Nothing Changed in My Training… But Everything Changed in Me..

Title’s a tad dramatic, I know - but hear me out.

I’m one month out from the marathon… and I can’t run. Shin splints - the kind that stop you in your tracks. But here’s the thing: nothing really changed, and yet everything did.

This marathon block hasn’t gone to plan. On paper, I’ve done everything “right.” I followed almost exactly the same plan as my previous marathon block - same structure, same sessions, same intent. I’d been running well, so it’s been hard to understand what’s actually changed.

The truth is, it wasn’t the training. It was my mindset.

There have been a few variables outside of training that, when you actually stop and look at them, have had a huge impact on how this block has played out. It’s a reminder of how much our psychological state influences everything - not just performance, but recovery, resilience, and how our body responds to load.

If I’m honest, I think I’ve been sitting somewhere in “fight, flight or freeze” for a while now. In the short term, our body knows how to deal with that - it can even be helpful. It’s that adrenaline at the start of a race, that spike that sharpens you. But long term, it’s not so beneficial. Chronic cortisol doesn’t just keep you wired, it can blunt things like testosterone, which contributes to drive, recovery, and that competitive edge.

And when I actually zoom out and look at the bigger picture, it makes sense.

We’ve had a lot going on as a family this past year - things that don’t just disappear once they’ve happened. I lost my Super Gran, and even now, as I write this, I can feel it sitting just under the surface. My rational mind understands it, but emotionally, I still find myself looking for her face in a crowd. I have a two-and-a-half-year-old who, since Christmas, has decided she quite likes sharing our bed - so sleep has taken a hit. And alongside that, I’m trying to grow a business whilst working elsewhere. Individually, all manageable. Together, they create a constant undercurrent.

On paper, it’s almost a wonder I didn’t get injured sooner.

Then there’s the part I hadn’t really acknowledged - I lost my “why.” When I ran the Berlin Marathon, I had a huge reason behind it. We had just lost my mother-in-law, and I was running in her memory, raising money for Alzheimer’s research. It was my first marathon, so there was that unknown - what I’d call “good fear” - and it was the day after my daughter’s first birthday, which made it feel even more special. When I ran the Milton Keynes Marathon, I had a brilliant group of girls around me. We pushed each other, supported each other, and kept it light when it needed to be. I exceeded my expectations, but more importantly, I enjoyed the process.

This time, there wasn’t really a “why.” And although I know running London is a huge privilege, to me it just felt like pressure.

Somewhere along the way, running stopped being something I was excited to do and became something I felt like I had to do. Sessions started to feel like homework. The goal of beating my previous time began to feel heavy - like something I was constantly chasing rather than something that would come as a by-product.

Which, ironically, goes against everything I’d say to someone getting into running in the first place. I’ve never understood running just because everyone else is doing it. It’s a hard, gruelling sport - and if your mind and heart aren’t in it, it can feel pretty tedious.

I found myself going to training feeling anxious. Worried about not keeping up. Worried about what that meant. Which, when you actually say it out loud, is ridiculous. No one else cares what time I run. There’s no audience. But in my head, it felt like there was.

I’d started to define myself as “the runner,” and when you do that, every session suddenly carries weight it doesn’t need to. Instead of recognising where my strengths lie - that I tend to perform better over longer distances and have never been the fastest on the track - I made that a negative. I stopped appreciating the process and became fixated on the outcome.

Before my shins fully gave in, I’d already started trying to shift that. Trying to move away from the pressure and back towards actually enjoying it again. And now, being forced to stop has only reinforced that even more.

Because the truth is, I didn’t fall in love with running because of PBs, races, or times. I loved it before all of that. I love it because it gets me outside, clears my head, and gives me space. It’s always been my therapy.

I don’t know if I’ll make the start line. If I do, it won’t be for a PB. It’ll be to experience it - properly. In a strange way, this injury feels like a reset. Like a “get out of jail free” card. The pressure is gone.

And if I don’t run, there’s always next year.

Because at the end of the day, it is only running…

…but it never really is, is it?