Sitting on a plastic chair in a busy orthopaedic waiting room with my son, two weeks after surgery on a broken ankle, I received an email. ‘Are you in?’ it said. Following the link revealed it: YES, I was in. In that one moment, my physiology changed from post‑lunch sleepy to adrenaline‑fuelled and race‑ready. For the next six months, the marathon would become one of my most dominant thoughts.
On that chair, in that waiting room, there was no doubt in my mind that I had to accept the challenge, even as life was already pulling me in every direction. People run a marathon not because they have got to, but because they get to. This felt like a once‑in‑a‑lifetime opportunity. By the time we were called in for the appointment, the challenge had been accepted and the enormity of 26.2 miles lay ahead of me.
Two days later, I was on a treadmill in a local running store undergoing a gait analysis. My daughter, (DD), accompanied me. It was a distraction for her from the challenges she was fighting. The demon in her mind, telling her not to eat, had prevented her from starting sixth form and left her underweight and with dangerously low physical observations. As she laughed at my efforts on the treadmill and commented on my choice of footwear, I could see she was distracted from that demon within, and the daughter I knew was joking with me (or at me) again.
As my training commenced, DDs health deteriorated. She was admitted to a specialist unit over 100 miles from home. The plan was weight restoration: to normalise her eating and to banish the demon. We were both staring at our own personal mountains and facing an opportunity to reset.
Over the following weeks and months of training, I had no idea how much of the advice I absorbed would later help me support DD, how closely my progress would parallel her recovery, or how our shared experiences would open up vital channels of communication between us. By Christmas, our routines were well established, our short‑term goals identified, and progress was evident. Weight gain for DD was steady but painful. There were times when she pushed me away - possibly angry, possibly unable to find the words to communicate what she was experiencing.
In an attempt to engage her, I offered her the choice of which charity I would support. Her answer was immediate and decisive. It had to be Beat. Beat was the charity I had reached out to when I first became concerned about my daughter’s wellbeing. It was the charity DD used to chat online with trained advisors; the charity that offered training sessions, group support for carers, and a workshop on eating disorders and autism; and the charity that gave me eight weeks of one‑to‑one mentoring to help me come to terms with our family situation and how best to support her.
Post‑Christmas, with dwindling daylight and winter’s chill, January can be bleak for anyone. DD hit a low point. I filled telephone silences and Saturday visits with chatter of longer Sunday morning runs, hill reps in the dark, frozen eyelashes, and careful foot placement on icy roads. ‘We have to keep going,’ I told her. ‘The seasons will change, and the sun will shine again.’ We talked about music - our playlists and how listening helped us forget any pain we were experiencing. We both became lost in songs that resonated with us or transported us back to another time and place.
As the Cambridge Half Marathon approached, the runs grew longer, as did my Saturday visits and our daily conversations. We talked about using the rhythms of the body - heart, breath, feet - to relax. We became comfortable discussing hydration and fuelling. As an athlete herself, DD recalled feelings of extreme hunger and exhaustion after long competitions. The donations and messages of support coming in via the JustGiving page thrilled her, each one like a hug from someone thinking of her. This was when I first noticed a shift; winter was slowly turning to spring.
‘Mara‑noia’ truly set in before my first organised run, the Cambridge Half. I panicked about everything from getting too hot or too cold to bowel issues. ‘Mum,’ she said firmly, ‘get a grip. You’re not Mo Farah. If you need the loo, just stop and use the loo. It’s no big deal. You’ve got this.’ Spoken from a place of understanding, her words calmed me. I ran. It was awesome, and the support for Beat along the route was incredible. From half to full marathon, there were seven weeks to go. At the same time, discussions were underway about home leave and discharge for DD.
Winter gave way to spring; days lengthened, conversations deepened, visits and runs increased in duration. A running podcast accompanied me on long runs. I laughed out loud at discussions of some of the lesser‑known physical effects of endurance running, but it was the marathon advice I listened to most intently. Advice that would soon form the foundations of how I supported DD. ‘Make hydration and nutrition a routine of the run and you will soon stop thinking about it.’ ‘Run the mile you’re in.’ A reminder to focus on the here and now, not what lies ahead. ‘When things get tough, look up. Look at those around you running their race for their cause. Draw love and encouragement from those supporting.’
DD’s first home leave was scheduled for marathon eve. Of course, I would have dropped everything to bring her home after almost six months, but her meticulous eye for detail spotted the clash and she insisted on pushing her leave back a week. It was the first weekend I had missed with her, but I knew she was with me every step of the way.
The marathon itself was incredible. Once the pre‑event panic subsided, a calm settled and my attitude became almost laissez‑faire. Training was done, nutrition sorted, kit organised. I awaited the delivery of my little adrenaline wings, which I knew would help carry me through. At the start line, I took a moment to feel proud: proud to have run 477 training miles alone; proud to have raised money for Beat; proud to be standing alongside 47,000 others, each with their own reason for being there; and proud to have used my experiences to help support my daughter.
Beat is a charity that means so much to those who are familiar with their ethos and their work. Throughout the Cambridge Half and along the streets of London, I heard support from people who had experienced Beat’s help themselves. A runner at the start line told me she had run for Beat a few years earlier - her daughter is now in recovery. From somewhere high above the crowds in Greenwich, a supporter thanked me for running for Beat and blew me kisses. ‘Great work’ and ‘Great charity’ were called out by spectators and runners alike, each with their own dedications written across their backs: ‘This is for Mum.’ ‘I’m doing it, Dad.’ ‘Running for my Nanny.’
My final long training run left me in tears. Twenty miles along quiet Suffolk back roads was mentally and physically demanding. The 26.2 miles of the London Marathon were different. As advised, I looked up and somehow transformed the cheers into determination. The phenomenal support and my little adrenaline wings carried me through the streets of London.
I crossed the finish line with my arms raised, singing along to Sweet Caroline - bam, bam, bam. DD was the first person I called. Her excitement was immense. Unbelievably, she had turned the television on at lunchtime and, within five minutes, spotted me running across Tower Bridge. Staff at the unit later described her excitement and the buzz among their community as I ran for a charity they were all familiar with and deeply thankful for.
The first time I saw DD after the marathon was to collect her for her first home leave. She wore my medal as she walked out of the unit and into the sunshine. It is only a matter of weeks now until she is discharged. The days between leaves will feel long and the returns harder. ‘Run the mile you’re in,’ I remind her. ‘You’ve got this.’ Opening that email back in October, while sitting in a hospital waiting room, set me on an unexpected journey.
On reflection, I could not have timed the opportunity better. This experience worked on so many levels: goal‑setting through fundraising and training; the routine of physical exercise through a long, dark winter; the headspace it gave me to simply be me; and the immense sense of personal achievement. Above all, though, was how our experiences became intertwined and deepened our connection. It gave us a positive, relatable language when other words failed. She confidently assumed the role of the adult, offering calm, practical advice in my moments of crisis. In turn, I found myself sharing words to help her through hers and to support her in reaching her goal. DD’s challenges are far from over, but she has a renewed determination to live her best life. I feel better supported and more confident in helping her do just that. She also wants to run a marathon one day - and I have no doubt that she will.
For now, though, we are both learning the same lesson: to run the mile we’re in, to focus on the here and now, and to trust that, mile by mile, we will get where we need to be.
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