I'm running the Manchester Marathon in memory of my mom who we lost last year. Mom had a rare form of dementia, Aphasia which meant she first lost her speech and then lost all forms of communication. She battled for 8 years and it finally took her from her us last May. She was an amazing Mom & Nan and I miss her every day

My beautiful mum Sandra has battled with brain injuries for the last 31 years.

The photo of me and my mum was taken after she had already suffered a brain hemorhage and further stroke by the age of 47, this was the start of our journey along a different path.

Fast forward to 2025 and we are still here but for a number of years my mum has been facing a different kind of battle having received a Vascular Dementia diagnosis 7 years ago, breast cancer last year and this year losing the use of her legs.

Not once has my mum ever complained, she has always found the good and beauty in everything and always says she is grateful to be here.

The challenge!

My mum has lived at home with me and my family for the last 5 and a half years, the care and watching someone you love have to navigate this cruel disease has been tough.

Last year I took up running and found it helped me to cope, stepping out and putting one foot in front of the other has given me head space and helped with my mental health, which helps me continue to care for my mum.

So what have I gone and done? Sign up for a marathon.

This time last year I had not yet run my first 10k but now I am running the Adidas Manchester Marathon in April 2026 and I am running for Alzheimer's Society.

This will be a huge challenge on this injured, menopausal body of mine, even saying the words "I am going to run a marathon" sounds ludicrous but I am determined!

I don't have a time in mind, just getting round will be a feat of engineering in itself, but I plan to run it, all 26.2 miles of it!

The Alzheimer's Society have helped me no end when I have not known where to turn, the Admiral Nurses have been lifesavers offering me practical and emotional support and given me the tools to get through this dementia journey with my mum and I want to give something back.

Sadly my mum died from dementia last week and won’t get to wear my finishers medal, so I will be running with Sandra in my heart all the way and I will be running for everyone who has been affected by dementia in their lives.

For Sandra 💙

I’m running the Manchester marathon for my mum who is living with Alzheimer’s. My sisters running as well, we want to do something special, support an amazing charity and support my dad who’s caring for mum and of course for mum as well.

In 2019, my gran was diagnosed with dementia. At the time I was only 11 and I didn’t really know what it was. On my 13th birthday I decided I wanted to start fundraising for charities, I started with charities around my local area and then went on to start fundraising for every single charity that looks after dementia patients. I became very well known for this and that’s why I now have a campaign called Team Eva. I am so honoured to be given a place in the Manchester Marathon and I can’t wait to run it. And I’d like to say thank you to everyone who has supported me and sponsored me. Thank you so much

I’m running the London Landmarks Half Marathon to support a great charity, that's helping to support people living with Alzheimer’s as well as their loved ones. My dad was diagnosed a couple of years ago and I’ll do all I can to help beat dementia!

Running the London landmarks half marathon to support a wonderful charity, that’s helped our family understand what my wonderful Nan is going through. It’s a strange experience for everyone, but if our family are able to ease the struggles of Alzheimer's for the woman who’s helped shape who we are, we’ll gladly do whatever it takes. Love you Nan!! Xx

Sadly I’ve watched two incredible woman suffer through this awful disease, my granny June and Granny Olive. Both brave and kind ladies who helped shape my life today, I’ll be thinking of them while I run 42.3km🤍

I’m running the Brighton marathon for my Mum, and for my Dad. Dad has a “Dementia with Lewy Bodies” diagnosis and mum has become his full time carer. It is not easy but their love and commitment to each other is inspiring. I want a world where no family has to deal with this horrible diagnosis x

When I signed up to this race in July, I knew I wanted to run for Alzheimer’s as my Grandma had been living with Alzheimer’s for 9 years and I wanted to raise money to help fund research into eventually finding a cure for this awful disease.

For the past 9 years, Alzheimer’s didn’t only take over my Grandmas life, it also took over my whole family’s. Watching someone I love slowly lose their memory, independence, and sense of self is heartbreaking. It wasn’t just the changes in my Grandma that were hard to deal with, but also the way it reshaped our daily lives and relationships with each other. I would have done anything for my Grandma to see me grow up, as my Grandmas last memory of me will be when I was only around 17 years old. I will continue to do everything I can to make her proud like I did when I was a child as she was always one of my biggest inspirations. My grandma used to take me to London to show me the land marks when I was younger, so I thought this would be the perfect event to do for her.

My Grandma sadly passed away on 22nd August, just 1 month after I signed up to do the half marathon, which has now made this event so much more important to me. I see this as a sign that she passed away after I had made a commitment to raising awareness for the disease that took her from us, almost as if she knew I had taken it into my own hands and started fighting in her name.

The Night Dad Forgot Me
I left the hospital just after eight, the fluorescent lights and beeping monitors still ringing in my ears. Mum was stable, they said—just being monitored overnight. I stopped at home long enough to goodbye to Rebecca and ruffle Johnny Jr’s hair. At nine years old, he was already old enough to sense when something was off.
“Tell Grampy I said hello,” he called as I headed for the door.
“I will, mate.”
Mum and Dad’s pensioner bungalow sat quiet under the streetlights. My older brother had stayed until I arrived; he gave me a tired nod on his way out. Dad had been diagnosed with dementia three or four years earlier. It wasn’t the worst case we’d seen—he still had that sharp, dry sense of humour, could hold a proper conversation, and remembered every detail of his younger days. Music was his constant companion. He’d sit in his favourite recliner, singing along to the radio in that rich ballad voice of his, knowing every word to the old songs.
I made him a cup of tea the way he liked it—hot, then cooled with a splash of cold water straight from the tap. They’d told me he’d eaten dinner half an hour earlier, but when I brought the mug over he looked up with mild surprise.
“I haven’t had a bite all day, son.”
I didn’t argue. “Fancy some beans on toast then? Best I can do.”
He grinned. “That’ll do nicely.”
While Dad ate at the little table in his recliner, I sat on the sofa and dealt out a game of solitaire on the coffee table. The cards clicked softly. For a while everything felt normal. Then I noticed he’d gone quiet. He was staring at me—not the usual fond, slightly vague look I’d grown used to, but something stranger. Searching.
“Where is everyone?” he asked suddenly.
“Mum’s in hospital overnight, Dad. I’m staying with you till morning. We’ll go pick her up together.”
He nodded slowly, but a few minutes later he said, “Helen will be home soon. You’ll have to leave then.”
“No, Dad. Mum’s staying in hospital tonight. I’m here to stay with you.”
He frowned. “What do you mean?”
“It’s me, Dad. John.”
He studied me for a long moment, then gave a short laugh that didn’t reach his eyes.
“You’re not my John. You joker. Get your coat and fuck off before Helen gets in. You’re not using this house as a dosshouse.”
The words landed like a punch. I tried to keep my voice steady.
“Dad, it really is me. Look—” I pointed at the framed photo on the wall, the one of us together when I was a teenager. “That’s me, right there.”
“I know that’s my John,” he said, his tone hardening. “But that’s not you. Now get out of this house. Now.”
My stomach dropped. A cold, sick feeling spread through me. This was the first time—the very first time—he hadn’t recognised me. Not a brief confusion. Not a forgotten name. Me. His son. The boy he’d looked after during his spells out of work, the one he’d taken to school, to the park, into town, even to the pubs where he’d drink with his mates while I played pool and felt like one of the lads.
I felt my throat tighten. “Dad…”
He was getting agitated now, his voice rising, the aggression creeping in. I tried to calm him, but nothing worked. After ten or twenty long minutes I heard car doors outside. My sisters, Caroline and Wendy, had come straight from the hospital. The moment they walked in, Dad’s face changed.
“There’s my girls,” he said, relieved.
Caroline glanced at me, then back at him. “That’s John, Dad.”
Dad shook his head firmly. “That’s not John. He’s too big to be my son.”
Wendy moved quietly, making him another cup of tea, speaking softly. Between the two of them they eased him down. After a while he settled. They told me they’d stay the night.
I nodded, grabbed my coat, and stepped outside. The night air hit me cold. I made it to the car, closed the door, and sat there in the dark. The tears came hard—ten minutes, maybe more—until I could see well enough to drive. The pain moved between my stomach and my chest like something alive. On the way home I kept thinking: if anything happened to Mum, Dad would need proper 24-hour care. A care home. The very thing Mum had always sworn she’d never let happen.
The next morning I took Johnny Jr with me. As we approached the bungalow, Johnny ran ahead around the corner. I heard Dad’s voice, warm and familiar.
“There’s my John!”
He was looking straight at my son. Then his eyes found me. A flicker of confusion crossed his face.
“I chucked you out last night,” he said.
“It’s okay, Dad,” I replied gently. “You were a bit confused, that’s all.”
We sat together and had a cup of tea before heading off to collect Mum. Dad hummed along to an old song on the radio as we drove. For a little while, everything felt almost normal again.
But I knew the ground had shifted beneath us. Some doors, once opened, never quite close the same way.

Watching someone as close to me as my mum go through dementia is something I never could have imagined. The pain it brings is so deep that it’s hard to even put into words—I’m struggling to even do that now writing this

This year, I’m running a half marathon to raise awareness and to reach out to others who are going through the same thing. I want to connect with people, talk, and let them know they’re not alone. If I can help even one person feel understood or supported, it will mean everything.

Because the truth is… it’s incredibly hard.