Embracing Balance: Medicine and Poison
Sep 10, 2024
From a young age, I struggled with an affliction that, like many, I didn’t understand—migraines.
This condition would come upon me in waves, seemingly out of nowhere, overwhelming my senses and rendering me incapacitated.
It began when I was around 11 years old, a time when my world should have been carefree.
I distinctly remember going downstairs to tell my parents something was wrong: I couldn’t see properly, and my body felt oddly off balance.
Little did I know at the time, these were the early signs of migraines, a condition that would follow me for years.
At that age, the migraines weren't just minor headaches that passed in a few hours.
They were intense, frequent, and debilitating.
I would get one or two migraines a week, and when they came, they would often put me out of commission for days.
I wasn’t just experiencing the physical pain; I was, in essence, “suffering,” as many of us describe it.
The episodes stretched well into my teenage years and early adulthood.
At one point, while my parents were away, I lost my vision for nearly a week, and it felt as though my body had betrayed me.
This led to a barrage of tests—brain scans, electrodes strapped to my head, the constant back-and-forth between doctors—but no clear answer.
As I reflect on those years, I realise the emphasis was always on the suffering.
I felt trapped, like a victim to these migraines, powerless against their unpredictable nature.
And that’s where many people remain, locked into the idea that an affliction is something to be fought against or endured.
However, it took me years to see migraines—and indeed many things in life—differently.
I began to shift my perspective, recognising that these experiences were not punishments or mere unfortunate circumstances but signals, invitations to look deeper within myself.
Over the past two years, something significant has changed.
I no longer suffer from migraines with the same frequency or intensity.
It’s not because I found a new medication or a revolutionary treatment; rather, I began to understand migraines as a form of medicine.
Not the kind of medicine you get from a pharmacy, but a different kind, a medicine that teaches and heals in a more profound way.
I began to ask myself why these migraines were happening.
Why was my body reacting like this?
What was the message behind the pain?
It dawned on me that these migraines were not enemies.
They were teachers, messengers trying to communicate that something was wrong.
Just as pain from a thorn in your side signals that something is physically wrong, migraines were my body’s way of telling me to slow down, to reflect, and to pay attention to areas of my life that were out of balance.
They became, in a way, my body’s alarm system, alerting me to an issue that needed addressing.
As I shifted my mindset from victimhood to curiosity, the power that migraines had over me dissipated.
Nowadays, I rarely experience migraines.
When they do appear—perhaps once every year or two—they come not as devastating attacks but as gentle reminders.
When I notice the familiar visual aura, instead of panicking, I welcome it.
"Hello, old friend," I think to myself.
I’ve learned to listen to these signals and ask what they are trying to tell me.
Am I overworking myself?
Am I ignoring stress or emotional strain?
What needs my attention?
And most importantly, I thank the migraine for coming, acknowledging it as a form of guidance, rather than something to fear or despise.
By embracing the idea of migraines as medicine, rather than a form of suffering, I’ve been able to heal on a level that I never thought possible.
This shift in perspective is something I wish I could share with my family.
Like many others, they continue to "suffer" from migraines.
The word suffering carries so much weight, implying that one is a passive recipient of pain or hardship.
My family sees migraines as something that happens to them, something beyond their control.
It’s challenging to communicate this concept of medicine to them, to explain that by viewing migraines as a teacher, not a tormentor, they might begin to see a shift in their own experiences.
But I understand that everyone’s journey is different, and not everyone is ready to embrace this kind of shift in perspective.
This concept of medicine and poison is a delicate balance, one that has parallels in many areas of life.
Medicine, as I now see it, isn't limited to the pills we take or the treatments we undergo.
It’s the broader concept of healing and learning.
It is the way the universe, or our own bodies, guide us toward growth and reflection.
But medicine, too, has its counterpart: poison.
We often think of poison as something dangerous, a substance that can kill if consumed in large enough quantities.
But in truth, many things in life can be both medicine and poison, depending on how they are used.
It’s all about balance.
Take caffeine, for example.
In small doses, it can be beneficial, providing a boost of energy and focus.
However, if consumed excessively over a long period, caffeine can become a poison, wreaking havoc on your body and mind.
The same can be said of alcohol.
A glass of red wine can be good for your heart, but drink too much and it becomes harmful.
This balance between medicine and poison is a concept deeply rooted in many indigenous cultures.
For example, Native American traditions often speak of everything in life containing both the potential for healing and harm.
They acknowledge that even the most beneficial substances can become toxic if used in excess.
In much the same way, life itself is a balance of the good and the bad, the medicine and the poison.
What heals can also harm, and what harms can also heal, depending on how we perceive and interact with it.
In this sense, migraines were once a poison in my life.
They caused pain, suffering, and fear.
But by changing my relationship with them—by acknowledging them as medicine—they transformed into something healing, something that guided me toward self-reflection and ultimately, self-healing.
The key is in understanding that our perception shapes our experience. What we once saw as a curse can become a blessing if we choose to see it differently.
This balance extends beyond the realm of physical health.
In every area of our lives, we encounter situations that can either be medicine or poison, depending on how we choose to view them. Relationships, for example, can be a source of immense joy and support, or they can become toxic if they are built on unhealthy foundations.
Work can be fulfilling and meaningful, but it can also drain us and become a poison if we let it consume our lives.
Even our thoughts and emotions can fall into this dynamic.
Positive thinking can uplift and inspire, but too much positivity without acknowledging reality can lead to avoidance and denial, which can become a poison of its own.
The lesson here is one of balance.
Life is full of both medicine and poison, and it is up to us to recognise the difference and to approach each situation with the understanding that even the things we fear or resist can hold the potential for healing.
Pain, in its many forms, is not something to be feared or avoided, but something to be acknowledged and listened to.
It is a messenger, telling us that something needs our attention.
In conclusion, migraines have taught me that suffering is not a given.
It is a choice, a perspective.
By shifting my mindset and seeing my migraines as medicine, I was able to transform my experience of them and ultimately heal.
This idea extends far beyond migraines, encompassing the broader concept of balance in life.
Medicine and poison are two sides of the same coin, and it is up to us to navigate the fine line between them.
Through awareness, reflection, and a willingness to listen to the messages our bodies and lives send us, we can transform what was once poison into medicine, and find healing in places we never thought possible.
From a young age, I struggled with an affliction that, like many, I didn’t understand—migraines.
This condition would come upon me in waves, seemingly out of nowhere, overwhelming my senses and rendering me incapacitated.
It began when I was around 11 years old, a time when my world should have been carefree.
I distinctly remember going downstairs to tell my parents something was wrong: I couldn’t see properly, and my body felt oddly off balance.
Little did I know at the time, these were the early signs of migraines, a condition that would follow me for years.
At that age, the migraines weren't just minor headaches that passed in a few hours.
They were intense, frequent, and debilitating.
I would get one or two migraines a week, and when they came, they would often put me out of commission for days.
I wasn’t just experiencing the physical pain; I was, in essence, “suffering,” as many of us describe it.
The episodes stretched well into my teenage years and early adulthood.
At one point, while my parents were away, I lost my vision for nearly a week, and it felt as though my body had betrayed me.
This led to a barrage of tests—brain scans, electrodes strapped to my head, the constant back-and-forth between doctors—but no clear answer.
As I reflect on those years, I realise the emphasis was always on the suffering.
I felt trapped, like a victim to these migraines, powerless against their unpredictable nature.
And that’s where many people remain, locked into the idea that an affliction is something to be fought against or endured.
However, it took me years to see migraines—and indeed many things in life—differently.
I began to shift my perspective, recognising that these experiences were not punishments or mere unfortunate circumstances but signals, invitations to look deeper within myself.
Over the past two years, something significant has changed.
I no longer suffer from migraines with the same frequency or intensity.
It’s not because I found a new medication or a revolutionary treatment; rather, I began to understand migraines as a form of medicine.
Not the kind of medicine you get from a pharmacy, but a different kind, a medicine that teaches and heals in a more profound way.
I began to ask myself why these migraines were happening.
Why was my body reacting like this?
What was the message behind the pain?
It dawned on me that these migraines were not enemies.
They were teachers, messengers trying to communicate that something was wrong.
Just as pain from a thorn in your side signals that something is physically wrong, migraines were my body’s way of telling me to slow down, to reflect, and to pay attention to areas of my life that were out of balance.
They became, in a way, my body’s alarm system, alerting me to an issue that needed addressing.
As I shifted my mindset from victimhood to curiosity, the power that migraines had over me dissipated.
Nowadays, I rarely experience migraines.
When they do appear—perhaps once every year or two—they come not as devastating attacks but as gentle reminders.
When I notice the familiar visual aura, instead of panicking, I welcome it.
"Hello, old friend," I think to myself.
I’ve learned to listen to these signals and ask what they are trying to tell me.
Am I overworking myself?
Am I ignoring stress or emotional strain?
What needs my attention?
And most importantly, I thank the migraine for coming, acknowledging it as a form of guidance, rather than something to fear or despise.
By embracing the idea of migraines as medicine, rather than a form of suffering, I’ve been able to heal on a level that I never thought possible.
This shift in perspective is something I wish I could share with my family.
Like many others, they continue to "suffer" from migraines.
The word suffering carries so much weight, implying that one is a passive recipient of pain or hardship.
My family sees migraines as something that happens to them, something beyond their control.
It’s challenging to communicate this concept of medicine to them, to explain that by viewing migraines as a teacher, not a tormentor, they might begin to see a shift in their own experiences.
But I understand that everyone’s journey is different, and not everyone is ready to embrace this kind of shift in perspective.
This concept of medicine and poison is a delicate balance, one that has parallels in many areas of life.
Medicine, as I now see it, isn't limited to the pills we take or the treatments we undergo.
It’s the broader concept of healing and learning.
It is the way the universe, or our own bodies, guide us toward growth and reflection.
But medicine, too, has its counterpart: poison.
We often think of poison as something dangerous, a substance that can kill if consumed in large enough quantities.
But in truth, many things in life can be both medicine and poison, depending on how they are used.
It’s all about balance.
Take caffeine, for example.
In small doses, it can be beneficial, providing a boost of energy and focus.
However, if consumed excessively over a long period, caffeine can become a poison, wreaking havoc on your body and mind.
The same can be said of alcohol.
A glass of red wine can be good for your heart, but drink too much and it becomes harmful.
This balance between medicine and poison is a concept deeply rooted in many indigenous cultures.
For example, Native American traditions often speak of everything in life containing both the potential for healing and harm.
They acknowledge that even the most beneficial substances can become toxic if used in excess.
In much the same way, life itself is a balance of the good and the bad, the medicine and the poison.
What heals can also harm, and what harms can also heal, depending on how we perceive and interact with it.
In this sense, migraines were once a poison in my life.
They caused pain, suffering, and fear.
But by changing my relationship with them—by acknowledging them as medicine—they transformed into something healing, something that guided me toward self-reflection and ultimately, self-healing.
The key is in understanding that our perception shapes our experience. What we once saw as a curse can become a blessing if we choose to see it differently.
This balance extends beyond the realm of physical health.
In every area of our lives, we encounter situations that can either be medicine or poison, depending on how we choose to view them. Relationships, for example, can be a source of immense joy and support, or they can become toxic if they are built on unhealthy foundations.
Work can be fulfilling and meaningful, but it can also drain us and become a poison if we let it consume our lives.
Even our thoughts and emotions can fall into this dynamic.
Positive thinking can uplift and inspire, but too much positivity without acknowledging reality can lead to avoidance and denial, which can become a poison of its own.
The lesson here is one of balance.
Life is full of both medicine and poison, and it is up to us to recognise the difference and to approach each situation with the understanding that even the things we fear or resist can hold the potential for healing.
Pain, in its many forms, is not something to be feared or avoided, but something to be acknowledged and listened to.
It is a messenger, telling us that something needs our attention.
In conclusion, migraines have taught me that suffering is not a given.
It is a choice, a perspective.
By shifting my mindset and seeing my migraines as medicine, I was able to transform my experience of them and ultimately heal.
This idea extends far beyond migraines, encompassing the broader concept of balance in life.
Medicine and poison are two sides of the same coin, and it is up to us to navigate the fine line between them.
Through awareness, reflection, and a willingness to listen to the messages our bodies and lives send us, we can transform what was once poison into medicine, and find healing in places we never thought possible.
From a young age, I struggled with an affliction that, like many, I didn’t understand—migraines.
This condition would come upon me in waves, seemingly out of nowhere, overwhelming my senses and rendering me incapacitated.
It began when I was around 11 years old, a time when my world should have been carefree.
I distinctly remember going downstairs to tell my parents something was wrong: I couldn’t see properly, and my body felt oddly off balance.
Little did I know at the time, these were the early signs of migraines, a condition that would follow me for years.
At that age, the migraines weren't just minor headaches that passed in a few hours.
They were intense, frequent, and debilitating.
I would get one or two migraines a week, and when they came, they would often put me out of commission for days.
I wasn’t just experiencing the physical pain; I was, in essence, “suffering,” as many of us describe it.
The episodes stretched well into my teenage years and early adulthood.
At one point, while my parents were away, I lost my vision for nearly a week, and it felt as though my body had betrayed me.
This led to a barrage of tests—brain scans, electrodes strapped to my head, the constant back-and-forth between doctors—but no clear answer.
As I reflect on those years, I realise the emphasis was always on the suffering.
I felt trapped, like a victim to these migraines, powerless against their unpredictable nature.
And that’s where many people remain, locked into the idea that an affliction is something to be fought against or endured.
However, it took me years to see migraines—and indeed many things in life—differently.
I began to shift my perspective, recognising that these experiences were not punishments or mere unfortunate circumstances but signals, invitations to look deeper within myself.
Over the past two years, something significant has changed.
I no longer suffer from migraines with the same frequency or intensity.
It’s not because I found a new medication or a revolutionary treatment; rather, I began to understand migraines as a form of medicine.
Not the kind of medicine you get from a pharmacy, but a different kind, a medicine that teaches and heals in a more profound way.
I began to ask myself why these migraines were happening.
Why was my body reacting like this?
What was the message behind the pain?
It dawned on me that these migraines were not enemies.
They were teachers, messengers trying to communicate that something was wrong.
Just as pain from a thorn in your side signals that something is physically wrong, migraines were my body’s way of telling me to slow down, to reflect, and to pay attention to areas of my life that were out of balance.
They became, in a way, my body’s alarm system, alerting me to an issue that needed addressing.
As I shifted my mindset from victimhood to curiosity, the power that migraines had over me dissipated.
Nowadays, I rarely experience migraines.
When they do appear—perhaps once every year or two—they come not as devastating attacks but as gentle reminders.
When I notice the familiar visual aura, instead of panicking, I welcome it.
"Hello, old friend," I think to myself.
I’ve learned to listen to these signals and ask what they are trying to tell me.
Am I overworking myself?
Am I ignoring stress or emotional strain?
What needs my attention?
And most importantly, I thank the migraine for coming, acknowledging it as a form of guidance, rather than something to fear or despise.
By embracing the idea of migraines as medicine, rather than a form of suffering, I’ve been able to heal on a level that I never thought possible.
This shift in perspective is something I wish I could share with my family.
Like many others, they continue to "suffer" from migraines.
The word suffering carries so much weight, implying that one is a passive recipient of pain or hardship.
My family sees migraines as something that happens to them, something beyond their control.
It’s challenging to communicate this concept of medicine to them, to explain that by viewing migraines as a teacher, not a tormentor, they might begin to see a shift in their own experiences.
But I understand that everyone’s journey is different, and not everyone is ready to embrace this kind of shift in perspective.
This concept of medicine and poison is a delicate balance, one that has parallels in many areas of life.
Medicine, as I now see it, isn't limited to the pills we take or the treatments we undergo.
It’s the broader concept of healing and learning.
It is the way the universe, or our own bodies, guide us toward growth and reflection.
But medicine, too, has its counterpart: poison.
We often think of poison as something dangerous, a substance that can kill if consumed in large enough quantities.
But in truth, many things in life can be both medicine and poison, depending on how they are used.
It’s all about balance.
Take caffeine, for example.
In small doses, it can be beneficial, providing a boost of energy and focus.
However, if consumed excessively over a long period, caffeine can become a poison, wreaking havoc on your body and mind.
The same can be said of alcohol.
A glass of red wine can be good for your heart, but drink too much and it becomes harmful.
This balance between medicine and poison is a concept deeply rooted in many indigenous cultures.
For example, Native American traditions often speak of everything in life containing both the potential for healing and harm.
They acknowledge that even the most beneficial substances can become toxic if used in excess.
In much the same way, life itself is a balance of the good and the bad, the medicine and the poison.
What heals can also harm, and what harms can also heal, depending on how we perceive and interact with it.
In this sense, migraines were once a poison in my life.
They caused pain, suffering, and fear.
But by changing my relationship with them—by acknowledging them as medicine—they transformed into something healing, something that guided me toward self-reflection and ultimately, self-healing.
The key is in understanding that our perception shapes our experience. What we once saw as a curse can become a blessing if we choose to see it differently.
This balance extends beyond the realm of physical health.
In every area of our lives, we encounter situations that can either be medicine or poison, depending on how we choose to view them. Relationships, for example, can be a source of immense joy and support, or they can become toxic if they are built on unhealthy foundations.
Work can be fulfilling and meaningful, but it can also drain us and become a poison if we let it consume our lives.
Even our thoughts and emotions can fall into this dynamic.
Positive thinking can uplift and inspire, but too much positivity without acknowledging reality can lead to avoidance and denial, which can become a poison of its own.
The lesson here is one of balance.
Life is full of both medicine and poison, and it is up to us to recognise the difference and to approach each situation with the understanding that even the things we fear or resist can hold the potential for healing.
Pain, in its many forms, is not something to be feared or avoided, but something to be acknowledged and listened to.
It is a messenger, telling us that something needs our attention.
In conclusion, migraines have taught me that suffering is not a given.
It is a choice, a perspective.
By shifting my mindset and seeing my migraines as medicine, I was able to transform my experience of them and ultimately heal.
This idea extends far beyond migraines, encompassing the broader concept of balance in life.
Medicine and poison are two sides of the same coin, and it is up to us to navigate the fine line between them.
Through awareness, reflection, and a willingness to listen to the messages our bodies and lives send us, we can transform what was once poison into medicine, and find healing in places we never thought possible.