I'm running the 2026 London Marathon for Cornwall Mind – in memory of my mum.

In 2018, my mum was sectioned under the Mental Health Act and spent ten days in Longreach House. It was the most terrifying, helpless chapter of my life.

In the months leading up to it, she had become incredibly withdrawn, distant, and strange. Mum didn’t speak to her family and had slowly distanced herself from friends. As her eldest daughter and her best friend, I felt it was my responsibility to care for her — to fix something I didn’t understand.

But the truth is, I was completely lost, I had no idea what to do or how to help.

I forced her to the GP a few times, desperate for someone to see what I couldn’t explain. On the last visit, she told the doctor she was “hearing soundwaves.” That was the first time anyone even hinted it could be a mental health problem. Still, the response lacked any urgency.

“Have you ever had problems with mental health before?”

“No.”

“Okay. Here’s some sleeping tablets, let's see how you get on.”

And we were sent on our way.

A few months later, in July 2018, my younger sister called me at work and told me I needed to come home. That day, my mum was diagnosed with psychosis.

Nothing could have prepared me for what we witnessed that day. It felt like something out of a horror movie, a clip of an exorcism. She was frantically running from room to room, chanting and screaming in a language we didn’t recognise. Out in the garden, she was shouting at the top of her lungs, convulsing, shaking, completely out of control. At one point, she took hold of my arms and asked me to help her — and I couldn’t. I didn’t know how.

She kept trying to leave the house. We had to lock the doors because she was asking me to take her to the cliffs so she could “walk off the edge.”

A GP came to the house, but after 10 minutes of trying to reach her, he told us to call the police. She was taken away in a riot van and later sectioned after admitting she was hearing voices and wanted to end her life.

You’d think that was the worst part — but it wasn’t. What came after was far worse.

There was no follow-up care. Not even a phone call. No home visit. No support plan. No one checked in. She took her medication for four days, just enough to appear cooperative, and then stopped. I tried to help, but I had no support.

She was a legally consenting adult — which meant I had no power. I reached out to her consultant and never received a response. I took her back to the GP multiple times, but every time, she masked it — appeared calm and coherent — and we were sent away with the same line:

“I can't see anything wrong - do come back if that changes.”

But everything was wrong. She was hearing voices, withdrawn, speaking in that same strange language, sat on the sofa some evenings just rocking back and forth. She sat alone, cold, unreachable. If I tried to talk to her about it, she shut down or lashed out. I felt utterly powerless and not one person would listen to me.

Over the years, she disconnected from everyone. She pulled my 11-year-old sister out of school but didn’t provide her with education or care. She stopped doing anything she once loved. She went to work — until she didn’t. She stopped driving. She stopped paying her bills.

In June 2022, I gave birth to my first son. I got married that September. She didn’t come to the wedding. She never met her grandson.

By then, I had lost my mum completely. She was physically present, but the woman who raised me, my best friend in this world for so many years, was gone.

Understandably — but also, painfully — our relationship became strained. I knew she was unwell, but her absence during those life milestones was devastating. I reached out many times, asking to meet and talk — but she always refused. In December 2022, I sent the last message I’d ever send her.

In March 2025, my mum passed away.

The medical examiner ruled her cause of death a heart attack — but there is no doubt that it was suicide by neglect.

She had stopped caring for herself entirely. She stopped eating. She stopped drinking properly. She spent her days on the sofa, chain-smoking and drinking alcohol. Even a stroke in July 2024 wasn't enough of a wakeup call for her.

Her first heart attack happened in early March. The second, and final, just two weeks later.

I’ve been running for a couple of years now. Shortly after my mum passed, I reached out to Cornwall Mind on a whim — wondering if they offered charity places for the London Marathon.

To my surprise, 2026 is their very first year offering charity places, and when I got the call that they had given me the incredible honour of being the first person to ever be offered a charity place for them, I cried!

Why? Because I carry a heavy mix of guilt, grief, anger, and regret.

Cornwall Mind is the kind of charity that could have helped us. I just didn’t know charities like that existed. I didn’t understand what my mum was going through. I thought she was choosing to hurt us. But she wasn’t — she was deeply unwell. And if I’d known how to help, maybe things could have been different.

What hurts the most is that we were left completely alone. Not one professional ever gave me a leaflet, a phone number, or pointed me toward a charity. We were expected to handle a serious mental illness with no training, no support, and no hope.

What happened that day in 2018 didn’t just change her — it changed me. I developed symptoms of PTSD, constant anxiety, and a state of hypervigilance. I turned to alcohol as a coping mechanism. I didn’t know how else to survive the trauma and the helplessness.

Because mental illness doesn’t just affect the person struggling — it affects everyone who loves them.

My mum and I were both born and raised in Cornwall — and we were both failed by its mental health system.

My story is a painful one, but I’m sharing it because I don’t want others to suffer in silence like we did. I want people to know that support exists, and that there is help. No one should ever feel as alone as we did.

Losing your mum is devastating in any circumstance — but losing her like this is a pain I can’t put into words. It’s a weight I carry every single day.

If you’re able to, please consider donating. Your support could provide the education, resources, and early intervention that families like mine so desperately need. It could genuinely save lives — and help ensure that other stories don’t end the way ours did.

Thank you.

Gemma ♡