When people think of endurance, they often picture someone pushing through a gruelling ultramarathon, a mountain expedition, or some epic test of physical limits. And while that’s part of my story now, it definitely wasn’t always the case.
Before my diagnosis, I’d done the odd hike here and there, and I’d run a couple of half marathons—but honestly, you couldn’t have paid me to run a full one. The idea of taking on anything more extreme felt completely out of reach. Besides, why on earth would you want to?
Then came the curveball: a diagnosis that turned my life upside down.
Suddenly, the ground beneath me shifted. Everything changed. And somehow, out of that chaos, I found myself drawn to challenges that pushed me far beyond what I thought I was capable of physically, mentally, emotionally. I started to understand endurance in a completely different way. And over time, my brain tumour and my growing passion for challenge became tangled together, each one shaping how I approached the other.
It’s not just physical
I used to think endurance was all about the body; legs that keep moving, lungs that keep working. But living with brain injury taught me that true endurance is so much deeper than that.
It’s the quiet, relentless effort of getting through the day when your energy vanishes without warning. It’s having to cancel plans, explain invisible symptoms, and battle guilt over things that are totally out of your control. It’s learning how to honour your limits without giving up on who you are.
And funnily enough, it was those endurance challenges, those walks, rides and runs I never thought I’d do, that helped me learn how to keep going through it all.
Resilience is built in the dark moments
There’s a moment on every endurance event where everything hurts, the finish feels impossibly far away (and sometimes that happens soon after the start line!) you wonder why you ever signed up in the first place, and the only thing keeping you moving is sheer grit. I’ve faced that on the trail, and I’ve faced it on the sofa, fighting off neurofatigue and brain fog, wondering if I’ll ever feel like “me” again.
I’ve had days where even basic tasks felt like a mountain. Days where my brain and body simply wouldn’t cooperate. What both experiences have taught me is that real resilience doesn’t come from being tough all the time. It comes from showing up again and again, even when it’s hard. Even when it’s boring. Even if it’s messy. Even when nobody sees what you’re going through.
That’s where real resilience lives – in the unseen, unglamorous, keep-going-anyway moments.
Adaptability is power
I used to be an all-or-nothing kind of person. If I couldn’t do something at 100%, I didn’t want to do it at all. Maybe it was that fear of failure that I still have on occasions. But brain injury has a way of kicking that mindset out of you pretty quickly. I’ve had to learn to adapt—not just my training, but my pace, my expectations, my whole lifestyle.
Endurance training has taught me how to pivot when things go sideways; living with a brain injury has made it essential.
I train when I can, rest when I must (ok – I’m still working on that bit and admittedly I’m pretty crap!) and constantly adjust my plans depending on how my brain is behaving that day. It’s not about perfection, it’s about persistence.
The power of the team
Whether it’s someone handing you water during a challenge, a friend checking in on a rough day, or a fellow adventurer reminding you why you started, your people matter. I’ve been lucky to have support crews both on the trail and in life. And I’ve learned that no one gets through big stuff alone.
I’ve had brilliant support crews on both sides of this journey. People who’ve handed me water, picked me up (literally and emotionally) and reminded me that I don’t have to be invincible to be strong.
Redefining success
There was a time when success meant medals, finish lines, fast times – ok, trying to get faster! These days? Success might mean getting outside for ten minutes. It might be managing to do the food shop without crashing afterwards. Or completing a multi-day event on my terms, even if that means going slower than planned, pausing, or doing things differently to how others do – and not caring what they think.
Both my diagnosis and my adventures have taught me that success is personal. It’s not about how far or fast you go—it’s about showing up for yourself, and moving forward, whatever that looks like – even when the world doesn’t quite get what you’re going through.
I never expected to become an endurance athlete—or to have to navigate life with a brain tumour. But here I am, still standing, still moving, still learning. And if there’s one thing I know now, it’s this:
Endurance isn’t about pushing harder, or how far you go. It’s about showing up, adapting, and carrying on—especially when life gets messy.
And trust me, that kind of endurance? It’s powerful, and far more badass than any finish line!