Last night was one of those nights. Out of nowhere, I woke up in the dark depths of the early morning, my eyes still heavy with sleep but my mind instantly alerted by the familiar, unwelcome signs of an approaching migraine. A soft, swirling light filled my vision, like a shimmering aura that danced even when my eyes were closed. I groaned inwardly, knowing what was coming.
The air in the bedroom was still, and the faint sound of the fan whirring in the corner did little to comfort me. My head throbbed with a piercing ache that seemed to grow stronger with each passing second. Quietly, I swung my legs out of bed and tiptoed toward the bathroom, the wooden floor cool under my feet. Darkness cocooned the house, and I moved carefully to avoid waking anyone else. It’s strange how even tiny sounds, like the creak of a floorboard or the rustle of fabric, feel amplified when you’re in pain.
Reaching the bathroom, I fumbled through the medicine cabinet, squinting in the dim light to find my migraine medication. The pill bottle rattled softly as I unscrewed the cap, a sound that felt almost too loud in the silence. Pill in hand, I shuffled toward the kitchen, each step an effort as the aura began fading and the full force of the migraine began to take its place. Pain radiated just behind my right eye, sharp and unrelenting, like a cruel, invisible vice tightening around my skull.
The kitchen was dark save for the faint, silvery glow of moonlight coming through the window. I didn’t bother turning on the light; I knew it would only make everything worse. Instead, I felt my way toward the cabinet, grabbed a glass, and filled it with water from the tap. The cool glass felt soothing against my palm. I swallowed the pill quickly, the water washing it down with a cold, clean sensation. For a moment I just stood there, leaning against the counter, taking deep breaths and trying to rein in the nausea threatening to rise.
After what felt like an eternity, I made my way back to the bedroom, crawling into bed as quietly as I could. My body sank into the mattress, and I pulled the blankets up to my chin. The migraine wasn’t gone yet, but I knew the medication would take over soon. I closed my eyes, focusing on the sensation of my own steady breathing in an attempt to relax. Eventually, I drifted into a restless but much-needed sleep.
Three hours later, I woke up again to the soft light of morning filtering through the curtains. At first, I braced myself for the familiar post-migraine fog and exhaustion, but to my surprise, I felt… better. Not perfect, but a surprising sense of relief bloomed in my chest as I realized the piercing pain had dulled to a mere shadow. The sunglasses I’d left by my bedside became my first ally of the day, shielding my sensitive eyes as I sat up and allowed myself to adjust to the light little by little.
There’s always something oddly reflective about the morning after a migraine. It’s a humbling reminder of both the body’s vulnerability and its resilience. Today, the colors of the world seemed brighter—not blinding, but beautiful. I felt gratitude for simple things, like cool water, medication that works, and the peace of being able to move without pain. It’s not the kind of experience I’d wish on anyone, but it does make you appreciate the peaceful moments all the more.
By the time I sat down at the kitchen table with coffee in hand, I found myself smiling just a little. The biggest storms often remind us how good the calm feels afterward.
Lucy x