A Marathon of the Heart: Alzheimer’s, Friendship, and Motion is Medicine

This morning, while walking my dog through the village, I saw a woman running towards me. As she got closer, I realised it was Sarah—beginning her long 20-mile training run ahead of the London Marathon in just a few weeks.

I think about Sarah often, and as she continued running past me today, I knew I had to write this.

Please read to the end. And if you can, please consider donating.

This isn’t a typical blog entry—it’s a personal story. One about Alzheimer’s, about exercise, and about an unexpected friendship.

Sixteen years ago, I started a fitness company. I’ve always believed in the power of movement and community. Over the years I led Nordic Walking classes—from gentle wellness walks to tough Ski Fit  bootcamps—all outdoors in the beautiful Chilterns.

We didn’t just build strength; we built friendships.  A community that supported one another through life’s ups and downs. One of my proudest achievements is that even now, though my focus has shifted to the care home, those groups still meet. They continue to move, support, and care for each other in ways that go far beyond fitness.  Even the “Wellness walkers” walk and talk every Wednesday, each of them being over 75 years old.

During those years, Sarah joined my classes. She came to boot camps and Nordic walks. We live in the same village, and our children went to the same secondary school—though they were in different years. Back then, we were acquaintances more than friends.

Then, at the end of 2021, my phone rang. It was Sarah. I admit, my first thought was that one of my dogs had escaped. But it wasn’t that.  Sarah explained she’d been speaking with her brother about her mother, Monica, potentially moving into our care home. Neither of us could believe the coincidence—my care home is over an hour from our village, and yet here we were, unexpectedly reconnected.

I’ve always felt wary about having the family member of a friend live at the home. But I didn’t know Sarah that well back then, and after assessing Monica—who, at the time, was living just around the corner from me—it was clear we could meet her needs. Monica was a good fit for our home.  I had some nervousness that I knew Sarah well but as a professional and somewhat guarded individual I felt we would respect the new roles that we found ourselves in.

Of course, we care deeply for our residents—but I also believe in caring for the families. Supporting them as they face the challenges of watching a loved one move from independence to 24-hour care.  Dementia, as many know, is not a one-size-fits-all condition and is a description of symptoms. It manifests in many ways—sometimes gently, sometimes devastatingly. And eventually, we are there beside the family as they say their final goodbyes. That’s why it’s so important to me that we’re the right fit for both the resident and their family.

One of the things that saddens me most is when people say, “I couldn’t cope with dementia—I’d rather die.” Dementia is not a single story. Yes, it can be devastating. But I’ve seen, time and again, that people with dementia can still experience joy. I’ve seen smiles, laughter, love. Even if someone doesn’t recognise their loved ones, they can still feel happiness—and that matters.

But I’ve also seen the cruelest face of dementia. Monica’s Alzheimer’s has shown itself in one of its harshest forms. It’s not for me to share the details here, but the toll it has taken—physically and emotionally—has been immense. Monica has defied doctors’ expectations, her body still fighting even as the disease progresses.

These past few years have been some of the most challenging of my career, and the resident that challenged the most was Monica. Supporting Monica has meant balancing the needs of our resident, her family, and my incredible staff—while trying to advocate for better support in a healthcare system that is, quite simply, not equipped to care for those with advanced Alzheimer’s. Sarah and I have stood side by side through incidents that have tested both of us.

We went from being acquaintances to walking a painful path together. From school gates and fitness classes to navigating the complex, often heartbreaking world of Alzheimer’s care. Back then, when our biggest worries were teenage angst, we couldn’t have imagined this shared journey ahead. That Monica would need residential care—and that I would be the one providing it.

Last year, Sarah told me she’d decided to run the London Marathon, with her daughter, to raise funds for the Alzheimer’s Society—in honour of Monica.

Sarah wasn’t a runner. But she told me that running had become her escape. A way to process what was happening to her mum.
Ironically, I’d planned to run a few training sessions with her—but eight years of running a care home haven’t been kind to my fitness.

So instead, I’m writing this blog and also sharing it with all my friends from my fitness business. Because if you’ve ever felt the power of movement in your life—physically, emotionally, or socially—then I hope this story resonates.

Motion is medicine, in more ways than one.

Please, give what you can. Give for Monica. Give for those living with Alzheimer’s, and for the families who love and care for them every single day.

And if you're near Lime Tree Court on the morning of the Marathon—April 27—come along to our coffee morning. Join us. Move a little. Donate if you can.

And above all—keep moving.

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