Testimonial written by Julia Sanchez*
Photographs and graphic excerpts: Courtesy of the author
Art by Valentina Taraborelli

This is a personal and chronological account of my journey through 25 years of living with migraines. Though awareness of this condition is growing, it remains widely misunderstood and underestimated. It’s a disorder with no straightforward diagnosis and countless possible triggers.

What follows is an expanded migraine diary—a record of intense headaches, physical breakdowns, repeated hospitalizations, endless medication trials, and countless tests and treatments that often led nowhere. I’ve come to realize that understanding migraines takes time. In my case, I’ve learned about them as I’ve grown, and I may continue learning for years to come—because no two migraines are ever the same.

First Episode (1999)

I think everyone has struggled with at least one school subject—that one weak spot where, no matter how much you study, you barely get by. For me, that was math. In 1996, during sixth grade, I received my first failing grade: a 4.5 (we needed a 6 out of 10 to pass). I cried as if it were the greatest tragedy I would ever face. Looking back, it seems almost funny. When you’re a perfectionist, failure feels monumental, and you’ll do anything to avoid it.

Luckily, one of my best friends at the time, P., was a math whiz. She was so good that she not only had time to study for herself but also to help me. It became our routine: before every math test, she’d come over to study together (or, more accurately, to explain everything to me).

One evening in 1999, the night before yet another math test, P. came over as usual. We sat at the dining table, surrounded by notes, ready to dive in. But suddenly, an intense headache hit me. It started as a sharp pain on the right side of my forehead and quickly escalated. Within minutes, I couldn’t stand the pain, the noise, or even the light. It was unbearable—I cried from the sheer intensity of it. 

I abandoned P. and locked myself in my room, lights off and desperate for silence, while my mom placed cold compresses on my forehead, hoping to ease the pain. My next memory was waking up the next morning, disoriented—wondering what had happened, where my friend had gone, and why I hadn’t taken the test.

That was my first “episode,” a term I didn’t realize I would come to use so often over the next 25 years. It marked the beginning of endless doctor visits, and wasn’t an isolated event—more episodes followed, each more frequent than the last.

At 15, I received my first possible diagnosis. “It could be migraine,” said Dr. L.

Getting to Know Each Other (2000–2002)

Dr. L. was (and still is) a well-known general practitioner in the city where I lived until I was 18. She was the first person to explain migraines to me, warning that there might not be a single, clear-cut cause. It could be hormonal, triggered by intense emotions, something I ate, or even a particular smell. She even mentioned a patient whose migraines were triggered by the smelling onions. I had no idea what my own triggers were.

She asked me to start a Migraine Diary.

Until then, the only diary I had ever kept was the kind filled with childhood crushes and petty fights with friends. This one was different. Instead of teenage drama, I had to meticulously record my daily life: everything I ate, what I did, any strong emotions I felt, the days I had my period, and any other significant events that might be connected. I tracked it all, week after week. Whenever a migraine episode struck, I logged every detail—what medication I took and when, what time the pain started, and how long it lasted.

At the time, Dr. L. had prescribed the first medication: tolfenamic acid to relieve the pain. It worked for a few years. I don’t remember how long I took it or what I switched to later. What I do remember is that, eventually, my body would adjust, the medication lost its effectiveness, and we’d have to search for alternatives all over again.

I kept the diary for months. The goal was to pinpoint a pattern, a common trigger—if one even existed. But there wasn’t just one. There were many.

On top of everything, I developed bruxism—clenching my teeth at night while sleeping—which only worsened my headaches. I was told to keep my stress levels as low as possible, but at 15, I probably had more stress than a Wall Street stockbroker.

I started therapy. I didn’t want to, but I had to. I don’t even remember my psychologist’s name—only that I resented being there. My family insisted it would help. They also prescribed a quarter of a diazepam tablet to help me sleep more relaxed. But the migraines persisted.

That’s when I learned a new term: migraine with aura.

Aura is caused by an alteration in the brain’s cortical electrical activity. For migraine sufferers, it serves as a warning sign—the signal to take medication before the pain escalates. It manifests differently for everyone: some see flickering lights, others experience blurred vision or flashes. In my case, I saw tiny stars.

If there’s one crucial thing I’ve learned about migraines, it’s that if you don’t treat the pain immediately, it’s too late. That’s why aura can be an ally. But I only fully understood this as I got older.

Between 15 and 18, my migraines mostly struck before exams. Sometimes the medication helped; other times, it didn’t. But at that stage, they hadn’t yet disrupted my life the way they eventually would.

Living with Pain (2003–2016)

In 2003, I moved to another city for university—alone, far from my parents. I shared an apartment with my friend C. We studied, cooked, paid the bills, did the grocery shopping—managing the money we received to cover our monthly expenses. Later, we started working as well.

Amid all these changes, my migraines worsened—both in frequency and intensity. My daily life became more and more disrupted. I suffered from relentless headaches, nausea, and vomiting. I left parties, birthdays, and even classes. Studying or working on assignments sometimes became impossible; the sound of a keyboard clicking felt like a drill in my brain. I developed misophonia and photophobia. The only relief was locking myself in a dark room, lying down with cold compresses on my forehead and the back of my neck, clutching my head as if it might explode.

I will never forget the day a migraine hit me in the middle of class. I was attending a dance training class downtown and had to board a bus back home, but the pain became so unbearable that I had to get off early. I barely made it to a dark, deserted plaza by a busy avenue before throwing up. It was nighttime. I felt awful, disoriented—and, on top of that, scared. I called my cousin, and she came to pick me up with her boyfriend.

That was just one episode—there were many. I also vomited from a migraine on the stairs of a football stadium, right after an Elton John concert in 2009.

Beyond the physical agony, there was another defining feature in migraines back then: frustration and anger. I hated feeling this way, hated how migraines constantly derailed my plans. The people around me didn’t know how to help—because I didn’t either.

I saw countless doctors. Tolfenamic acid no longer worked, so they prescribed pill M.—a mix of caffeine, ergotamine, and metamizole. It only made the pain worse. That’s when I realized migraine sufferers fall into two camps: those who swear by pill M. and those who despise it. 

I was also advised to see Dr. C.,a doctor known for treating celebrities. He did acupuncture. I went. Nothing changed. Then I tried a traditional Chinese medicine doctor. Still nothing.

I adjusted my diet—no fried foods, no coffee. I quit smoking. Then I started again.

I read every book I was given on the subject, including Headache, Migraine, and Cephalgia by Josefina Segno.

One episode from those years stands out vividly—one fueled by stress as much as anything else.

I’m an actress, and in 2011, I was selected to audition for the musical Mamma Mia!. I had to sing on stage in front of a panel. The pain started in the dressing room as I watched the other candidates prepare. I was a ball of nerves. The headache escalated. When my turn came, I stepped onto the stage, sang as best I could, walked off, spotted the nearest trash can, and threw up. Then I went straight home, locked myself in the dark, and collapsed into bed.

I knew I was supposed to undergo psychological therapy alongside medical treatment. The idea was to prevent extreme anxiety or tension—both migraine triggers.

By then, painkillers weren’t enough. More and more often, I ended up in the emergency room, where only intravenous (IV) medication brought relief.

By the time I turned 30, migraines had become a dominant force in my life. They were so unpredictable that I always warned those around me. My new friends knew about them. My coworkers did too.

Once, four colleagues and I were working at a children’s library in a remote town. We had taken my car to get there. That’s when one of the worst episodes hit. They took me to the local health clinic, but there was no doctor on duty. We were stranded. None of them could drive, so they couldn’t take me home.

I writhed in pain, growing more desperate by the minute. Unable to leave, stranded in an ill-equipped clinic, we called everyone we could think of, looking for someone who could drive out to get us, but no one was available. 

They had already called an ambulance, but it took ages to arrive. When it finally did, they transferred me to a private clinic. Meanwhile, the brother of one of my colleagues came with a friend to retrieve my car so it wouldn’t be left behind.

At the clinic, they gave me IV painkillers and anti-nausea medication. When I woke up, I reached for my phone to let everyone know I was okay. That’s when I heard a sarcastic voice from the doorway:

“If you’re using your phone, that means you’re feeling fine.”

It was a nurse, already eager to free up the bed. That happens a lot—as soon as you show signs of functioning, they want you out.

And every time, I think the same thing: No one wants to leave more than I do. No one wants to feel better… more than I do. I just wanted to let my family know that I was ok.

This was my reality—two or three episodes per month.

I quit smoking. Then I started again. Then I quit again.

I lived in constant pain. I hated my migraines. I resented leaving work or dropping everything I was doing. I missed important social moments because of them.

I hated that I couldn’t control them. That I couldn’t stop them in time. That all I could do was wait—one, sometimes two days—until the pain finally passed.

I avoided the ER as much as possible because it meant being hospitalized for at least four hours. I even bought anti-nausea injections to keep at home, hoping someone could administer them during an attack. Of course, that never happened—they expired unused.

The emergency room was always my last resort. But most of the time, it was also my only salvation.

“My Journey Through Migraine” is delivered in two parts. Continue reading #2 here.

*Julia Sanchez is an Argentine actress, producer, and project manager. She has spent the past 12 years in Buenos Aires but grew up in the smaller town of Venado Tuerto with her parents and siblings.
Professionally, she has worked for several years in communication agencies, a field she is passionate about. She is also part of an independent theater company, where she collaborates in writing, directing, and performing as part of a creative collective.
Outside of work, Julia enjoys staying active and spending quality time with friends.