"During the very first injection, everything went black and I passed out...functioning became harder and harder..." - Keira's story on living alongside chronic illness young.

For most of my life, I thought headaches were just a normal inconvenience. Throughout middle school and early high school, I would often come home after long days of staring at screens with bad head pain. It was annoying, but manageable. I never imagined that a few years later, migraines would completely take over my life.

Everything shifted in the summer of 2024. I was doing a stressful CIT overnight camp program, and looking back, I truly believe that that stress triggered the start of my chronic migraines. What began as occasional headaches quickly turned into something much more intense. By the fall of my junior year of high school, I was having one or two severe migraines every week. They affected my sleep, my schoolwork, and my ability to function.

My older sister had been treated at Boston Children’s Hospital’s Pediatric Headache Program, so I decided to seek help there as well. At first, things felt hopeful. I was prescribed a “migraine medicine cocktail” of Rizatriptan, ibuprofen, and Zofran, and for a while, I was still able to live a pretty normal teenage life by going to football games, spending time with friends, and getting through school for the most part. 

Then I began nerve block injections, which had helped my older sister tremendously to the point where she didn’t need to take anything else for pain. Unfortunately, my experience was completely different. During the very first injection, everything went black and I passed out. I experienced something called cardio syncope and had seizure-like jerking movements. It was terrifying. I had always believed medicine was supposed to help, not harm, and this was my first real encounter with a treatment that didn’t work.

The injections were painful and exhausting. I was told I wouldn’t know if they were effective until after three full rounds—over 21 weeks. Instead of improving, my migraines only got worse. By December 2024, I was dealing with constant neck stiffness, nausea, and extreme sensitivity to light, sound, and smells. Functioning became harder and harder.

School became nearly impossible. I was missing days, leaving early, and attending meeting after meeting just to keep my credits. My social life was out the window—any hangout left me in pain, so I decided to stop going out altogether. Medications were trial and error, Topiramate gave me terrible side effects, and other options didn’t help much. Around this time, my neurologist suggested the Pediatric Pain Rehabilitation Center (PPRC) program.

I joined the program in May without much faith. It was five intense weeks of full days filled with physical therapy, occupational therapy, counseling, and structured exercise. The idea was to retrain my brain and body to function despite chronic pain. At first, I hated it. I was exhausted, overwhelmed, and still in pain.

But slowly, something changed.

By the last week of the program, my migraines weren’t as severe. I was less sensitive to light and sound. I wasn’t cured, but I was functioning again. I finished the school year. I traveled that summer. I was no longer bedridden and isolated as I had been for months prior.

Still, my baseline pain stayed around a 5/10, and my energy was incredibly low. The real turning point came when I finally turned 18 and qualified for Botox injections. After months of waiting and fighting insurance, I received my first round and it was truly life-changing.

For the first time in years, I felt normal.

The constant migraines faded. I could go to school, see friends, and live without fear of the next attack. When the Botox began to wear off, I added a monthly injection called Emgality, which helped even more.

Just as things finally seemed stable, a new challenge appeared, severe stomach pain and extreme fatigue starting around Thanksgiving of 2025. Blood tests came back abnormal, which was strangely a relief. Many people with chronic illness understand that feeling: at least abnormal results mean you’re not “crazy.”

Advocating for myself became essential all over again. I pushed for additional testing when I was told to “just wait.” Eventually, an X-ray helped point us in the right direction, and I began to find some relief.

One of the hardest parts of chronic illness isn’t just the pain itself, but the endurance it takes to keep trying new medications, new treatments, and new strategies, even when you’re exhausted and scared they might not work. If you’re reading this and feeling tired of trying, you’re not lazy or giving up, you’re human, and you’re doing the best you can.

What I’ve learned through all of this is that chronic illness is rarely a straight line. Just when one problem improves, another can appear. But I’ve also learned how strong I am.

I’ve learned to advocate for myself.

I’ve learned that treatments take time.

I’ve learned that function matters just as much as pain levels.

And I’ve learned that even when you’re hurting, you can still live.

During my journey, I started sharing my experience on TikTok under the account  @kiwis_care, and it gave me something I desperately needed, community. Connecting with others who understood what I was going through made me feel less alone.

If there’s one message I want others to take from my story, it’s this:

Where you are right now is not where you will be forever.

Advocate for yourself, even when you feel like no one is listening or you feel crazy. 

Document your symptoms. Ask for more tests. Push for answers.

And no matter how hard it seems at the time, don’t just stop living because you’re in pain. I know it might be harsh, but if you’re gonna be in pain for the rest of your life, you might as well actually live it.

Today, I can sit in a brightly lit room without sunglasses, something I never thought would be possible a year ago. My journey isn’t over, but I’ve come farther than I ever imagined.

if you’re reading this while struggling with your own pain, I hope you know you’re not alone. 

Clinical definitions will never capture the full weight of living with these conditions.

But we can.

Chronically Me.