Months of waiting were finally over. It was April. I would soon know if I got into the Telluride Association Summer Seminar, a six-week summer leadership program where students take courses in subjects like Critical Black Studies and Anti-Oppressive Studies.
Then came the email. The words “Congratulations! We are pleased…” flew across my screen. I let out a sigh of relief, knowing that my perseverance had been worth it.
The acceptance to this prestigious program, better known as TASS, was hard-won. Just a few months prior to getting in, it seemed unlikely that I would ever live a life filled with passion. Tormented by chronic migraines, I had become another hopeless high schooler. Throughout my sophomore year at a Detroit high school, I experienced it all: hospitalization, depression, and anxious spiraling.
I even found myself in the emergency room on Christmas. I spent this day synonymous with joy and family togetherness, feeling like a shell of myself.
Christmas Day began normally, with all my family gathered at my house to exchange gifts. At the time, I was working on application essays for TASS and studying for finals, which were approaching. Suddenly, the words on my computer screen started to blur, my head pulsated with pain, and the world seemed like it was spinning.
I tried to sleep it off, but when I woke up, the symptoms were many times worse. Even while lying flat, everything appeared upside down, and closing my eyes only intensified the disorientation. Speaking became near impossible as even the slightest movement would cause me pain. Tears streamed down my face. I had dealt with migraines for months, but this one was debilitating.
At 5 p.m., my mother rushed me to the ER. I waited an hour, and I felt the reception room begin to move and turn. Migraines often come with temporary visual symptoms, like blurriness, bright spots, or seeing double. In my case, my dizziness and impaired eyesight landed me in a wheelchair.
As I was rolled to a hospital room, helplessness overwhelmed my body. The bright lights agitated my eyes, but I couldn’t close them either. This is the worst Christmas ever, I thought.
At 4 a.m., I returned home, but for days, simply walking to the bathroom would leave me immobile for minutes due to dizziness.
Over the next few weeks, I didn’t experience another migraine, but I still didn’t feel relief. The fear of not knowing when the next migraine would hit and leave me unable to function again held me back from achieving the things I desired. My once bright outlook dimmed. My A’s in school turned into D’s, and every interest I once had seemed to fade away.
Noticing the change in my work ethic, teachers started to pull me aside. But often, their comments seemed accusatory rather than supportive. I remember one teacher telling me, “You do know migraines won’t stop you from failing.”
Their obvious disappointment could not have come at a worse time. I had already been blaming myself for my drop in academic performance. My teachers’ remarks felt like piling on. One word describes this experience: stagnation.
I attend Cass Technical, one of the most competitive public high schools in Detroit, and that environment only exacerbated these feelings. And having a brother who goes to Harvard had already put me in a mental space where I believed that every action of mine could decide my future.
Struggling with chronic pain, or sometimes just the fear of it, my mental health suffered along with my grades. It felt like my peers were thriving while I was falling further and further behind.
With my motivation gone, even waking up became a daunting task. My attendance gradually declined, which alarmed my teachers once again.
One day, after a few weeks of falling attendance, I walked up to my chemistry teacher, Mrs. Cunningham, to inquire about a concept I didn’t understand in class. To my surprise, in the midst of our conversation, she requested that I step out into the hallway.
She asked, “What’s going on? You seem different than usual.”
Surprised by her genuine concern, I went on to explain my illness and its aftereffects.
In response to my vulnerability, she gave me helpful resources for young people facing struggles. She connected me to other students who could relate to what I was going through and helped me to create a plan for getting back on track. To catch up in school, she proposed that I document my illness and get it on the record for my administrators.
As I was writing this essay, I interviewed Mrs. Cunningham. I asked her about what she noticed and why she reached out to me. She said, “I saw effort but could tell something was holding you back.”
What Mrs. Cunningham saw in me was the dormant urge to grow, simply waiting to be reignited.
During the TASS program, I tapped into that energy again. I read many books, immersing myself in new ideas in sociology, history, and Black studies. I learned about the ways ideas can be expressed through writing, which can be used as a political tool. I slowly regained the passion I had once had. The dedication I put into the program confirmed for me that I was still capable of achieving.
TASS quite literally turned my life around. At a time in my life when I felt that my path would lead to failure, I proved not only to myself but to everyone that our worst moments don’t have to dictate our future. I saw how an empathetic ear and opportunity granted can make all the difference.
These days, I get migraines about once or twice a month, rather than weekly, thanks to effective treatments. But I no longer fear them like I used to. The key to letting go of that fear is to believe that the migraines will get better — and to focus my energy on subjects I’m passionate about.
In retrospect, I see that I always had the ability to thrive. In Mrs. Cunningham’s words, “All you were missing was acceptance and support.”
Bryan Campbell is a junior at Cass Technical High School who loves reading and writing in his free time. He works as a national team member at Diversify Our Narrative and is a 2024-25 Chalkbeat Student Voices Fellow in Detroit. In the future, he hopes to help Detroit through journalism and education.