My Health Is Not Up For Debate

“Good morning, Dagas!” Dr. B. exclaimed, greeting my family. My family neurologist, Dr. B, worked with my mother to manage her stress-related migraines around the time I was born, and everyone in our family had grown to trust her. She was always happy, and usually it made me smile too. Today, though, I could barely move the corners of my mouth. 

We got through questions about my medication, sleep, and diet quickly. 

Then, the moment I was dreading arrived. 

“So what’s been going on Sama? Tell me the major events this past month.”

I took a deep breath. I passed time by telling her about school, my best friend’s Sweet 16, and anything else that was remotely interesting, while working up the courage to tell her my real news. My parents started to give me questioning looks, forcing me to get to the point.

“I quit the debate team,” I finally said. 

“I know it was a bad idea, but I thought it would help my migraines. Stress and all that.” I added.

Silence filled the air. I could feel my heart beat rapidly.

“Sama…”

I braced myself for her response.

“I’m so proud of you”

For the first time in days, I felt a smile creep up. 

Honoring a Debating Legacy

From the age of 10, two things have stayed constant in my life: debate and chronic migraines. As soon as I was eligible for my elementary school’s debate team, my family was eager to make me continue our legacy of debating, a competitive activity where students defend a given position in front of opposing students and a panel of judges. My grandfather, father, and brother all worked their way up to captains of their respective debate teams in high school, winning multiple state and national awards. This was just the beginning of a long journey with debate. 

I didn’t question my motivations behind the activity; it felt like a family requirement. I was thrown into the world of research and public speaking, just as my family members had been. The only difference? They never had to do it with a pounding headache. 

I have been experiencing intense headaches since elementary school, and they only got longer and more severe every year. My parents took me to multiple doctors and neurologists, but no one seemed to have a solution, only flimsy theories. I distinctly remember one doctor mentioning “amplified pain syndrome,” essentially stating that it was all in my head (no pun intended), and reassuring my parents that I just needed to exercise more. 

Even with these unexplainable headaches, I strove to be the best debater possible. Within a few months of my first debate tournament, several medals, trophies, and certificates lined the walls of my room. With every win, my mom reminded me that debate ran in my blood, and how proud she was that I was honoring the tradition. I was motivated by the praise and recognition I got for my effort, so I pushed myself to be better with every round. 

When I got to Stuyvesant, a competitive public high school in New York City, I met similarly driven debaters. Suddenly, I was exposed to a new world of terminology and strategy by the upperclassmen, who seemed to only live for this team. I poured hours into perfecting my arguments, the intonation of my voice, and even my posture. I sacrificed sleep, time with friends and family, and even rest needed to nurse my migraines. 

At the beginning of my sophomore year, I was diagnosed with chronic migraines. My parents encouraged me to not let this diagnosis change my life in any way, and so I continued to push through the pain. 

The nights before national debate tournaments were particularly intense. One such night, I sat in front of my laptop, head throbbing from pain, and stared at my written speech. Countries’ GDP and renewable energy numbers covered my screen, but my sleep deprivation did not allow me to fully understand the charts I was reading. 

At first, I could write through the migraine. My fingers moved furiously as I researched for better evidence, better statistics, and better refutations. As the night continued, the words started to blur together. Ding, ding, ding, my ears rang out in pain.

Tending to my headache was a problem for after I was done prepping. Nothing was going to keep me from perfection.

My mom peeked her head through the door of my room, then tiptoed in hesitantly.

“Sama, why don’t you eat something?” she offered.

I was too caffeinated to respond with kindness.

“I can eat later,” I said.

“You can prepare later too. Let’s eat, okay?”

After an overly dramatized eye roll, I got up to walk to the dining room table. My legs wobbled, and I grabbed onto my bed’s railing to stabilize myself. 

My mother ran to hold me, and brought me to my bed. It was only then that I realized just how much my head was hurting. I could barely hear her voice over the ringing. 

The Aftermath

At the time, my family, including me, didn’t fully understand the consequences of chronic migraines. Fatigue and sore muscles became a part of my daily life, along with an endless supply of medications. As the symptoms got worse in high school, to the point that I struggled to leave my bed most mornings, we consulted a neurologist for pain management techniques. Beyond that, I tried to ignore my symptoms. That night, I couldn’t ignore them any longer. 

As I lay in bed the next day, missing a tournament I had spent weeks preparing for, I was surprised by my relief. I thought I would miss the adrenaline rush of giving speeches in front of a panel of judges, but it was the last thing on my mind on my day of rest. 

I felt ashamed for enjoying this tranquility as I remembered what my parents would say when I first started getting migraines: “You have to push through Sama.” For the first time in my life, I let go of the ambitious, workaholic attitude that I was surrounded by and listened to my body.

Do I Even Love Debating? 

Further reflection over the next couple of weeks led to a scary conclusion—I never really loved debating. I liked the external validation associated with my performance in debate. But was that worth aggravating my condition? Beyond the expected anxiety of high school, this new chapter in my life had brought on debilitating symptoms, including extreme dizziness at random times, spots in my vision, and even occasional fainting. 

As I started to journal about how I was feeling, as opposed to how everyone else felt about my life, it was obvious that I needed fewer stressors and more time for myself. In other words, something had to give. Debate being the most demanding and somewhat optional activity made my choice clear: I had to quit the team. 

A few weeks after my epiphany, I approached my father, who was sitting in his usual spot on our brown, leather couch, with his laptop illuminating his face. I sat on the carpet, leaving at least five feet of distance between us, as if that would protect me from his reaction.

“Papa?”

I felt my heart pace. 

“So you know how I’ve been having a lot of migraines lately”

“Mhm”

“I’ve been trying to reduce stress in my life. Focus on me. On what’s healthy for me.”

“I’m going to quit the debate team.” 

He couldn’t comprehend what I said at first, but my anxious nail biting confirmed his worst nightmare. 

“You’ve been doing it for years. You’re so good at it too. Why are you throwing it all away?” My dad pinched his eyebrows in frustration and looked down. 

“I can’t do it anymore, Papa” I whispered, tears filling my eyes.

“You want another debate class? Someone to write your speeches? You’ve never dreamed of quitting debate before.”

I struggled to explain my reasoning. My father didn’t know how my life differed from his because of my illness. 

“I didn’t think I was allowed to think about life without debate.”

“Oh but now you can? You’re at the peak but now debate isn’t worth it?”

I wasn’t angry at him for not understanding. Instead, I was ashamed of myself for not meeting his expectations. After some back and forth, he went silent, cueing me to leave him alone. 

Standing Up for Myself

With a heavy heart, I went to school the next day and told my friends about the conversation the night before. Instead of empathy, they too expressed opposition to my decision. They reminded me of college applications, and how bad it would look to quit a long-term activity. 

My team, my friends, and my family made it hard to stick to my decision, to the point that I began doubting how I was feeling physically. Am I quitting because I’m lazy? Why can’t I just push through?

But the way I felt before the national tournament terrified me more than their disappointment. I was always told that my migraines shouldn’t prevent me from doing any activity, so I never let them control any aspect of my life. It was that same mindset that had brought me to this unsustainable lifestyle, where my body begged for rest and my mind punished me for resting. I knew it was time to prioritize my health. 

I knew it was time to prioritize my health. 

The day I quit the team, the air was thick with judgment from my teammates and mentors. As I explained my reasoning to the captain, she attempted to nod sympathetically, but the words unsaid were much louder. I could tell she didn’t approve. Still, she hugged me goodbye, one last time. 

I felt hot tears in my eyes. For a split second, I considered telling her this was all a joke, that I would never leave this community behind. But as I looked around the room, I remembered that the familiarity of the space and the activity were not reasons to stay in an environment that wasn’t serving me anymore. I left with a quick wave and forced smile. 

Walking away from that room was a step in the right direction; it was time to let myself heal. 

New Season, New Me

With the help of my neurologist, I was able to implement some daily routines to prevent and treat my migraines. I started my mornings with three glasses of water and a balanced breakfast. I ended my nights with my gratitude journal and a quick set of affirmations, which helped me look past the disadvantages of my condition. It felt silly at first, but I could see the positive changes in my mood in just a few days. I began to wake up excited for the day, as opposed to my usual dread. 

My mom also helped me get in touch with an acupuncturist, which led to weekly appointments to relieve my muscle tension. After three months, the migraines were already going down. More importantly, I was connecting with my body and my internal monologue, slowly but steadily unlearning the prioritization of ambition over physical and mental wellbeing. 

There was an obvious adjustment period for my family members who noticed my new pace of life. They would often encourage me to do more than my body would allow me to, like taking on more classes at school or going on more family outings. In these moments, it took a lot of courage to remind them (and myself) that I had challenges they would never be able to fully understand, and I needed their empathy more than their motivation. 

I needed their empathy more than their motivation. 

As I reflected on how much my health was improving, I was proud of my choice to leave the team. However, that didn’t mean I didn’t miss being part of the debate community. 

At times, I wondered if I was ready to rejoin. While grappling with this decision, a friend recommended we volunteer as student coaches over the summer at the NYC Urban Debate League, an organization that brings debate resources to students across the city. I hesitantly agreed. 

As I planned lessons with my fellow lab leaders, I focused on activities that allowed students to have fun and build skills, instead of activities that just helped them win rounds. As a coach, I was responsible for fostering each student’s relationship with debate, and I aimed to make them healthy ones. 

My students, ages 5 and 6,were the youngest at camp, and they would often tell me speaking in front of a room of people was the scariest part of their experience. To encourage them, I made it a habit to cheer every time they gave a speech, even if it wasn’t a full sentence. Slowly, the kids started to feel more comfortable talking at the podium. 

On the last day of camp, I sat watching the young debaters run around the lounge after the camp tournament, congratulating each other on their medals and comparing the number of chocolate chips in their ice cream. I reflected on how differently I viewed debate at this age. 

After every tournament, I would sit and look at my notes, wondering what I did wrong, and why I didn’t place higher. These kids were actually happy to be here, and they were proud of themselves for just competing. 

Darren, my teaching mentor at camp, interrupted my thoughts. He placed in front of me my “paper plate award”. 

At camp, the teaching mentors give the student leaders awards written on paper plates, related to a personal attribute. I had almost forgotten about mine.

The plate read “The Calm at the Center of the Storm.” 

I was puzzled. I was almost sure he gave me the wrong one. I was the calm one? I turned the plate around to reveal a letter.

“The kids were the lucky beneficiaries of your talents, debate experience, and peaceful presence” it read. 

It was at this moment that I realized me choosing my wellbeing was not something to be ashamed of; it was my superpower.