THE TRUTH IN MY BLOOD

THE TRUTH IN MY BLOOD
From The Diagnosis He Inherited To The Destiny He Created
Exclusive Interview with Joseph Kibler
Featured in 'Innerviews'
Hosted by Allié McGuire

Some people spend their whole lives searching for courage; Joseph Kibler was born into it. His first breath came with a diagnosis, a prognosis, and a path no child should have to walk, being born with CP and HIV. Yet he found a way to rise, one determined step at a time. Today, as a father, artist, and advocate, his story is no longer about survival but about the quiet, steady truth he carries in his blood and the love he now passes forward.

ALLIÉ: You were born into a story you didn’t choose. I suppose all of us are, but yours came with a series of letters that would be part of your life forever… CP and HIV. At what point did your story start to feel like yours? Something you were shaping, not just surviving? What is your origin story?

JOSEPH: I think my origin story really began in theater. It started in high school, which was when I finally took hold of everything. Up until then, my cerebral palsy was very visually apparent. People knew I had a disability. But until I was about sixteen or seventeen, no one knew I was HIV positive. That was partly the time period. In the early 2000s, the stigma around HIV was still incredibly heavy. I found out when I was eleven, and at that time kids were still being ​kicked out of school for being HIV positive. Parents were scared for their own children. There were protests, school board fights. So we didn’t talk about it. We kept it under wraps.

Then I found theater. I found community. I started going to theater camps, and one exercise we were given was to go on stage and tell our peers something we had never told anyone. At seventeen, I thought, this is it. This is what I have to say.

I didn’t fully understand it then, but looking back, I realize how deeply depressed I was. I think I was protecting myself, being defensive. I couldn’t comprehend the severity of it at the time because it would have been too much. So I stood on stage and said, “My name is Joseph, and I’m HIV positive.” The response was overwhelming. People were kind. Supportive. Understanding. That moment jump-started everything for me.

From there, I started telling people sooner and sooner. It gave me control. It made my relationships feel real because people knew the full extent of who I was. I didn’t have that nagging question in the back of my head: if they knew, would they still want me in their life? That moment led me to acting. It made me realize this was the path I needed to be on. That’s when it became my story.
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ALLIÉ: I can imagine how empowering that must have been. Once you decide not to hide, there’s nothing left to fear.
Let’s talk about mobility for a moment. You went from wheelchair, to walker, to crutches, to cane. Each step its own victory. Was there a quiet moment on that journey, one no one saw, that still sits with you today?

JOSEPH: Honestly, the moment that stays with me isn’t about upward mobility. It’s about downward mobility. I built so much of my identity around being the person who went from wheelchair to walker to cane. All these milestones. This idea of progress. But then age started catching up with me. My body started wearing down from how much I had pushed it. I began falling more. And I realized I wasn’t doing what was best for my body now. I was doing what was best for it then. And what’s best doesn’t always look the same. Doing what’s best for your body isn’t about looking normal to other people. It’s about longevity. It’s about care.

I have degenerative disc disease. I have almost no cartilage left. Everything is rubbing together. The pain is constant. And pushing myself harder wasn’t helping. Accepting a wheelchair again. Accepting crutches again. It’s like a mirror image of where I started. But this time, I’m giving myself the same grace. The same tools. Just on the other side of life. As a kid, I needed to go from wheelchair to cane and feel proud. As an adult, I need to go from cane to wheelchair and feel okay. And that’s wild. It’s like moving in reverse. But it’s still growth.

ALLIÉ: That grace you’re giving yourself now is everything.

Living with HIV from birth means carrying a truth most people never have to. How did that shape the way you saw your worth, your identity, and your decision to advocate?

​JOSEPH: For a long time, I let it put me in bad relationships. Romantic ones. Friendships. I felt like I should be grateful that anyone wanted to be with me at all. That I came to the table with baggage, so I didn’t deserve more. I held myself to a lower standard.

Eventually, I took that power back. I learned about undetectable equals untransmittable. That as long as I’m on my medication and diligent, I cannot transmit HIV. That realization changed everything. I’m like anyone else. And I deserve what anyone else deserves. Respect. Love. Affection. And if I can’t advocate for myself, how can I advocate for others?

The truth is, disabled people are always advocating, even when we don’t mean to. Simply existing is advocacy. Every time you enter an inaccessible space. Every time someone says something inappropriate. Every time you defend your right to exist. That’s advocacy.

​ALLIÉ: I want to talk about someone very special. When you held your son, Milo, for the first time, knowing he’d inherit your love but not your diagnosis, how did that feel?

JOSEPH: There was so much relief. So much love. That moment is overwhelming for everyone, but for me, it was also proof. Proof of everything I had ever said about being undetectable. Here was this living, breathing truth in my arms. Holding him felt like rewriting my story.

I had a complicated relationship with my own father. I spent years wondering how someone could hurt someone they loved so much. And then, holding Milo, it dawned on me: you do that by not loving them. That realization freed me. Because I knew immediately that I could never do that to him. The love was too strong. It helped me put that chapter to rest. To understand that his choices weren’t mine. And that love is not something that sneaks up on you. It’s something you choose.

ALLIÉ: If the younger you, the kid with the cane and a head full of questions, were sitting across from you right now, what would he thank you for?

JOSEPH: For still being here… I don’t think I knew I would be.

For a long time, I felt like a passenger in my own life. I assumed eventually something would be too much. That I wouldn’t make it. Then suddenly, I was thirty-something. Living in New York. Building a life. About to become a father. That’s when it hit me: I’m really here. And now I have to plan. Not just dream, but plan. I think the younger me would be grateful that I became proof of possibility.

​ALLIÉ: To close, let’s talk about truth and courage. What is one truth about yourself you are brave enough to say out loud now, perhaps one you haven’t said before?

JOSEPH: I have a deep fear of being forgotten.

I think a lot of artists have it. This desire to leave a mark. A footprint. It can be both a gift and a burden. You try to fill it, but it’s never enough. What I’m learning now is that maybe being remembered isn’t about grand gestures. Maybe it’s about small moments.

My truth is this: I want to be remembered in small ways. Through my family. Through my son. ∎

Find & follow Joseph on Instagram:
@josephakibler