‘Why run? If there was a pill that could make you feel absolutely brilliant, you’d take it’
In this guest post, Daniel Garner writes about the effect losing his mother as a child had on him - and how running has helped
Our guest on the most recent Running Tales Podcast was Daniel Garner, who has a moving personal story.
A sporty child, his life was turned upside down after his mum sadly died from cancer.
As a result, he felt he was missing part of his identity and that he was different to other children.
Having fallen into something of a rut, he was overweight, drinking too much and spent his time finding any excuse to sit around doing nothing.
That all changed when he found running. You can listen to Daniel’s story on the podcast, but he has also permitted us to publish a blog he wrote about his experiences.
It is raw, honest and a clear demonstration of how running can have a powerful effect on someone’s life.
This, in his own words, is Daniel Garner’s story.
I’m a 44-year-old electrician from Widnes, with two kids and a partner.
Other than to those who know me and my circumstances very well, I live a very ‘normal’ life. My hobbies include sport, and my addiction is running, which I’ll talk about later.
Writing this blog feels far out of my comfort zone. I’ve never been one for showing feelings, but I feel like now is the time to share my story.
The reason I’m writing this blog is because, despite appearing to many as a confident person who’s always having a laugh, I have vulnerabilities.
Growing up without parents, and being different from other kids, was something I used to be embarrassed about.
But now, I’m proud of it.
If this blog can help even one person grappling with anxiety, grief, or loss, then it’s all worth it.
It’s not just aimed at people dealing with grief but also those looking for a bit of inspiration or motivation.
Childhood memories:
I was very close to my mum as a child, and to this day, I genuinely feel she was the only person in the world I could ever be myself in front of.
I could share any little problem, do a silly dance, or act as daft as I wanted, without ever feeling anything other than loved.
Growing up, it was always my mum, my older sister Andrea (who was 11 years older), my younger sister Collette, and me.
Due to my parents’ divorce, it was just the four of us, and that felt normal - happy even.
My dad wasn’t a stay-at-home dad, and he had his own demons when it came to alcohol. He was a very hard-working man but a poor dad, happiest in the pub, not at home with his family.
I was a sports-obsessed, happy child, and I remember a lot of laughter growing up. My mum’s humour was what made her stand out.
She had this light, this ability to make everything feel okay, no matter what.
The impact of loss:
In early 1988, when I was eight years old, my mum was diagnosed with breast cancer.
I don’t remember being told the news outright, but I knew something was wrong. You couldn’t hide something like that from us.
Her beautiful jet-black hair began to fall out, and she was fitted for a wig. It was then that life, which had seemed so normal just months earlier, started to unravel.
Andrea had already met her future husband, Neil, one of the best men you could ever meet.
Months later, the stress of the treatment, trying to hold the family together, and the financial strain took a toll on my mum, and she had a mental breakdown.
She was sectioned in Winwick Hospital, which was incredibly hard to witness as a child.
Those weeks she spent in the hospital were the most harrowing I can remember, and visiting her there was heart-wrenching.
Seeing her in such a broken state is something I still find difficult to talk about today.
I will never understand where she found the strength to come back from that illness.
At home, my younger sister Collette and I just found a way to cope with mum being in the hospital. We were so very lucky to have Andrea and Neil there to care for us.
Eighteen months later, after coming out of Winwick, and with her health continuing to deteriorate, my beautiful mum passed away in Halton Haven Hospice.
Andrea was 21, I was nine, and Collette was eight. I remember Andrea picking us up from school to tell us the devastating news.
The only word I can use to describe how I felt is ‘numb.’ No tears, no reaction, just numbness.
That night, I lay in bed thinking, “How has this happened? This only happens in films or to other people.”
Growing up different:
I’m absolutely convinced I lost my identity the day my mum died.
I look back and believe I changed as a person overnight, suddenly unsure of who I was or how to understand myself anymore.
Starting senior school was a real eye-opener, where it hit me that I was different from other kids.
It was the small things, like when teachers would change the way they spoke to the class if I was there. They’d always have to add ‘and legal guardians’ to anything that required us to ask our parents.
By this time, my sister Andrea and her husband Neil had become legal guardians for me and Collette, and although I didn’t fully appreciate it then, I was incredibly lucky to have them.
But being different stood out to me, especially when people would innocently ask, “Is that your mum and dad?” and l’d have to explain every time.
That just cemented the fact that I wasn’t like everyone else.
What embarrassed me most was explaining why my dad wasn’t there. He had walked out the day my mum died and never came back.
Trying to explain that to people was incredibly difficult and made me feel even more isolated.
It wasn’t just about having lost my mum - l’d also lost a part of myself and any sense of normality I had as a child.
Grief is a strange thing:
Grief is a strange thing, and it can hit you at the most unexpected times, triggered by even the smallest situation.
Two moments still stick with me, even now.
The first was when I was picked for a football team in junior school. I was made-up, like any kid would be, and as I walked home, I was excited, rushing back to tell my mum.
For a couple of minutes, I had forgotten that she wasn’t there anymore.
That moment when I knocked on the window of Primrose Close and realised she wasn’t inside to share my news - that sudden rush of heartache - has stayed with me ever since.
The second event happened years later, when I was about 15. I had dreamt that my mum was still around, just a normal part of my life in the dream.
Waking up, for a split second, I believed she was downstairs, only to realise the harsh reality that what felt like a normal life was just a dream.
That kind of moment, where grief sneaks up on you, can be devastating, even years after the loss.
Finding support and strength:
Some of the people who have helped me most don’t even realise they have helped me.
These people don’t always even have to be your longest friends or closest family.
Sometimes those relationships just aren’t meant to go down those routes. I have a friend I met through work in the last five years who I can speak to about anything.
Before we realise it, we’ve both opened up about the past, talked about our individual situations, and somehow we both come away from most conversations realising how strong we are, even feeling lucky with where we are now, looking around and appreciating what we have.
Coping mechanisms:
I’ve found over the years certain books have helped me.
One of the reasons I think I started reading was to try and understand my own behaviours. As I said, I became proud of the wrong things - being able to go out drinking all night, waking up rough the day after and getting back on it without a care in the world.
I believed it was something to be proud of, but in reality, it wasn’t. It just masked whatever problems or thoughts and feelings I had for those few hours.
I first read The Secret by Rhonda Byrne about 10 years ago.
Now, whether you believe in manifestation or not (I’m not sure I do), what it started to do for me was change my mindset and make me aware of the negative thoughts I had constantly.
Negative thoughts weren’t always sad either - they could be anger, resentment, or bitterness, which can consume you before you know it.
There are a number of books l’ve found helpful: The Power of Now, Atomic Habits, Grit, to name a few.
What I’ve tried to do is take extracts from each book and apply them to daily life. I’m not saying it’s easy, but I’m now aware when my thoughts are negative because of how I feel.
Generally, when I’m feeling angry, bitter, or sad, it’s my thoughts that have got me there.
A way l’ve found to get around this is to ask myself, “Would my mum really want me to be like this?”
That kind of snaps me out of it.
Running:
As l’ve said, I was a sports-mad kid. But other than playing a bit of football, I left it all behind after school.
About two years ago, I was in the same routine/rut I had been in for years - drinking too much, not exercising, just being lazy and finding any excuse to sit around doing nothing.
Believe me, I’m the best in the world at doing nothing and convincing myself I’m enjoying it.
My weight started to balloon, and I was comfort eating, which l’d done since I was a kid, mainly on sugary, sweet things.
Looking back, I was eating for some kind of dopamine hit or to feel good for that split second, unable to delay gratification.
In January 2023, one of my younger work colleagues suggested I download Strava and go jogging.
I had convinced myself after having knee reconstruction and a few ACL injuries that my running days were over, but I was intrigued about the app.
I attempted a two mile jog, and without realising it, my running journey began.
I coughed, spluttered, and creaked around for the next month, attempting to get up to three miles, which I still hadn’t managed without stopping before going to parkrun in Widnes, which l’d heard of but never knew what it actually entailed.
The feeling I had when I went there reminded me of being a kid again, playing football or rugby.
That bit of excitement and nervousness to see all kinds of people in their own world, ready to run 5k.
I managed to get around, and I can honestly say the buzz I got lit something in me - a proper dopamine hit. I was hooked.
That day, Widnes Running Club were there pacing, with their smart teal club tops on.
When I got home that week, I kept thinking I’d love to be part of a club again, but I was doubting myself, saying they must be Olympic standard or that only select-level runners can join!
I sent an email on the off chance, enquiring about joining a session, probably thinking I wanted a reply but deep down feeling I wouldn’t act on it.
The response was quick from the club, and it was to meet up on a Thursday night.
This really wasn’t the kind of thing I’d done - 43 years old, turning up at a club not knowing a soul, in a sport l’d only been participating in for five weeks.
But there I was, sat in Holy Family car park in my car, watching club members meet up and start chatting to each other.
Anxiety crept in, which without realising, l’d probably had all my life, showing in different ways over the years.
I’d decided I wasn’t going to get out of the car. I was going to wait for all the groups to run off and drive home.
No-one would be any the wiser, and I could just drive to McDonald’s, get something to eat, wait for an hour, and go home and tell my partner, Cath, that it wasn’t for me and no-one was speaking to me!
It sounds ridiculous, but getting out of the car was a massive step. I bit the bullet, and before I knew it, I was running around Cronton with six strangers who I didn’t know from Adam 20 minutes ago, talking about absolutely anything!
I was hooked. I’ve never looked back. The feeling of running with a group was amazing.
I joined properly, and before I knew it, I was a running addict, making some great friends and meeting all kinds of people, pretty much all on their own kind of journey.
Going out in all hours - wind, rain, and snow, which only months before was an absolute no-no - was now my solace.
Within seven months, I even entered and ran the Eindhoven Marathon, raising money in honour of my close work friend who I had met five years earlier.
We had helped each other through some tough times, sometimes without realising we had.
One of my other mates asked why I run all the time, and the easiest way I can explain it is this: if there was a pill you could take that could make you feel absolutely brilliant, help you become healthier inside and out, help you lose weight, and introduce you to so many great people who all look out for each other, then you’d pay whatever the price.
I look at being sat in the car at Holy Family as my pivotal moment.
And using a quote from the film What Women Want (one of the best films ever!): “The running road doesn’t care how you look or what you’ve done, as long as you show up.”
Running has given me a lot of purpose. I often post Facebook running statuses, and one of my old neighbours from Primrose Close commented on one of them: “Your mum would be so proud, Danny.”
She probably doesn’t even realise how much it meant to me to see that - and it still does.
It felt like the well done I didn’t quite get to hear from getting into Ditton County football all those years ago.
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