My Story

After almost exactly seven years, I finally have the strength to share my journey — a journey of battling postnatal anxiety, of fear and isolation, and of learning to survive for the tiny life I helped bring into the world.

Miracle I have ever expected to happen.

After a few charity boxing fights and meeting Olly’s dad, I discovered I was pregnant — on Christmas Eve. It should have been joy, but it arrived wrapped in terror.

I stopped running and exercising and became terrified of losing him. A week later I was in A&E with severe abdominal pain and spent five days of blood tests and agonising waits for results, terrified of an ectopic pregnancy. Every hour of waiting turned small worries into irrational thoughts and extreme paranoia.

Being Rhesus negative meant more tests, more fear — the constant possibility that my body might attack the pregnancy. I was threatened, isolated, and felt utterly alone. I convinced myself I had cancer. I convinced myself I would die in childbirth. I prepared letters and a photo album for Olly, building a nursery while certain I wouldn’t live to see him in it. Nobody understood the depth of that fear.

My labour was traumatic. My blood markers rose, so I was induced, and my son was born after a forceps delivery. Tiny and perfect, Olly arrived healthy — my miracle — and for a breathless, hopeful moment everything felt like it could be okay. ❤️

But it wasn’t. For about two months I held myself together while my parents were here, and then everything fell apart again. After Christmas my mental health nosedived. Medications and CBT didn’t help at first — I was too unwell to believe anything could. I stopped eating and drinking and heartbreakingly had to stop breastfeeding. Nights were spent stroking Olly as I cried, convinced one of us would die. I wouldn’t sleep; I would check he was breathing until dawn. The fear was relentless.

One day, when Olly was out for a walk with his dad, I overdosed on my medication. I forced myself to vomit and was left with an ocean of guilt and shame. A few days later, I overdosed again — and this time there was no hiding. I was sectioned and admitted to the Mother & Baby Unit in Wythenshawe, where I stayed for four months receiving therapy and treatment. It was the most broken, heart-shattering time of my life. I felt like a failure, a bad mother, someone undeserving of the miracle I had been given. And yet, every morning, I woke and fought — for Olly. For him, I kept breathing.

During lockdown everything changed again. I left Olly’s dad and moved out on my own. Since then it has been a battle to survive financially and mentally — often with no help, no parents nearby, and very little support. I have nothing to hide; the suicidal thoughts never really left. I still battle them every day, and I know they may always be there in some shape or form. But I have to keep going for Olly. He is my reason.

Out of that pain has come purpose. I want to set up a charity to help other mothers — focusing on exercise and nutrition, because those are the things that kept me going and helped me the most. I want to give mothers practical tools and real support, the kind of help I needed and couldn’t find. I want to make sure no mother feels as alone, terrified, and unsupported as I did.

I also want to say thank you: to the few friends who have stood with me when everything felt impossible. Your presence, small kindnesses, and steady listening saved me more times than you know.

This marathon is my way of turning survival into action. Every step I run is for Olly, for the mothers who are still hiding their pain, and for the chance to build something that truly helps. I am still healing. I am still scared. But I am also still here — and I am running so no other mother has to feel as alone as I am and di