When the NSDCC reported that 20,105 Kenyans contracted HIV in 2025, with women disproportionately affected, it sent ripples across the country. But what do these numbers really mean? Are they just statistics to scroll past, or do they represent something deeper, a mirror held up to our society, reflecting where we have failed and where we still have a chance to act?

What does it mean when over 13,000 women are newly infected this year alone? Why is it that young people, who should be at the height of possibility, continue to bear the brunt of this epidemic? What does it say about our systems when stigma and silence still keep people from seeking care?

Numbers rarely tell the full story. Behind every one of those 20,105 new infections is a face, a family, a community. A young girl who could not negotiate safer sex. A mother who has to choose between buying food or paying for transport to the clinic. A young man who fears being tested because of what his friends might say.

So, what can we do differently? How do we shift from counting new infections to preventing them? How do we move from fighting stigma to building dignity? The answers are not abstract. They are rooted in what we can do, right here, right now. We can place communities at the center, listening to the voices of people living with HIV, not as patients but as leaders whose lived experiences shape what works. We can create spaces where openness is the norm, where young people talk about love, sex, and choices without fear, and where a positive HIV status is not a sentence to silence.

We can nourish health not only in clinics but in kitchens and farms, by reviving indigenous foods and knowledge that build resilience. If HIV positive people are empowered well on how they can live positively and how adhere to their medicine, they will not transmit HIV because their viral loads are lower or even undetectable, reducing the risk of transmission and new infections.

We can support young people with accurate, holistic sexuality education that goes beyond biology to include agency, pleasure, and rights. We can walk with mothers, fathers, daughters, and sons to ensure that prevention and care are shared responsibilities, not burdens carried alone. We can champion peer networks where solidarity replaces isolation, and advocacy that pushes systems to provide better services and policies. We can look at HIV not as a siloed issue but as part of a broader struggle for justice, equity, and wellbeing. And we can commit, each of us, not to let stigma steal another future.

At TICAH, these are not distant ideals; they are daily practices. They are conversations under trees with young people, community dialogues led by people living with HIV, recipes exchanged in marketplaces, and art, stories, and songs that turn silence into voice. They are the everyday acts of courage that remind us prevention is not only possible, but also in our hands.

So, what will we do with these numbers? Will we sigh, shake our heads, and move on? Or will we see them as a challenge to imagine something different, a society where health is holistic, where communities lead, where stigma has no place, and where HIV is no longer stealing futures? At TICAH, we refuse to let these numbers be the final word. We choose to see them as a call to action, a reason to dig deeper, to listen harder, and to stand alongside communities in the fight for health, dignity, and hope. Because every number is a life, and every life deserves more than a statistic.