My Journey to PrEP: How I (Almost Accidentally) Took Control

"Why would I? I don't even know the procedure. And even if I got it – I'd probably never use it. I don't exactly end up in those situations anyway."

These two voices in my head have been having this conversation for years. The first always seemed reasonable, calm, almost parental. The second was the voice of procrastination, of the unknown, and of something I find hardest to admit to myself – shame. Not shame about sex, but shame about the very thought that I might need to prepare for it.

PrEP, pre-exposure prophylaxis – the pill that protects against HIV – was a theoretical concept to me for a long time. Something that "exists", but happens to others. Somewhere else. In other cities, other countries, other lives. I knew what it was. I knew what it did. But I didn't know exactly where to place it in my own life.

Last year, before a trip that promised both excitement and restlessness, that internal debate grew louder than ever. The first voice insisted: "This is the moment. Prepare. Do something for yourself."

The second immediately fired back: "It's complicated. What if someone sees me? What if the doctor asks questions? What if it means admitting something to myself I haven't quite digested yet?"

And like so many times before – inertia won. I didn't go.

A Spontaneous Decision Without a Grand Plan

The turning point didn't come as a decision. There was no date, no note in the calendar, no "tomorrow I change things." It came on a completely ordinary day in Belgrade. In some break between obligations, I just thought: "Oh, right… that."

And I went.

I chose the Students' Polyclinic, more out of practicality than any deeper conviction. I didn't have a plan to "start PrEP." I just had a need to stop putting it off. To at least ask. To see if all of it was really as complicated as I'd made it in my head.

I walked in without great expectations – and that, it turned out, was the best possible mindset.

When Fear of the Unknown Falls Flat

The procedure was… ordinary. Almost disappointingly ordinary compared to the fear I'd nurtured for years.

A conversation with the doctor – no moralising, no labelling, no uncomfortable questions. Just information.

Testing – HIV, other STIs, and creatinine, because PrEP requires kidney function checks.

Results – normal.

Prescription – issued.

Pharmacy – purchased.

And that was it.

No drama. No disapproving looks. No feeling of being "found out."

The pills are now in my drawer. I haven't used them yet – there just hasn't been an opportunity. But the difference is huge: now I have a choice. I'm no longer a passive observer of my own dilemmas. I don't react at the last minute. I have a tool, and I have peace of mind.

PrEP Isn't Magic (And That's Important)

One thing I had to clarify for myself was expectations. PrEP isn't a magic pill. It doesn't protect against everything. It protects exclusively against HIV. Not syphilis, not gonorrhoea, not chlamydia. Condoms are still the most effective protection – and regular testing isn't a suggestion, it's a requirement.

But there's something positive in that, too.

PrEP forces you to stay in touch with your own health. To get tested. To know where you stand. To react in time. Everything else, as I was told, is successfully treatable in the vast majority of cases – if caught early.

That's not paranoia. That's responsibility.

Why Is It Still Taboo?

From where I stand, PrEP in Serbia still carries a certain stigma. Not because it's medically controversial, but because it forces us to openly admit that we have sex. That we plan for sex. That we act like adults who don't just rely on luck.

In some circles, PrEP is widely known and normalised. In others – completely unknown. And that difference has nothing to do with education, but with the willingness to talk about sexual health without whispering.

Maybe that's why I hesitated for years. Not because I didn't know what PrEP was, but because I didn't know how to fit it into the image of myself I'd grown used to carrying.

I'm Not Promoting. I'm Just Sharing.

I'm not writing this to convince anyone. I'm not writing as a doctor – I'm not one. I'm not even writing as an activist. I'm writing as someone who stood for a long time on the edge of their own decision, paralysed by too many questions and too little first-hand information.

I'm writing because I wish someone had told me sooner:

• It's not scary.
• It's not complicated.
• It's not shameful.

If this topic has ever crossed your mind – that's already enough to start exploring. There are organisations in Serbia that clearly and simply explain the procedure, testing sites, and everything that goes with it. The first step is always information.

Maybe you'll wait for a spontaneous moment, like I did. Maybe you'll plan everything in advance. Either way – what matters is knowing that the choice exists.

And sometimes, the very decision to inform yourself is already a way of taking control into your own hands.