are 12 times more likely to be diagnosed with HIV than white women, and nearly 60% of new HIV diagnoses among women in the U.S. are Black women. When was the last time you had a conversation with the women in your life about HIV? It feels like the last time we truly addressed this issue was when Salt’N’Pepa rapped, “Let’s Talk About Sex,” and TLC rocked condoms on their clothes.
Dr. Maisha Standifer and Masonia Traylor are leading the charge to change the narrative around HIV in the fight for health equity in Black communities. As advocates and educators in HIV awareness, they are using their platforms to challenge stigma, advocate for better healthcare access, and empower Black women to take charge of their health.
“I believe our paths were meant to cross,” says Standifer. “This project brought us together, and I was deeply moved by not just her, but her story and the empowerment she represents. It’s crucial for shaping the perception and narrative, especially when it comes to our young girls and women. I’m very intentional about the narrative we create for them.”
Traylor embodies the vibrant, driven spirit of any successful 30-something Black woman you might know—someone you’d call a friend or family member. She’s dedicated to educating the community about HIV prevention, treatment, and care. As the founder and executive director of her nonprofit, Lady Burgundy, Inc., Traylor holds a degree from Georgia State University’s Andrew Young School of Public Policy and, like Standifer, is a community-based researcher. But beyond her impressive credentials, Traylor’s personal journey over the past 14 years, since her diagnosis, has been shaped by the loss of friends, many of whom passed away due to the high cost of medication needed to stay alive.
“Let me be clear—HIV is not a death sentence,” Traylor emphasized. “What is truly harmful is silence, shame, and misinformation. I was diagnosed with HIV at 23 as a young mother, and I had to battle not only the physical health challenges but also the mental and emotional toll of stigma. Too many Black women are suffering in silence because we aren’t having enough honest, open conversations about it.”
In an age where PrEP and Truvada commercials are everywhere, it’s easy for the public to believe that living with HIV today is as simple as taking a daily pill. But with terms like “undetectable” being used frequently without proper education or context for those who haven’t been diagnosed, too many lives are being put at risk due to ignorance.
“The medication I take costs at least $4,000 a month without health insurance,” Traylor shared with BE. “It costs me $60,000 a year just to stay alive, not including the doctor’s fees and the blood tests… HIV has become a money-making opportunity for many.”
How many people truly understand the cost of staying alive? Would sexually active individuals make different choices if they knew the price to pay? It’s clear that there aren’t enough conversations about the financial side of HIV treatment, but an even bigger concern for both Traylor and Standifer is the way HIV care is being managed in the Black community due to a lack of awareness and cultural sensitivity.
“I’m concerned about the type of doctors entering this field who don’t fully understand the history of HIV but want to provide care for people living with it,” Traylor explained. “Many new providers come in with compassion and empathy, but they lack a deep understanding of our past and future. There’s a sense that patients are seen as entitled when seeking care, but they are often carrying trauma that isn’t being recognized or diagnosed by mental health professionals, both legally and politically.”
Addressing the HIV crisis in the Black community isn’t just about prevention and treatment—it’s a complex issue that requires a shift in perspective. Both Standifer and Traylor agree that the narrative needs to change.
“What I learned is that I didn’t get HIV from having condomless sex,” Traylor told Black Enterprise. “I got HIV from choosing to love Black men who don’t prioritize their health. Being a protector and provider isn’t just about financial support – it’s also about ensuring I can protect you from harmful things in the environment. But harm isn’t just external; it’s also internal. The internal struggles of a woman can bring another life into the world, and we’re not protecting that.”
For Standifer, it’s crucial that the next generation of healthcare providers are equipped with the knowledge to offer both treatment and a prevention-focused curriculum to help our youth navigate the risks of STIs.
“We talk about politics, community, advocates, and activists—so, when we look at this spectrum, what needs to be prioritized?” Dr. Standifer asked. “It’s about developing the next generation of public health leaders and researchers who look like me and you. At Morehouse School of Medicine, we focus on optimizing ourselves because we are the trusted voice in the community. We may not get as much funding as institutions just 30 minutes away, but we’ve always been here as HBCUs, and we will continue until we get it right. Right now, we’re creating courses for future clinicians to normalize conversations like, ‘Hey, let’s talk about sexual health.’”
The narrative about HIV in the Black community can’t be captured in a single conversation or topic. HIV education must be prioritized at every level, from elementary school students to medical professionals. Advocates like Dr. Maisha Standifer and Masonia Traylor must be fully supported in their efforts to provide education and treatment because, while HIV may no longer be a death sentence, its consequences are still too dangerous to ignore.
