“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 in the years since. 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.”
Silence filled the air. I could feel my heart beating rapidly.
“Sama … ” Dr. B. said.
I braced myself for her response.
“I’m so proud of you.”
For the first time in days, I felt a smile creep up.
From age 10, two things have stayed constant in my life: debate and chronic migraines. As soon as I became eligible for my elementary school’s debate team, my family was eager for me to continue our legacy of debating, a competitive activity where students defend a given position in front of students arguing the opposing point of view and a panel of judges. My grandfather, father, and brother all worked their way up to captains of their respective high school debate teams, winning multiple state and national awards.
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’ve only gotten longer and more severe every year since. 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 essentially saying that it was all in my head (no pun intended), and reassuring my parents that I just needed to exercise more.
Even with these 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, so I pushed myself to be better with every round.
When I got to Stuyvesant, one of New York City’s elite public high schools, I met similarly driven debaters. Suddenly, I was exposed to a new world of terminology and strategy by the upperclassmen, who seemed to 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 not to 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, OK?”
After an overly dramatic 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.
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, I struggled to leave my bed most mornings, so we consulted a neurologist for pain management techniques.
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.
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 surrounded me and listened to my body.
Further reflection over the next couple of weeks led me 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. I knew I had to quit the debate 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.
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.
“Papa?”
I felt my heart race.
“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.”
Then I said it: “I’m going to quit the debate team.”
At first, he couldn’t comprehend what I was saying. When he spoke, he said, “You’ve been doing it for years. You’re so good at it, too. Why are you throwing it all away?”
“I can’t do it anymore, Papa,” I whispered, tears filling my eyes.
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,” I told him.
“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.
With a heavy heart, I went to school the next day and told my friends about the conversation from the night before. They, too, tried to talk me out of my decision. They reminded me of college applications and how bad it would look to quit a long-term activity.
When I explained my reasoning to the debate team captain, she attempted to nod sympathetically, but I could tell she didn’t approve. Still, she hugged me goodbye.
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.
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 within 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, my migraines began to improve. More importantly, I was connecting with my body and my internal monologue, slowly but steadily unlearning the prioritization of ambition over physical and mental well-being.
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.
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 the team. 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 ensure those relationships were healthy.
I was connecting with my body and my internal monologue, slowly but steadily unlearning the prioritization of ambition over physical and mental well-being.
My students, ages 5 and 6, were the youngest at camp, and they would often tell me that 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 their age.
After every tournament, I would sit and look at my notes, wondering what I had done wrong and why I didn’t place higher. These kids were just happy to be there, and they were proud of themselves for competing.
Darren, my teaching mentor at camp, interrupted my thoughts, setting my “paper plate award” in front of me.
At camp, the teaching mentors give student leaders awards written on paper plates that relate to a personal attribute. I had almost forgotten about mine.
My 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 that choosing my well-being was not something to be ashamed of; it was my superpower.
A version of this essay first appeared in Youth Communication.
Sama Daga is a Stuyvesant High School student with a deep commitment to activism, education, and social equity. She is also the founder of FLOW Prep, a nonprofit that offers free tutoring and mentorship to under-resourced middle school students. Sama uses writing as a tool to amplify youth voices and advocate for meaningful change.