The real cost of migraines, ADHD, and Learning Differences.

The Real Cost of Migraines — More Than Just a Headache

By Michelle Fortuna | Counsellor, Wellbeing Expert & Neurodiversity Advocate

I cannot recall the exact age I was when I first experienced a migraine. Not because I don't remember the pain, but because I was so deeply disconnected from my body — from how I felt, and from any language to describe it.

What I do remember is this: every time my mum took me to a department store, it wasn't long before we had to make a detour to the nearest pharmacy. Nothing ever helped. And over time, what should have been an ordinary outing became something I dreaded. I couldn't understand how something that seemed so enjoyable to others felt so torturous to me.

A Child Without Words for Her Pain

11 Year Old Michelle

When I look back at my younger self now, I feel enormous compassion — for the words she did not speak, for her inability to express how she felt, and for the countless times she suffered in silence. What I didn't know then was that I was experiencing sensory overload, and that I was being repeatedly exposed to environments that were causing me real harm.

Things became harder when I moved to secondary school. I could no longer hide, and it quickly became apparent that I was, in many ways, in a world of my own. Rather than anyone asking why, I was met with comments that stayed with me for years: "She's away with the fairies." "She's always daydreaming." "She doesn't pay attention." "She's weird." And the most damaging of all — "She's stupid."

What no one recognised was that I had more than one learning difference. I constantly felt as though everyone around me was speaking a language I hadn't been taught. I learned to pretend — to smile and nod and perform competence — because the alternative was too frightening. Of course, pretending only takes you so far. Underneath, there was so much I didn't understand, so much I couldn't process.

It wasn't long before my mum was being called to collect me from school. I would end up in the sick bay, unable to lift my head, violently ill, completely unable to function. I don't remember asking for help. I don't think I knew that I could.

The only thing that kept me going was the belief that I had no choice. School was something I simply had to do — and something I dreaded every single day. The anxiety was relentless.

Finding My Way — In Spite of Everything

After finishing Year 12, I moved to Melbourne to study Early Childhood Education. Even though I was genuinely interested in the subjects, I once again experienced that familiar, painful disconnect between what I was learning and what I could demonstrate. The shame followed me like a shadow.

What I did have, though, was intuition. And empathy. In abundance.

When I worked with children, something shifted. I was attuned to who they were. I saw them — truly saw them — and I treated them with the kind of respect and sensitivity that I had always longed for myself. My results with children were excellent, not despite my differences, but because of them.

The migraines, however, did not go away. I tried to will them away. I tried to hide them, convinced that admitting to them was a sign of weakness — proof that something was fundamentally wrong with me.

Now — Still Navigating, But Differently

I am now in my fifties. I still experience migraines, sometimes as frequently as every two weeks, some lasting a week or longer. But something has changed.

I have learned to advocate for myself — though I will be honest, it is often exhausting. I still encounter disbelief. I still feel judged, as though I am making excuses. There are moments of real grief around what migraines have taken from me — opportunities missed, connections lost, periods of depression where I have had to shrink my life just to avoid a trigger.

And I still get angry. Because we are still living in a world that is profoundly insensitive to the differences in how people experience it.

A little over a year ago, I joined a writing group — one that proudly described itself as inclusive and welcoming. I loved it. I loved the connection, the creativity, the sense of belonging I had been craving. But I couldn't tolerate the environment. The excessive LED lighting — considered modern and decorative — combined with floor-to-ceiling windows meant the room was flooded with a kind of light that physically hurt me.

I noticed I wasn't alone. At least three other women were quietly wearing sunglasses indoors. I checked in with them. Every one of them was bothered by the lights. Not one of them had said anything, because they didn't want to cause a problem.

That fuelled me. I spoke up.

It didn't help. I was told there were no other options. And so, despite the joy I had felt at finally finding something I wanted to be part of, I left — once again feeling punished for being different.

What I Know Now — As a Counsellor and Neurodiversity Advocate

Through my own lived experience, and through years of working as a counsellor and wellbeing practitioner specialising in neurodiversity and inclusion, I have come to understand something clearly: the cost of migraines is never just physical.

For so many of my clients — particularly those who are neurodivergent — chronic symptoms like migraines are deeply intertwined with shame, identity, and the exhausting labour of existing in spaces that were never designed with us in mind. The pain is real. And so is the grief, the isolation, and the self-doubt that so often accompanies it.

What I have also learned is that there is an undeniable connection between stress and migraines. For me, avoiding sugar, protecting my sleep, and carefully managing my sensory environment are not luxuries — they are survival strategies.

If you are living with chronic illness, or supporting someone who is, I want you to know this: your experience is valid. You are not making it up. You are not weak. And you deserve to be in spaces — and in relationships, including the therapeutic one — where you are truly seen.

Michelle Fortuna is a counsellor and wellbeing expert based in Melbourne, specialising in neurodiversity, inclusion, and chronic illness. She works one-on-one with clients who are ready to stop masking and start healing. You can learn more at michellefortuna.com.