On a Sunday in April I ran the London Marathon. I ran it for Mind, the mental-health charity, and I ran it for Jonny. Thanks to sixty of you, we raised over £2,600 — and I wanted to say thank you properly, explain why it mattered so much, and, yes, own up to what happened to my calf.
Let me start with the thank you, because it’s the most important part. Sixty people sponsored this — friends, clients, colleagues, neighbours, and people I’ve never met. Together you took us past the £2,500 target to £2,662, with Gift Aid on top, and every single pound goes to Mind. I read every message on the way round, and on the hard miles — of which there were a few — they genuinely carried me. So, before anything else: thank you.
Why I ran
I ran for Jonny. Jonny was our property manager for the best part of five years — bright, funny, brilliant at his job, and one of the most popular people in the office. In November 2023, Jonny took his own life. He was 34.
Like a lot of people, Jonny carried more than he ever let on, and — like a lot of men especially — he found it hard to ask for help. That’s the part that stays with me. Not that he wasn’t loved, because he was, deeply; but that the quiet pressure so many men feel to simply “be strong” can talk them out of saying the three words that change everything: I’m not okay.
Suicide is still the single biggest killer of men under 50 in this country. Behind that statistic are people exactly like Jonny — capable, well-liked, quietly getting on with it, until they’re not. Mind does the unglamorous, vital work of making it easier to talk, easier to ask, and easier to find help before things reach that point. That’s why I chose them.
The small matter of my calf
Here’s the part I can almost laugh about now. Two hundred metres in — barely past the start line, with twenty-six miles still to go — my calf tore. I’d love to tell you I glided round; the honest version is closer to a stubborn hobble, powered mostly by the thought that Jonny never got to choose his hard days, so I could get through one of mine. I crossed the line. The medal in that photo was, frankly, hard-won.
And then, because life enjoys a twist, a few days later a blood clot turned up in the same leg and earned me an unscheduled stay in hospital. I’m completely fine now — patched up, properly grateful, and able to confirm that marathons come with rather more small print than the training plan let on. If nothing else, it gave the story a memorable finish.
If you take one thing from this
Let it be this: it’s okay to not be okay, and saying so out loud is a strength, not a weakness. If you’re struggling, please reach out — to someone you trust, to your GP, or to one of the lines below. And if someone you know goes quiet, ask them twice. The first “I’m fine” is rarely the true one.
Thank you, again, for helping me — and Mind — over the line. It meant more than you know.
Where to go next
