Writer, podcast host and social media leader Niamh O'Donoghue has been updating followers on her journey towards running this year's Dublin Marathon, following a diagnosis of scoliosis at 13 and cancer at 22 left her mourning a loss of mobility and automony.
Here, she writes about how running gave her a renewed appreciation of, and strength in, her body.
There are two types of people in this world: those who run and those who don't. Admittedly I am a recent convert, having found solace in running during the endless days and nights of Covid lockdown.
Back then, running was a way to exercise my mental health during a period of intense trauma. I joined my local running club and found safety in running alongside other women and learning the foundations of the sport. I learned the importance of not only endurance building, but of strength and conditioning, and of warm-ups and cool-downs.
I enjoyed the challenge of going from couch-to-5K and 10K, building up enough strength and endurance to eventually push to 21K. Running a marathon, however, was not on my 2023 bingo card for a myriad of reasons.
I have been living with scoliosis for almost two decades and in that time I have learned a great deal about the intricacies of movement – especially running. Idiopathic scoliosis is a rare musculoskeletal disorder that affects approximately 100,000 people in Ireland and causes the spine to twist into an 's' shape.
I was diagnosed at 13 years of age and it happened suddenly and severely, rendering my petite body sideways and bent. Pre-scoliosis, I was extremely active and danced competitively, rode horses, swam, played football, and loved camogie. I was happiest whenever I was active.
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My diagnosis put everything on hold due to the aggressive nature of the high-risk treatment, which involves very technical surgery to cement two titanium rods on either side of the spine to support it. A further three surgeries fused my spine to my pelvis, rendering my torso into one mass of solid bone which left me unable to bend forward or backward or rotate to the left or right.
It took many years to build up the courage to go to a gym which, in hindsight, stymied my recovery, especially when we know that movement accelerates healing, encourages blood-flow and muscle growth, diminishes keloid and hypertrophic scar growth, and rebuilds resilience against the negative impact of stress and inflammation.
I was too afraid of going to the gym out of fear of hurting myself or not finding an instructor who understood the complexity of my body. What’s more, a kidney disease diagnosis, followed swiftly by a cancer diagnosis at 22. meant my body had hit rock bottom before it had a chance to reach its potential.
I was – and in parts still am – grieving the loss of my mobility, my autonomy, my health.
Movement and exercise became a tonic, a way for me to feel empowered. It not only alleviated my discomfort (getting used to new internal hardware is no easy feat), but helped me to feel centered and strong during a period of instability and extreme change as I navigated the world in my new titanium body.
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Running was not on the list of recommended sports for someone like me because of the constant pressure and strain placed on the spine, not least because I had a grueling recovery ahead of me following a nephrectomy and a total thyroidectomy and radioiodine treatment. And admittedly, part of me pursued the sport as a kind of metaphorical "two-middle-fingers" to my own body.
So I started slowly, aided by reading the likes of Christopher McDougall’s best-selling guide Born To Run 2 and Hal Higdon, as well as training guides on the Nike Running app and Strava, which is great for building a virtual community of runners around you.
On home ground, there’s no shortage of sporting excellence: I love following Eva Butterly, an ultra runner and personal trainer specialising in people with scoliosis, for her strength training in-between running sessions, and Conor O’Keefe, an ultra endurance coach and mindset coach, whose daily Instagram posts and podcast are a reminder not least of the physical challenges that running a marathon brings, but the mental battles too.
By entering the Dublin City Marathon this year I also committed to raising vital funds for the Irish Cancer society, a charity close to my heart and the hearts of many around the island of Ireland.
Let’s be honest – marathon training isn’t actually a joy. So why do I keep going? Why do any of us keep going? With each new mile covered I’m reminded not only of my personal progress, but of the savage fragility and deep complexities of our bodies. There’s a great humility in breaking down your body, only to rebuild it again and emerge stronger, wiser.
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My 16-week training regime is made up of a handful of fool-proof guides shared amongst friends, which I then tailored to my fitness level. It looks something like this: three to four varied runs mid week, two gym sessions for stretching and strength and conditioning, and one long, grueling run at the weekend. In-between I’m nourishing my body with lots of protein, carbohydrates and greens. I’ve also cut out alcohol completely, the benefits of which are 10-fold.
Running any distance is challenging, but the added limitations of my curbed mobility and titanium hardware mean I need to have a heightened sense of awareness of my body and its ability. I find this part of training particularly challenging, a compromise between mind and body. When the sharp sting of nerve pain emerges, I know I must slow down or stop training.
Equally, rest days are as important as training itself, especially when it comes to marathon training. When the body rests, it adapts, gets stronger and improves ahead of your next session. Rather than feeling guilty for taking the time to rest, revel in it.
Research shows a strong correlation between self-compassion and exercise, meaning if you treat yourself with kindness, you're more likely to maintain a positive, sustainable exercise routine. Remember this!
The views expressed here are those of the author and do not represent or reflect the views.
