“Crashing Out: From Judgment to Understanding” by Michelle Yu, 16

I thought she was just weak.

In sixth grade, my class had to read about a 12 year old girl (I don’t remember her name so we’ll just call her Claire) that went to the hospital because of this horrible headache. I truly thought that she was just being a “whiny baby” about it. Headaches aren’t that bad, just pop a tylenol and take a nap. The story said she was diagnosed with migraines, but I thought that was stupid. You get one headache: big deal. However, it wasn’t until my sophomore year of high school where I truly began to understand this so-called “silly” headache.

I had my first “episode” on March 13, 2024. I was in my favorite French class and we were acting out a scene from the book we were reading: Au Revoir, L’Acadie. I was so excited to share with the class my lines and get to hit the back of my best friend's head. Out of the blue, however, I couldn’t read anymore. “Shelly, you still have more lines,” my friend said. But I couldn’t read those lines. What once looked almost as familiar as English all of the sudden looked like a mush of hieroglyphics that I could not for the life of me decode. I tried to redirect myself away from the text to clear my head, but I could still see those few words of gibberish floating around like when you look at a bright light, then quickly look away. From there, I don’t remember anything besides vomiting a few times and waking up in the E.R. On that bed, I truly thought I was going to die.

It wasn’t until January 27, 2025 where I was finally diagnosed with atypical migraine with aura. I went to visit my neurologist that day, and I had another “episode” while I was in the waiting room. Once I gained consciousness and my parents told me about my diagnosis, I was pissed. All of these months of pain just to be told I have migraines? All of this chronic fear I had about being able to read in front of the class ever again or stuttering so bad during a speech, just to be diagnosed with migraines? After all, migraines are just headaches, right?

After being diagnosed and prescribed medicine, I told my close friends what to do if I have a migraine. First, I was prescribed rizatriptan, a pill. “Ok, reach into my pocket, open the packet, and just shove it under my tongue.” During another episode, however, my sister attempted to administer the pill, only for it to be of no use after I vomited it up quickly after. I was then prescribed sumatriptan, a nasal spray, which would avoid the whole vomit issue, and I told my sister the new plan: reach out into my pocket, place my head upright, and spray the sumatriptan into my nostril. My friends and my sister agreed to it, but it felt almost as if they undermined how terrifying this is for me to face. I remember telling one of my friends about my migraine, and she agreed with my previous mindset: it’s just a headache. I told her about my illiteracy when I start having a migraine, and she simply said “you can’t forget how to read, you can read just fine.” It felt that they thought I was being weak, maybe even lying: a sense of being misunderstood that I had never experienced before. I found pain and agony in this diagnosis. Maybe it isn’t just a little headache after all.

These last six months of confusion and being on-edge about whether I was going to “crash out” in class led me to a wonderful revelation: nobody is going to advocate for me because I am the only one that truly understands how I feel. I didn’t want to look at these small episodes and feel pity but rather use it as a form of motivation to grow. Upon reflection, I realized how much of a toll that stress from my daily life was taking on me. Not only was I trying to tackle 4 AP classes for the first time, I was also going through a lot of toxic friendships that I needed to cut off. With that on top of trying to keep a strong extracurricular life and thinking about college applications, I left self-care at the bottom of my to-do list. Because of this, I wasn’t eating or sleeping nearly enough, and I didn’t realize how big of an impact it was taking until now.

Many people are affected by the consequences of neglected mental health, and people manage it in different ways. Some people do yoga and meditate while others distract themselves. However, if it gets neglected for too long, it can manifest into other things like mental disorders; mine just so happened to manifest as migraines. My migraines aren’t a sign of weakness, though, but rather something that I need to take care of. It’s another part of me. Everyone has mental health that they need to take care of no matter how significant of a role it plays in their lives. To help people in their mental health journey, I decided to start a club at my high school along with one of my friends called the Destressing In Students Club (DISC). It wasn’t meant to ever become a large endeavor, rather a chance for students to relax in school, an atmosphere enthralled by panic.

Additionally, I wanted to help not just in my local community, but also in the scientific community by doing research on this issue. I collaborated with my neurologist at Yale Children’s Hospital to research triptans, the drug class of my abortive migraine medication. Because migraines are much more common than I anticipated, with approximately 46,174,649 Americans experiencing them, I wanted to help people like me get the most effective medication possible. I find a difference in being able to help scientifically, especially when I am going through the same thing as the very people I’m trying to help. While my goal is far from complete, I look forward to helping contribute not only to preventing the problem, but also being a part of a potential solution.

I thought she was just weak. But it turns out that she wasn’t. I look back at Claire now not with disrespect, and certainly not weakness, but with understanding and connection. Migraines aren’t just a “little headache," they’re a neurological condition where receptors “tweak”, blood cells shape themselves abnormally, and the body tries to ground itself again. Where I once found horror and chaos, I now find comfort in my diagnosis, knowing that I wasn’t just crazy or that I was going to die.

Every time I couldn’t see, every bright light I encountered, and every “crashout” I had only told me more about myself. Sometimes, the only thing that I can do if I don’t have my medication is to just take a nap and ride it out. But instead of sulking like I used to, I start to think of what I can do about it. Throughout this journey, I found a brain that may sometimes tap out, but also a newfound strength in me that will never stop trying.