They told me I might lose my hair.
They told me I might lose my appetite.
They told me I’d feel tired, nauseated, achy.
But no one told me about this kind of pain.
They didn’t tell me I’d wake up some days with a migraine so violent it feels like my brain is trying to claw its way out of my skull.
That the light would stab.
That sound would feel like betrayal.
That just breathing too deeply would make me wince.
There’s a kind of migraine that chemo or radiation or hormone treatments unlock — and it doesn’t just hurt.
It drains you.
It’s More Than Just a Headache
It’s not something Tylenol fixes.
It’s not just “rest and hydrate and you’ll be fine.”
It’s a full-body experience — where your neck seizes, your stomach turns, and you swear your eyeballs are pulsing.
Sometimes it hits during or right after infusion.
Other times it creeps in quietly on a “good” day, like a thief that waits until you let your guard down.
And when it shows up, everything stops.
I cancel plans.
I lie in a dark room.
I hold an ice pack to my head and try not to cry because crying makes it worse.
I count the hours until it passes — or doesn’t.
And Still, Mojo Knows
Mojo doesn’t care about the science of cytokine storms or vascular swelling.
He just knows when I’m hurting.
He gets quiet. Moves slower.
Climbs up beside me with a sigh like, “Okay. We’ll just wait this one out together.”
Sometimes I press my face into his fur and just let the tears fall.
Because it’s safe with him.
Because he doesn’t need me to explain.
Because he understands the difference between pain and pain that changes you.
Why This Post Matters
Because I’m tired of pretending migraines aren’t a big deal.
Because I’ve had to defend why I can’t look at my phone, respond to a text, or come to dinner.
Because chronic pain in any form chips away at your mental health — and no one talks about that.
I didn’t expect to spend so much of my 20s in the dark, clutching my skull, whispering to myself that I’m not weak. That it’s okay to rest. That this isn’t my fault.
So this post is for anyone who’s been told they’re “exaggerating.”
Anyone who’s laid in a dark room and wondered if anyone else gets it.
Anyone who needed to hear: you’re not imagining it.
You’re not alone.
I see you.
I feel you.
And when the pain finally lifts — even for a day — I hope you feel proud.
Because this is hard. And you’re still here.
— Izzy & Mojo
Leave a comment