When I was 15, I stumbled across the London Marathon on TV — and was instantly gripped. I didn’t know why at the time — maybe it was the raw emotion, the strength, the sense of achievement. Deep down, I dreamed of doing something like that one day. But I told myself it would never be me. I wasn’t remotely sporty. I hated anything that left me breathless. I just didn’t believe my body was built for that kind of challenge.

Then life changed. In 2020, I became a mum for the first time, after a long and traumatic labour that ended in an emergency C-section. I loved my baby deeply — but I carried the heavy weight of disappointment and trauma, an irrational feeling of failure for not being able to deliver my child naturally. A midwife explained to me that this feeling was normal: “It’s like running a marathon but not crossing the finish line.” In that moment, something clicked. One day, I would cross that finish line.

In 2023, on maternity leave with my second baby, I bought a battered secondhand running buggy and started Couch to 5K. Week 1, Run 1. It was hard, but I finished it. And something changed in me. I kept going. I learned to love the peace, the pride, the strength it gave me. I wasn’t just running — I was healing.

But then, at the start of 2024, my body suddenly failed me. It started with tingling. Then fatigue. Then weakness. I lost feeling in my legs, arms, and face. My speech changed. I lost the ability to walk. I couldn’t lift my children or look after myself. I had to crawl up the stairs and could barely get myself off the floor. Doctors didn’t know what was wrong — and that was the scariest part. I felt like I was disappearing inside a body that wouldn’t work anymore.

I will never forget what it felt like to be so trapped inside my own body — to want to move and simply not be able to. That feeling will stay with me forever. And it’s what inspires me now. Because once you’ve lost movement, you realise it’s not a chore. It’s a gift. And I truly didn’t know if it was a gift I was going to get back.

It took months of getting worse, feeling completely helpless — and then, slowly, things started to get better. The worst had passed, but I was left to rebuild from the ground up. I had to learn how to trust my body again — step by shaky step. I celebrated the day I walked up the stairs like it was a finish line.

And when I felt ready, I started running again. Slowly. Gently. This time, not to chase a dream, but because I could. Because after losing that ability, I now know — movement is a privilege.

So I’m running the Great North Run. Not for a time. Not for a medal. But for every moment I thought I’d never get back. For the strength I never knew I had. For every person who’s still crawling through their own recovery — not knowing when, or if, it will end.

If you can, please donate to MY Hospitals Charity to support patients affected by neurological conditions.

I’m running with strength, gratitude — and a smile that knows how far I’ve come.