This Too Shall Pass. I Don't Know When. I'm Thanking My Body Anyway.
Published: March 29, 2026 - 6 min read
The Fridge That Made Me Cry
This is not the first time this is happening.
I had that thought yesterday as I opened my fridge and tears streamed down my face. I was hungry, which meant I had to eat. But I also felt really uncomfortable in my stomach, and I knew more food would only increase that feeling of discomfort. I cried as I prepared my meal, stared out the window, and ate in silence anyways.
If you've been reading my IBS posts, you know this isn't new. The heartbreak of eating, the broken promises, the $1,200 colonoscopy that told me to eat fiber. You already know.
But yesterday, standing there with tears on my face and a plate I didn't want to fill, my brain did something useful for once. It took me back to Grade 12.
The Migraines That Stole Everything
I had just finished my IGCSE Exams and went back home for a little rest period before I had to return to school to prepare for JAMB and WAEC, which are the official exams students in Nigeria write before graduating high school. After the first night, I woke up with this intense headache. Unexplainable.
My parents thought it was malaria, so we treated for that. It didn't stop. Then we thought it was stress, so I was encouraged to rest. It got more intense. I got tested, and apparently I had typhoid. So we treated for that too. The headache never stopped.
It persisted. It stole my independence, my productivity, made it impossible for me to do anything.
All I could do was lay in bed. Reading, even novels, was hard. I became a living vegetable as migraine headaches turned my life upside down. It was so crazy to me at the time that every time people asked me what was wrong, I said I had a headache. That's it. A headache. And yet I could not walk properly. Every sound became some form of noise. I was visiting hospital after hospital, getting my eyesight checked in case it was vision-related, then going for a brain scan, going to see a neurologist. My life was essentially a nightmare.
I truly could not do anything.
Preparing for the Worst
I remember before going for the brain scan, my brain did what it tends to do: it prepared for the worst case scenario. I was prepared to hear from the doctor that I had a brain tumor and I only had 6 months left to live.
That did not happen. Apparently I was fine. Sound familiar? Just like my recent encounter with the doctor when I went for a colonoscopy. Apparently fine. Always apparently fine.
Eventually, more than a year later and multiple medications and trials, the issue resolved... or at least to a manageable extent. It's one of the reasons I don't take coffee or alcohol. I remember sitting across from the neurologist and he told me they are both triggers and I should do my best to avoid them. I was maybe 16 at the time and I had no exposure to either of them (coffee isn't popular in Nigeria), so it's been easy to abstain since I moved to Canada.
I remember so well the pain of being able to do nothing, and I do everything possible to never return to that place.
Two Transitions, Two Betrayals
The migraines came at a transitionary period of my life: graduating high school and starting university.
IBS has come at another transitionary period of my life: graduating university and entering the real world.
In some ways I am grateful that I am still able to do a lot of things with IBS, the most important being my ability to walk. Sadly I don't have the luxury of having my parents around to support me like I did back then, or having a virus shut down the world to give me time to recover. (Yes, Covid-19 happened around that period of me struggling with migraines and was actually helpful because it gave me plenty of time to rest.)
But regardless, the pattern is there. My body picks the moments when everything else is changing to remind me it has its own plans.
The Memory That Gave Me Courage
Here's why I'm writing this.
As I ate my meal yesterday, I remembered vividly that I was convinced the pain of the migraines would never end. I was trying so many things... so many, and everything seemed fruitless. But eventually, one day, the pain was gone. I don't remember the day the pain left, but knowing that gives me the courage to say:
This too shall pass.
I may not know when. I may not know how. But this too shall pass.
A Practice of Gratitude for What Still Works
Since I know it will pass, I think it is important that I make it a practice to thank the parts of my body that work every single day.
I need to thank my legs for the ability to walk. Those walks give me relief and also act as an idea generation practice. The French Writing Playground, the Hall of Shame, some of my best prompts... all born on those walks.
I need to thank my mouth for the ability to speak. I won't be able to pursue goals like becoming a powerful public speaker in both English and French if I could not speak, so thank you mouth, thank you so very much.
I need to thank my hands for the ability to write. Writing makes me truly happy and gives me a sense of freedom because I am able to express myself even when no one's reading yet.
I need to thank my eyes for the ability to see. How would I write, cook, read, direct AI if I could not see? So thank you, eyes.
I need to thank my stomach. Because while it's causing me pain and discomfort, it's also reminding me why it's important to not take good health for granted. Perhaps if I started this practice sooner and thanked my stomach when it worked well, I would not be dealing with this.
This Will Pass
But this will pass. The pain will pass. I'll be well again.
And when I am, I will never forget this period. I will be more and more grateful for my good health and everything I get to do when I am in good health.
I'm heading to the hospital once I publish this. Remember the volunteer event I wrote about earlier? Well we'll be distributing candy and singing for the patients at the hospital. I love joining that group because it puts my pain in perspective. It allows me to see that it could be worse and I feel a deeper sense of compassion for the people there because I bear my own pain as well, so it's easier to put myself in their shoes and be generous with my presence when I'm with them.
I'll stop writing and head out now.
As always, thanks for reading!