When Pain Doesn’t Look Like Pain

by Bayan Mashaal, P4

I was in my third year of pharmacy school when my body betrayed me.

At least, that’s how it felt at the time.

One day I was a student worrying about exams, rotations and the future. The next, I was lying in fear, unable to trust my own body, wondering if what I was experiencing was a migraine or a stroke or the end of everything I had worked so hard for.

I was diagnosed with hemiplegic migraines, a rare and severe form of migraine that can mimic stroke-like symptoms. Sudden weakness on one side of the body. Difficulty speaking. Numbness. Confusion. Intense, overwhelming pain. The kind of symptoms that make you think, This is it. I’m dying.

And the worst part? They come without warning.

There is no schedule. No predictability. No guarantee that today will be a “good day.” I can be fine one moment and completely incapacitated the next. Every episode carries the same fear: Is this just another migraine or something worse this time?

During that period, I came dangerously close to dropping out of pharmacy school.

Not because I didn’t care.

Not because I wasn’t capable.

But because surviving each day felt harder than any exam I had ever taken.

It’s difficult to explain the mental toll of living in constant fear of your own brain. Of waking up each morning wondering whether your body will cooperate with your ambitions. Of trying to study pharmacology while quietly questioning whether you’ll be able to finish the semester or whether you’ll end up in the emergency room again.

Invisible illnesses are cruel that way. On the outside, you look “fine.” On the inside, you’re fighting a battle no one can see.

There were moments I felt weak for struggling. Moments I felt guilty for falling behind. Moments I questioned whether I belonged in a profession centered on caring for others when I was struggling just to care for myself.

But I stayed.

Not because it got easy but because I learned something essential along the way: strength doesn’t always look like pushing harder. Sometimes it looks like enduring. Sometimes it looks like asking for help. Sometimes it looks like simply choosing to stay.

Hemiplegic migraines are still part of my life. The fear hasn’t disappeared. The uncertainty hasn’t magically resolved. I still get attacks randomly, and they are still terrifying.

But I’m still here too.

I’m sharing this not for sympathy, but for awareness—for students silently fighting illnesses, for educators who may never see the battles their students carry, and for anyone who feels alone because their pain doesn’t have a visible name tag.

You are not weak for struggling.

You are not failing because your body needs compassion.

And you are not alone, even when it feels that way.

Sometimes, surviving is the achievement.