March 5, 2026
It made no sense. I had only two months to train. I wasn’t a runner. My mind was unpredictable. But something inside me wanted to do something impossible, something that would prove to myself that I was more than my struggles, more than my fears, more than my past.
A deeper purpose formed when I decided to raise money for the RookMay Foundation for Mental Health. I raised £1500. Suddenly the race wasn’t just about me. It was about every person who had ever struggled alone, every person fighting their own invisible battles. I promised myself that no matter how difficult the race became, I wouldn’t quit — because I was running for something bigger than myself.
Entering the competition cost £380. Travel to Poland and back added £120. Additional expenses like gear, nutrition, clothing and equipment added around £300 more. The pressure of preparing alone, emotionally and financially, was almost as heavy as the training itself.
I had always believed I was a good swimmer, but nearly two kilometres of front strokes pushed me far beyond my comfort zone. On the bike, I spent hours riding endless laps around Regents Park. One-kilometre loops. Twenty laps. Forty. Sixty. It was repetitive, mentally draining and lonely. Some days I cried while cycling because my body wanted to stop and my mind insisted, I couldn’t do it.
I had never run fifteen kilometres in my life, and suddenly I had to run twenty-one after swimming and cycling. My legs trembled. My breath was uneven. My mind screamed at me to stop. But every time I wanted to quit, I thought about the £1500 I had raised, the people who believed in me, the lives I was honouring. I thought about my own darkest nights, when I wished someone had fought for me. I ran for every version of me who had ever struggled.
The cold water shocked my body. The cycling tested every limit I thought I had. The run broke me open and rebuilt me step by step. I cried during the last kilometres, not from physical pain but from emotional release. Every step felt like letting go of the weight I had carried for so many years. Every metre felt like choosing myself again and again.
Crossing the finish line wasn’t just an accomplishment. It was a rebirth. The medal wasn’t the real reward. The real reward was recognising the woman I had become — the woman who survived London, who lived with ADHD and depression, who built a business from nothing, who raised money for mental health, who kept going even when everything felt impossible.
“Together, we can create a future where everyone has access to the support they need to manage their mental health.”