Can one person really make a difference? It’s a question often asked but rarely answered with certainty. The larger and more entrenched an institution, the harder it is to imagine that an individual could truly alter its course. The U.S. military, with its global reach, rigid hierarchy, and generations of tradition, seems an impenetrable fortress of rules, bureaucracy, and history. Yet, history shows that change often starts with a single voice, a solitary stand against what seems immovable. But the path to effecting change is rarely straightforward. It requires not just courage, but strategy, coalition-building, and an unshakeable belief in the possibility of something better.
Movements are not born in isolation. They require momentum, a spark that sets off a chain reaction. For Nick Harrison, challenging the military’s HIV policy was not just a matter of personal justice — it became a rallying point for others, a campaign that harnessed legal action and advocacy to bring about broader transformation. The real challenge lies in how one person moves beyond their own struggle and builds something larger, creating a movement that not only touches policy but also shifts the cultural and social landscape. This case is a testament to how one determined individual can become the catalyst for lasting change.
Challenging the U.S. military — a vast, powerful institution with deep roots in tradition — requires confronting an entity that, in many ways, operates like a world unto itself. With 2.86 million personnel stationed across the globe and an annual budget exceeding $820 billion, the U.S. military is the most formidable fighting force on Earth, unmatched in size, capability, and influence. Yet, for all its might, it is also a society cloaked in secrecy, insulated from the civilian world it protects. It is an institution where decisions ripple through the ranks, often unquestioned, and where change, especially social progress, moves at a glacial pace.
In 1980, nearly one in five American adults had served in the military. Today, that number has dwindled to just 6%. For most, the military remains an enigma — something distant and apart, its operations known only to those within its ranks. This growing disconnect between the civilian and military worlds has cultivated a sense of reverence and, perhaps more significantly, deference. Civilian institutions, from Congress to the Courts, often shy away from intervening in military matters, wary of disrupting an organization they see as beyond their understanding or authority. This deference allows senior military leaders to maintain their grip on policies and practices that reflect the values of a bygone era, rather than the evolving standards of the society they serve.
For those seeking to challenge the status quo, the military presents a nearly impenetrable fortress, its walls built not only of concrete and steel but of tradition, bureaucracy, and a command structure designed to resist external influence. The rare instances where social change has been forced upon it — such as President Truman’s landmark order to integrate the armed forces — are remembered as victories, but what is often forgotten is the fierce resistance that accompanied those efforts. The military did not embrace integration willingly; it stalled, delayed, and outright defied the order until the exigencies of the Korean War left it no choice but to act.
It was within this rigid, resistant system that Harrison found himself, confronting a discriminatory policy that barred people living with HIV from joining, deploying, or commissioning. This policy, rooted in outdated fears and misconceptions from an earlier time, had been enshrined at the highest levels of the Department of Defense and enforced with unwavering resolve by the military’s personnel chiefs. It wasn’t merely a rule in need of revision — it was a symbol of the military’s deep-seated reluctance to embrace change, a relic of a past that still held sway over the present.
To challenge such a policy was to challenge not just a set of regulations but the very culture of an institution that had long resisted being told what to do by anyone outside its gates. It required a fight not only against the policy itself but against the deeply ingrained biases and prejudices that had allowed it to endure for so long. The enormity of this task was clear: to overturn the military’s HIV policy meant taking on an institution that had long proven itself a bastion of resistance to change.
The military’s HIV policy, first introduced in 1985, was originally seen as a compassionate and measured response during the height of the AIDS crisis. At that time, HIV was a death sentence, and fear surrounding the virus was pervasive. While some called for extreme measures — suggesting that those infected be isolated or even placed in camps — the military chose a different path. They allowed HIV+ service members to remain in uniform, offering them continued health care and the chance to serve for as long as their health permitted. It was a progressive move compared to the hysteria of the time, but there were limits. HIV+ troops were not allowed to deploy, receive advanced training, or rise to leadership positions. The expectation was that they would inevitably fall ill and require medical discharge.
These restrictions reflected the harsh reality of HIV in the 1980s, when treatment options were minimal. The best medications available could prolong life for only a year or two, and even those came with debilitating side effects. The military’s policy was designed around the assumption that HIV+ personnel would eventually become too sick to continue serving. The policy sidelined infected service members, pulling pilots from the sky and removing leaders from command posts. On some bases, these individuals were segregated to specific barracks, further reinforcing their marginalization.
But as the decades passed, advances in medicine radically transformed the landscape of HIV treatment. Antiretroviral therapy, introduced in the mid-1990s, changed HIV from a fatal disease to a chronic but manageable condition. Soon, a single pill taken daily could suppress the virus to undetectable levels, meaning that those infected posed no risk of transmitting the disease to others. These developments erased the medical rationale behind the military’s restrictive policies. People with HIV could serve just as effectively as anyone else — whether in the military, in health care, or even in food preparation and law enforcement.
By the time Harrison began his fight, it was widely acknowledged that the military’s HIV policy was an outdated relic of the past, rooted in fears that no longer applied. The rest of society had moved on — HIV+ individuals were now working in fields once thought too dangerous, such as health care and foreign service. The Centers for Disease Control and Prevention had declared that HIV+ individuals on effective treatment posed “effectively no risk” of transmitting the virus to others. And yet, despite all of this, the military’s policy remained largely unchanged.
Although there had been rumors that the regulations were under review, nothing concrete had been done. The military’s personnel chiefs continued to oppose reform, clinging to a policy that restricted deployment, prevented promotion, and limited the careers of those who had tested positive for HIV. For those in the know, it was clear that change was long overdue. The policy was a vestige of an earlier era — one that no longer reflected the reality of living with HIV in the modern world.
In the military, obedience to authority is deeply ingrained. Servicemembers are taught not to make requests they know will be denied and not to question orders for fear of upsetting the chain of command. But Nick Harrison had to break that instinct. In 2013, when he was selected for a position with the National Guard Bureau’s Legal Support Office, he took a bold step. Knowing that his HIV status precluded him from receiving a commission, Harrison reached out to the recruiting officer and openly explained his situation, stating that while he was aware of the policy, he wanted to apply for a medical waiver. To his surprise, the officer supported his efforts.
From there, Harrison meticulously assembled his application packet. Every step was deliberate, and every piece of paperwork served as a shield against those who might look for reasons beyond his HIV status to deny him the position. He gathered his qualifications, proving that he was fully capable in every respect and documenting everything in writing: he was an ideal candidate for the role, except for one outdated policy. This way, no one could later claim any other reason for rejecting his application. It was a calculated, careful move — a soldier’s tactic in navigating a bureaucratic battle.
Nick Harrison began writing letters — letters that found their way to desks deep within the military bureaucracy. One of those letters landed in the hands of the Army’s resiliency officer, who served on the working group responsible for rewriting the Army’s HIV policy. When she read Harrison’s claim that the policy was a relic of the 1980s, she laughed, but ultimately agreed with him, calling his request for an exception perfectly reasonable. Together, they began compiling the necessary materials for the exception: medical records, academic transcripts, recommendation letters, and more. A medical contractor reviewed the packet and signed off, confirming that there was no medical reason Harrison couldn’t perform the duties of the position he sought.
Despite the resiliency officer’s support, the process moved slowly. The packet was submitted to the G-1’s office, only to be kicked back with instructions for Harrison to route it through his chain of command. Following orders, as a good soldier does, Harrison trusted that change was on the horizon, even though it meant walking a long and bureaucratic road.
What followed for Nick Harrison was a year-long march through the military’s labyrinthine bureaucracy. At every level of the chain of command, his packet was met with hesitation. Commanders, unsure of how to proceed, would pass it around, seeking input from personnel chiefs, medical officers, and legal advisors. Edits were requested, memos needed rewriting, and Harrison had to repeatedly assert that the packet had been assembled exactly according to the specifications given by those responsible for its approval.
It was a slow and grinding process, but Harrison persevered. He invoked the open-door policy and gained the support of a JAG officer from the Trial Defense Service, who helped guide him through the steps. The JAG officer even secured a commitment from the Commanding General of the DC National Guard to keep the position open during this drawn-out process. But after more than a year of effort, the response finally came: Harrison’s request was denied, with no explanation other than that it “was not in the best interest of the Army.” Shortly after, the planned rewrite of the Army’s HIV regulation was quietly shelved.
After facing repeated bureaucratic roadblocks, Nick Harrison decided to take the fight to a different battlefield — Capitol Hill. Living in Washington, D.C., just blocks away from Congress, he put together a briefing packet that detailed his situation and the outdated nature of the Army’s HIV policy. Armed with this information, Harrison went door-to-door, visiting the offices of every Member of the House and Senate Armed Services Committees. In total, he met with legislative aides in fifty-four offices, delivering physical packets and scheduling follow-up meetings to discuss the issue further.
It was a grassroots effort, both personal and persistent. Each packet delivered and each conversation held was a step toward raising awareness and building pressure. Harrison wasn’t just seeking an exception for himself — he was advocating for systemic change.
As Nick Harrison pressed his case on Capitol Hill, word began to spread. Staffers, moved by his story, started reaching out to advocacy groups on his behalf. Organizations such as Outserve-SLDN, the Human Rights Campaign, and Lambda Legal began to take notice. With the help of a JAG officer, who also served as the Executive Director of the National Urban League in Washington, D.C., a meeting was convened with major HIV advocacy organizations.
At this meeting, Harrison shared his experience and highlighted the language in the National Defense Authorization Act (NDAA) that Representative Barbara Lee had introduced, calling on the military to review its policies regarding people living with HIV. The Department of Defense’s response had been dismissive, but the group resolved to strengthen the language in the next NDAA. Together, they formed a coalition of advocacy groups — including the Human Rights Campaign, the National Urban League, AIDS United, Lambda Legal, the National Minority AIDS Council, the Modern Military Association of America (f/k/a Outserve-SLDN and AMPA), the Hepatitis B Foundation, and the Center for HIV Law and Policy — to push for change. Their efforts led to favorable language being included in the 2018 NDAA, marking a critical step forward.
Following the success on Capitol Hill, Lambda Legal reached out to Nick Harrison, asking if he would be willing to serve as a named plaintiff in a federal lawsuit. By that point, Harrison had already crossed a line — his correspondence with Congress was public record. He knew he was ready to put his name and face to the fight.
Over the next several months, Harrison worked closely with Lambda Legal. They conducted a photo shoot, issued press releases, and began organizing public appearances. Harrison traveled to Chicago, San Francisco, and Washington, D.C., speaking at events and giving interviews to major media outlets, including Bloomberg, Vice News, Rolling Stone Magazine, and The New York Times. He became the public face of the issue, using his story to raise awareness and build momentum for change.
Ultimately, Lambda Legal filed the case, Harrison v. Austin, in the Eastern District of Virginia, while a related case involving a U.S. Naval Academy cadet was filed in Maryland. Together, Nick Harrison and his legal team chose to focus on the constitutional issues, bypassing the procedural claims. While the case was pending, the military introduced its “Deploy or Get Out” policy, which threatened the careers of HIV+ servicemembers. Two Air Force servicemembers joined the lawsuit, and the court issued an injunction that reached all the way to the 4th Circuit.
The legal landscape was shifting, and as decisions were handed down, precedents were being set. The 4th Circuit ruled in favor of Harrison and his fellow plaintiffs, and soon after, the court in Maryland followed suit. By the time the case returned to Judge Brinkema in the Eastern District of Virginia, there were three favorable decisions already on record. The momentum was undeniable, and the case marked a turning point in the fight against the military’s discriminatory HIV policies.
The fight against the military’s discriminatory HIV policies culminated in a profound transformation, but victory was neither swift nor without resistance. The legal campaign that Nick Harrison helped spearhead forced the military to abandon its draconian “Deploy or Get Out” policy, which threatened to expel 2,000 HIV+ servicemembers. It was a significant moment — not just for those individuals, but for the entire institution. For the first time, the military was compelled to confront the outdated stigma embedded in its policies.
The breakthrough came in April 2022, when the U.S. District Court for the Eastern District of Virginia struck down the military’s HIV ban in a landmark decision. The court found no rational basis for the military’s discriminatory policies, applying the equal protection clause to people living with HIV for the first time in history. This ruling set a powerful precedent, affirming the rights of HIV+ servicemembers and signaling that the era of exclusion and stigma was coming to an end.
But even after the court’s decision, the military resisted full compliance, making only minimal changes. Harrison’s fight was far from over. He pushed his legal team to file additional motions to secure his commission — motions that the military contested at every step. Frustrated by the delays, Harrison ultimately made the difficult decision to part ways with his legal team and take the reins himself. He sought and won an injunction from the court, forcing the military to allow him to go before the Army Board for Correction of Military Records. This process eventually resulted in a backdated rank he was owed — a victory earned through relentless persistence.
Even then, the military continued to implement only the bare minimum of reforms. While they complied with the specific ruling, broader change remained elusive. Lambda Legal continued the fight, filing a follow-up case, Wilkins v. Austin. Harrison had the honor of meeting Isiah Wilkins, who was stepping into the role he had played years before. Harrison shared his experiences, preparing Wilkins for the challenges ahead, offering support, and, when the time was right, passing the torch. This fight was never about one person — it was about building a movement, passing the microphone to the next advocate ready to take up the cause.
In August 2024, the courts once again ruled in favor of the plaintiffs. In a sweeping decision, the court struck down all remaining military HIV policies, finally requiring the armed forces to accept people living with HIV into its ranks. This monumental victory not only restored the dreams of those who had long aspired to serve but also opened the doors for future generations. The military was no longer a place where an HIV diagnosis meant the end of a career or shattered ambitions.
This fight, however, was about more than just legal rulings. Over the years, dozens of people reached out to Harrison, to his fellow plaintiffs, and to the organizations that supported them. Some shared stories of how they had once dreamed of serving their country, only to have those dreams dashed by an HIV diagnosis. Others expressed gratitude that, because of these efforts, they could now see a path forward. This campaign restored something invaluable — a sense of hope, belonging, and a future in uniform that they thought was lost forever.
The impact of this battle goes beyond policy. It’s about the lives touched, the barriers broken, and the people empowered. The victory wasn’t just about overturning a policy; it was about dismantling a culture of fear and stigma that had persisted for far too long. Harrison and his allies showed that no institution, no matter how powerful or resistant to change, is beyond the reach of justice. And in doing so, they restored the honor and dignity of countless individuals who, like Harrison, simply wanted to serve their country with pride.