Migraines have been part of my life for as long as I can remember—a family inheritance, you might say, handed down with all the enthusiasm of an unwanted heirloom. My first migraine was diagnosed at the age of three, and by the time I was ten, I was navigating both migraines and the delightful chaos of four younger siblings. Growing up in a busy house didn’t exactly ease the strain, and while migraines and cluster headaches have their differences, I’ve had the joy of experiencing both. Let’s just say neither earned a spot on my gratitude list.
Migraines come with all the usual suspects: photosensitivity, sound sensitivity, nausea—and when combined with cluster migraines, they level up the misery. But for me, it’s not just about the physical symptoms. These migraines have a knack for teaming up with my ADHD and ASD, creating a perfect storm of sensory chaos, focus struggles, and mental fatigue. Together, they craft a kind of creative sabotage that’s equal parts frustrating and fascinating.
As for finding ways to cope, I’ve stumbled on some unorthodox solutions—like rock ’n’ roll music. While most people might reach for soothing classical tracks to calm their headaches, I found solace in pounding beats and electrifying vocals. The irony isn’t lost on me: drowning out chaos with more chaos might seem counterintuitive, but hey, it worked. The music gave me a rhythm to latch onto, helping me filter out the noise of a busy household and refocus my energy. If Mozart has a migraine-safe playlist, I’ve clearly missed the memo.
Over time, the frequency of my migraines started to build an unfortunate side effect: tolerance. Painkillers that once offered relief became less effective, and the stronger the migraines grew, the more they outpaced the medications meant to stop them. This meant that many of my worst episodes ended with a trip to the ER—a thrilling family outing, naturally. My siblings, in their uniquely helpful way, brought their own special brand of chaos to the mix. Whether it was accidentally testing my pain tolerance with their pranks—like blasting lights—or squabbling over who got to play with the loudest, most obnoxious toy, they ensured no moment was dull. As frustrating as those experiences were, I’ve come to see a silver lining.
While I’ve never quite figured out the triggers or patterns behind my migraines, I’ve learned ways to cope—both through necessity and, oddly enough, through my siblings’ antics. Their noise and unpredictability, while maddening at the time, forced me to adapt in ways I didn’t realize until later. Learning to manage sensory chaos and find ways to reset despite the clamor became invaluable tools that now help me navigate migraines—and life in general. It’s a kind of resilience training I wouldn’t have asked for but am strangely grateful for now.

Growing Up in the Fog: Life with Migraines
With all the delights of being the oldest sibling and dealing with migraines, I’ve found that occupying my mind is incredibly helpful. For the longest time, my go-to distraction was a book. Yes, I know most people couldn’t manage that with the throbbing pain of migraines—but I’m an oddball, and honestly, I like it, most days. Now that I’ve gotten into writing, though, I have another outlet for my mind. The challenge lies in the nausea and the effort it takes to blink through the pain that you feel to the roots of your hair.
Nausea often creates a logistical nightmare for me. Just getting to the tools I need—whether it’s my laptop, book, Kindle, or whatever—is a battle unto itself. Moving from point A to point B, a bucket becomes an indispensable companion until the anti-nausea meds start to kick in. They don’t last long, and they’re not the most effective against this particular nausea culprit, but I’ll take anything that helps. I’ve gotten better at recalling these tools more quickly; keeping them near my bed works wonders. After all, I see them during the first dash to the bathroom, which makes retrieval slightly less daunting.
Once the tools are in my lap, the next hurdle is lighting—both on the devices and in the room. Thankfully, modern smart lightbulbs have become lifesavers. With a quick command to Alexa (“Go to migraine mode!”), all my lights shift to the soothing blues and purples I’ve found work best, dimmed just right for screens. Again, the trick is remembering to use them—but once I do, and I’m positioned just right on my bed with my keyboard in front of me, the process starts to get easier.
Learning to write through the pain came with its own share of challenges. Pushing through the migraines to remember what I want to write—or even settling on a topic—often leaves me staring at a blank slate. Hence, my reference to writer’s block. But once I get started, something magical happens: the hyperfocus of ASD kicks in, and for once, it teams up with the chaos of ADHD. It’s one of the rare occasions these two frenemies play nice. I manage to push the pain to the background and write, uninterrupted, until I hit the end of a chapter or need to plan the next move. Then the blank page reappears, and it’s back to square one—fighting the pain for another breakthrough.
Even on my worst migraine days, when the ER becomes an unfortunate necessity, I get my fair share of puzzled looks. The sight of me tolerating light well enough to read, write, or work on my laptop leaves doctors and nurses scratching their heads. A bit of explaining usually clears it up: I’ve spent time digging into how ASD affects brain function, and there’s no shortage of evidence backing up these differences. Research into the way ASD brains process sensory input—and even their biological composition—has been both fascinating and reassuring. While I haven’t looked into the exact composition details just yet (it’s a more recent discovery for me), dissecting medical journals isn’t exactly uncharted territory. Understanding this research has helped me make sense of my unconventional coping methods. Being an oddball might come with challenges, but I’m leaning into it—it’s part of what makes me, well, me.
Of course, the blank page remains my greatest nemesis on migraine days. When the pain takes over, finding momentum can feel impossible. But if I push past that initial hurdle, the pain fades into a manageable background hum. It’s always there, mind you—just less obnoxious. It’s also why I tend to delay trips to the hospital as long as possible. Not a great habit, I’ll admit, but when writing feels like a lifeline, you cling to it. Writing and medicine have both been callings for me, and in their own way, they’ve become powerful coping mechanisms.
Then there are the days when everything—migraines, other health issues, the universe—teams up to knock me down. On those days, even reaching for the laptop feels like too much. I hold out hope that doctors will eventually crack the migraine code. Maybe they’ll find better treatments or uncover the elusive root causes so I can finally bid farewell to at least some of them. They’re less frequent now, sure, but they still love to crash the party.
Speaking of party crashers, I’ve recently uncovered a likely migraine trigger: weather. This winter’s temperature swings have been nothing short of dramatic—thanks to chinooks. For those unfamiliar, chinooks are warm winds that sweep down from the Rockies, bringing sudden shifts in temperature. While they’re a welcome break from the bitter cold for some, the barometric pressure changes they bring can wreak havoc for migraine sufferers like me. Normally, living far enough north spares me from these wild shifts, but this year has been the exception. Actual positive digits in January? Unheard of. These migraines aren’t as physically painful, but they leave me utterly drained, robbing me of the energy needed to write. Nature, I got your message months ago. Please stop sending follow-ups.

The Migraine and Writing Tango
Writing has taught me that even in the midst of migraines, there’s always a way forward—whether it’s through tapping out a few words between waves of pain, turning to creative outlets that don’t demand too much focus, or simply curling up in a migraine-safe space and waiting for the storm to pass. What do you reach for when a migraine strikes? Is it the comfort of soft lighting, the steady hum of background music, or perhaps the distraction of a story—whether writing your own or getting lost in someone else’s? I’d love to learn how you navigate the fog. While our methods may differ, we share the same determination to keep moving, even when it feels like every step takes twice the effort. So, what keeps you going?