Life with migraines: Most people can’t tell that I have a disability.
It’s 7 am at the urgent care clinic. The room is filled with murmurs of conversation and tired eyes. It’s the start of a new day, yet mine has been going on for a long time. At this moment, I haven’t slept or eaten in 72 hours. My head feels like it’s being drilled into, I’m nauseous and dizzy, and my whole body feels like sludge. No — I’m not hungover. It’s just another day in the life of having chronic migraines.
Contrary to common belief, migraines aren’t just simple headaches. They’re the second most common disability in the world, afflicting 1 billion people. They’re incurable, unpredictable, and often lifelong.
And in my case, they’re an illness passed down from my family that affects me 15–20 days a month.
Since as early as I can remember, I grew up watching my mom have chronic migraines from a distance, which worsened until she had to quit her job. On many mornings, I would run to my parents’ bedroom only to be met with her prone body, lying in pitch darkness. In those moments, she felt hauntingly far away, like my mother no longer belonged to me.
And while my parents did their best to shield me away from the worst of my mom’s migraines, these experiences also planted a seed in me — that migraines were to be suffered in silence, alone. They were to be left behind in that darkened room with all the other unpleasant things in life.
Whether out of naiveté or willful ignorance, I spent as little time as possible contemplating what I’d do if I were in my mother’s shoes. Instead, I dove into trying to achieve my goals and overcommitted to my involvement in community organizations and academics. So when the first infrequent headaches started to hit me in college, I treated them as unrelated, chance incidents. I would lay down when my head hurt, pop an ibuprofen or two, and get on with my life. I would bury myself into even more work and play, out of fear that I would lose the chance to do so in the future.
In the early days, I actively tried to rebel against my illness. I continued drinking coffee and alcohol thinking I could “beat” my migraines, before inevitably feeling the throbs of pain traveling from my neck to my skull. I avoided taking my medication at the first sign of a migraine, thinking, “Maybe this time, it’ll cure itself.”
This unhealthy cycle persisted until one day at age 24, I woke up with the worst splitting pain of my life, with nausea and dark spots dotting my vision. I just knew that something was incredibly wrong. This was a new beast — unlike anything that I had experienced before.
I dragged myself to an emergency appointment with a headache neurologist, and the diagnosis brought a new wave of bitterness: chronic migraines. Having seen my mother’s journey, I felt bound to an inescapable fate. She had also gotten her first migraine attack in her mid-twenties: like clockwork, it was now my turn. While I was grateful that migraines weren’t life-threatening, the diagnosis felt like a promise of lifelong suffering.
More than anything, I was terrified of being perceived as less capable, less consistent, and less responsible — or worse, seeing pity in other people’s eyes when I told them about my health condition.
Now if my life were an inspirational movie, this would be the point in the script where I discover the power of drinking water or sniffing essential oils and magically get better, before sailing off in the sunset to my Stanford MBA program.
I’m sorry to report: life didn’t get easier from that point onwards. With my neurologist, I tried a flurry of medications that had divergent effects — some that were lifesavers, others with bad reactions that landed me in the emergency room. I gained weight from being bedridden so often. I spent many frustrating hours calling my insurance, pharmacy, and doctor’s office to coordinate my care. I learned to mask my migraines at work meetings and respond to greetings with a cheerful, “I’m doing great, how about you?” I began to view pain as the status quo and pain-free days as a rare treasure.
Perhaps what was worse than the physical pain was the mental guilt and hopelessness that followed. More than anything, I was terrified of being perceived as less capable, less consistent, and less responsible — or worse, seeing pity in other people’s eyes when I told them about my health condition.
From a young age, whether it was my upbringing as an only child or my natural personality, I had always been internally driven to seek success: because while I wasn’t the smartest or most talented person in the room, at least I could strive to be the one who tried the hardest. I clung to my productivity as a lifeline and collected badges of honor to garnish my life with more meaning. Now here was my newfound disability, exposing the tenuous house of cards to everyone around me. It felt like a one-way ticket to an unextraordinary, unimpactful life, and I wasn’t okay with accepting that.
Alongside the fear, my resentment grew like a jealous monster: frustration at being trapped inside a weakened body, blame at my family for passing on this neurological disorder, and crippling paralysis that I’d no longer be able to pursue my life’s goals.
While I wasn’t the smartest or most talented person in the room, at least I could strive to be the one who tried the hardest. Now here was my newfound disability, exposing the tenuous house of cards to everyone around me. It felt like a one-way ticket to an unextraordinary, unimpactful life, and I wasn’t okay with accepting that.
When I got accepted to Stanford GSB, my first reaction was ecstatic joy. My second reaction was worry: my migraines had worsened to 20 days a month. I knew that it’d be unsustainable to delve into an MBA program under such health conditions. I made the deliberate decision to leave my work 3 months before my program to work on my health and enjoy life. It was a privilege to be able to do so, but I needed to challenge myself to see if I could effectively manage my health on my own terms.
Up until that point, I had been viewing myself as the victim in my story. I was dealt a crappy hand of cards, I was facing such misfortunes so early in my life, it was all about me.
At the same time, I was too prideful to ask for help from the people around me: when I needed to extend deadlines on urgent marketing projects, when I had to reschedule plans with friends on the day-of, when I avoided asking my roommates to help me pick up medicine while I was sick — because isn’t the point of being a self-reliant person that you can do everything yourself?
For the first time in my life, I stopped worrying about what should happen next. I ignored the little voices telling me to look into pre-MBA internships and networking. Instead, I let go and had fun. I breathed in the scent of fresh pine needles and breathed out the roaring of ocean waves. I discovered new perspectives from a hot air balloon and walked cobblestone streets polished by eons of human footsteps. I put my vision to the paintbrush, painting murals in my local community.
Bit by bit, day by day, things have gotten slightly better.
Since coming to the GSB, I’ve started telling a lot more people about my migraine disability and how it affects every day of my life. Despite the 1 billion people statistic, I’m still shocked at how many of my classmates have responded with, “Oh, I have migraines too,” or “My sister/friend/parent/SO get them too.”
From this, I’ve had an acute realization: these stories and people have always been around me. Yet when no one talks about migraines, we all end up suffering in isolation, digging ourselves into holes of resentment. It’s when we vocalize our experiences that we start realizing our shared struggles, find community in each other, and make invisible illnesses more visible. With each conversation, I’m unlearning my fears and leaning into self-acceptance.
In an odd way, knowing that my energy pack is finite fuels me to go further in the time that I have left. It’s brought me a new perspective on how I derive meaning in my life.
Inspired by my health challenges, I’m working on Peachy Day, a migraine management app that empowers migraine and headache sufferers through daily tracking, personalized health insights, and peer community. I believe that there’s so much opportunity to create technology that can comfort my fellow migraine sufferers and help us make informed decisions about our health.
I want to live so that if, one day I can no longer do the things that bring me joy, I will have felt like I’ve lived a meaningful life. And I hope if I reach that point, I’ll have the courage and strength to continue finding and redefining happiness in my journey.
Back in the urgent care clinic, I’m wearily telling my doctor about the severe migraine attack that I’m having. Her words give me the comfort that I need exactly in the moment.
“Oof, that sounds horrible,” she nods with sympathy. “I get migraines all the time, and I know how bad they can get.”
“I promise that we’ll make you feel better soon.”
And truly, that’s all that I can ask for and more.
Editor: Claire Yun
