Why I Do What I Do (And Why It’s Not About the Chair)

Why I Do What I Do (And Why It’s Not About the Chair)

People often ask me: “Why do you do what you do? And why in that chair? Wouldn’t it be easier in a sport chair?”

It’s a fair question. On the surface, it probably looks like I’m deliberately making life harder for myself. But the truth is, this all started with something much harder than any marathon or endurance event: the day I lost my leg, and the day I realised my pain wasn’t gone.

When I had my amputation, the goal was clear: get rid of CRPS (Complex Regional Pain Syndrome) and get my life back.

I’d already had to give up my Army career. I had to let go of sports I loved. But I was optimistic. Life after surgery meant freedom. I’d be running again, maybe even do a triathlon, maybe one day Everest. I even lined up a new job in theatre nursing. Things were looking up.

And then, two weeks later, as I brushed my teeth one Thursday evening, it hit me. Like a thunderclap, the pain was back. CRPS, the most painful condition known to humankind had returned! In an instant, the dreams of running, climbing, and hiking vanished. My career was gone. Friendships shifted. My world crumbled.

Kitchen Wheelies and a Spark!

When everything falls apart, you get two choices: sit in the rubble or start building something new.

Mine started with a random thought while wheeling around my tiny kitchen, trying to do wheelies in the NHS chair I thought I’d only need for six weeks:

“I wonder if this chair could make it from John O’Groats to Land’s End.”

That thought stuck. It grew into training, then into finding sponsors (spoiler: nobody was interested at first), and eventually into my first big challenge: the London Marathon (with 2 triathlons & 4 half marathons added on for good measure!)

Why Not a Sport Chair?

Here’s the thing: sport chairs are expensive. Very few people can afford them. I couldn’t. And I wanted to show that you dont need one to engage in sport.

So I decided to show what could be done with what I had, a bog-standard, everyday wheelchair. Not sleek, not lightweight, not “made for speed.” Just me and determination.

I wheeled. And wheeled. And wheeled. My hands blistered, my shoulders burned, my back screamed. But I kept going. Because everyone starts somewhere.

The Snail That Beat Me

I learned to swim with one leg (no, you don’t swim in circles, but you do sink sideways in bizarre ways). I hand-biked uphill so slowly that I had an actual conversation with a snail, and the snail was winning.

I did triathlons. I did marathons. I did ultramarathons, I did virtual races. I even broke world records. Not because I was chasing medals, but because records help fundraising, and fundraising helps charities.

And that’s why I do it.

My Three Reasons

Everything I do comes back to three things:

1. The charities. Especially the smaller ones, the ones without glossy ad campaigns but with life-changing impact. They were there for me when I was lost, and I’ll keep being there for them.
2. Proving sport is for everyone. Disability, chronic pain, lack of access to fancy kit, none of it should stop someone from dreaming. If all you’ve got is an old wheelchair and stubbornness, that’s enough.
3. Women’s rugby. Those women inspire me every single day. They’re tough, fierce, and phenomenal, and they’ve given me back a sense of camaraderie I thought I’d lost forever after leaving the Army.

Finding New Everests

People call my challenges “crazy.” Maybe they are. But everyone has their Everest.

Mine just happens to look like 36 marathons in 36 days, or 10 ultramarathons in 10 days, or pushing through heatstroke on a 12-hour track event. Yours might look like going to an art class, starting a new hobby, or walking around the block for the first time in years.

Everest isn’t about a mountain. It’s about climbing your mountain, whatever that may be.

Why I’ll Keep Going

I train 50 weeks of the year. I put my body through surgeries (23 and counting!), recoveries, setbacks, and relentless pain. But I wouldn’t trade it for anything. Because every time I’m on a brutal uphill and my arms feel broken, I think of the charities, of the people I might inspire, of the rugby women who make me believe in strength again.

And sometimes, I think of that snail.

Because if I can keep moving, even slower than a snail, then someone watching might realise they can, too.

So, why do I do what I do?
Because life handed me pain, loss, and a chair. And I chose to turn them into purpose, grit, and hope.

And maybe, just maybe, if I keep wheeling, someone else will see that spark and light their own path.