Flaminky

I’m not going to lie… heading into the Cardiff 10k, I felt totally unprepared. I hadn’t run since the London 10k and hadn’t trained one bit. But somehow, despite all of that, I crossed the finish line with a time close to my pre-crash race times, and I can’t explain how happy that made me.

It felt like a tiny breakthrough. Little by little, I’m getting there. My confidence is creeping back, my pace is starting to resemble what it once was, and for a brief moment during the race, I felt like myself again.

But the reality of my ongoing recovery hit hard afterwards. My neck pain was awful! so bad that I had to use my massage gun, take painkillers, and nap just to ease it. It’s frustrating living with this constant pain since the crash. Sometimes I wish I could just go back to “normal,” to run without thinking about how my body will respond afterwards.

With the Cardiff Half Marathon only a month away, my anxiety is definitely bubbling. I can see the progress, but I’m still nervous about how my body will perform during (and after) the race. Still, this 10k reminded me that I am moving forward, even if it’s slow and messy.

Step by step, race by race, I’m clawing my way back. And that feels like a win worth celebrating.

Just a week after the Porthcawl 10k, I was back at it again, this time for the London 10k 2025. And honestly? This one felt different. For the first time since my crash, I experienced that euphoric race feeling I’d been missing.

The vibes were amazing! Crowds lining the streets, the energy of London buzzing all around, the kind of atmosphere that lifts you even when you’re not chasing a PB. I went into this race with zero pressure, fully aware that I’ve been running in pain for a long time now. And because of that, it became about enjoyment, not speed.

At the 5k mark, I even had to make a quick pit stop (yes, I peed) and then headed to the St John’s Ambulance tent for some Vaseline to battle the chub rub (iykyk, girlies). After that, though, I felt great and just let myself soak it all in.

This was also a solo race for me, but I wasn’t really alone. My good friend Amy was there on the sidelines, cheering me on, and I can’t tell you how much I appreciated that support. Friendships like this make races feel even more special.

Crossing the finish line in London felt like a turning point. I wasn’t chasing a time, I wasn’t running from pain, I was running with joy again. And that, to me, is priceless.

Here’s to more euphoric races, more supportive friends, and remembering why I fell in love with running in the first place.

Just over a month after the Barry 10k, I lined up at the Porthcawl 10k — my first race running completely on my own since the crash. Kyle was running too, but separately this time. This felt like a big step for me: no safety net, no one to lean on mid-race, just me, my body, and my mind.

And honestly? It was a mental battle from start to finish. Not only am I still running through pain, but this week I found out I’m being made redundant after four years at an agency. That news knocked my confidence hard. I’ve been filled with self-doubt, questioning my worth, and feeling like I’m not good enough.

But something shifted during this race. Halfway through, when my legs were tired and my brain was spiralling, I decided to flip the script. I turned my anger, my hurt, and my fear into determination. I pushed, kilometre by kilometre, telling myself: I can do this. I am good enough.

Crossing the finish line at Porthcawl felt bigger than just another medal. It felt like proof that even when my mental health is in the gutter, I can still rise. That even with pain, uncertainty, and self-doubt, I can finish what I started.

This race taught me that running isn’t just physical. It’s a lifeline, a release, and a way to take back control when everything else feels out of my hands.

Here’s to using the hard moments as fuel — and reminding ourselves that we’re stronger than we think.

Just a week after the Paris 10k, I found myself lacing up again — this time for the Barry 10k. If I’m honest, it was almost as tough as Paris. My body was still recovering, and while the pain was slightly less intense, it was still very much there. Every kilometre felt like a mental battle.

But once again, Kyle was by my side. After helping me through Paris, he showed up for me in Barry, pacing me, encouraging me, and reminding me to be kind to myself. I’m still rebuilding after the car crash, still finding my way back to strength, and still learning to listen to my body.

This wasn’t about chasing a PB or proving anything. It was about showing up, trying again, and finding the courage to keep going despite the pain. And in that way, Barry became a stepping stone — a little sign of progress, a small but important victory.

Running two 10ks back-to-back after everything my body has been through was never going to be easy. But crossing that finish line, even slower than usual, reminded me how much I love this sport and how grateful I am for the people who support me through it.

Here’s to healing, persistence, and the slow climb back to where I want to be.

The Paris 10k this June was supposed to be a milestone for me; my first long race with my partner Kyle, and my first race abroad since the car crash. And while it was beautiful and special in so many ways, it was also one of the hardest runs I’ve ever done.

From the start, I knew this race was going to be different. I was still carrying the aftermath of the crash, over a month out of proper training, still struggling with whiplash, and not feeling anywhere near my best. By 8k, the pain set in like nothing I’d felt before. It all seemed to centre in my core, almost like I’d hurt my coccyx bone (though I hadn’t). I’d never experienced pain like it in a 10k, and I was so embarrassed at how slow I was going.

But then there was Kyle. Every step of the way, he reminded me that even showing up was brave. That most people in my situation would’ve cancelled their entire race calendar. That it wasn’t about the pace, but about crossing that finish line, together. And with his patience and encouragement, I did just that.

It ended up being my slowest 10k to date, but also one of the most meaningful. Because it wasn’t just about running, it was about resilience, about love, and about proving to myself that even when things feel impossible, I can push through.

Outside the race, we turned it into a beautiful Parisian trip. Our first holiday abroad together as a couple — full of romance, fun, and memories I’ll treasure forever. If anything, I just wish we had more time there.

Paris tested me physically, but it also gave me a deeper appreciation for support, patience, and the strength that comes not just from running, but from running with someone who truly has your back.

On May 10th, I was in a four-car collision that I can only describe as the most terrifying and stressful experience of my life. I haven’t fully processed it yet — and maybe I won’t for a while — but I wanted to write this not just to share what happened, but to highlight what often gets overlooked: the aftermath.

I was driving on the slip road westbound by the tunnels in Cardiff Bay. The car in front of me suddenly emergency stopped, because the car in front of them had stopped on the dual carriageway to let someone in from the slip road… even though they had the right of way.

I slammed on my brakes and just lightly bumped the taxi in front. It could’ve ended there. But two cars came speeding out of the tunnel behind me — and all they saw was stationary traffic. They hit me at 70mph, twice — once into the right rear of my car, and again into the driver’s side door.

Their airbags deployed.
Mine didn’t.

And somehow, I walked away from that crash.
But not unscathed.

Since that day, I’ve been dealing with daily migraines, whiplash, nightmares, PTSD flashbacks, and a fear of slip roads and cars driving close behind me. I’ve lost my confidence on the road. I feel anxious in places I never did before.

Please, don’t speed in tunnels.
The signs are there for a reason.
Please don’t stop unnecessarily on dual carriageways. If it’s your right of way — take it. Stopping without cause nearly cost lives that day.

I hit my head on the seatbelt panel, and I distinctly remember the feeling — my brain moving inside my skull. I’ve since spoken to medical professionals who confirmed what I felt: “If it felt like it moved, then it did.” Your brain isn’t fixed in place — it floats in fluid. And it’s fragile. So, so fragile.

I’ve come away from this experience with a new perspective on how delicate life is, and how quickly everything can change. I appreciate life more. I appreciate the people who showed up and checked in — and I now know who truly cares.

But it hasn’t just been the crash that’s been hard — it’s everything after:

• Hearing the car I saved to buy myself is now written off.

• Police statements and crash investigations.

• A WalesOnline article about the crash.

• Insurers, car hires, and trying to find a new car in less than two weeks.

• Medical appointments, hospital waiting rooms, therapists, solicitors.

• Missing work.

• The financial pressure of replacing a car when the crash wasn’t even my fault.

I was just in the wrong place, at the wrong time.

And the emotional toll is real.

I’ve now been told I need to slowly phase back into physical activity. Head trauma isn’t something you bounce back from overnight. It’s been two weeks without fitness — which for someone like me who finds movement essential for mental health, feels unbearable.

But this week I’m easing in with yoga, and later on I’ll reintroduce running — gently, mindfully. I do have the Paris 10k coming up in three weeks with my boyfriend, and while I’m excited, I’m cautious too. He’s been incredibly supportive, reminding me:

“Health comes before medals — always.”

** Just wanted to add that I am incredibly thankful, grateful to the people who have supported me during this time. Especially to my dad, who has helped me throughout this process and the admin of the aftermath, that’s all new and alien to me. His support has meant the world to me, and I honestly don’t know where I’d be during this whole process without him.

So I’m taking it one day at a time. Healing doesn’t follow a straight line. If you’ve ever been through a traumatic accident, please know that it’s not just okay, but necessary, to ask for help. To feel it all. To go slow.

And if you’re reading this — thank you. Whether it’s to be informed, to feel less alone, or to remember to slow down behind the wheel — I hope it helps. ❤️

Stay safe. Slow down. Life is precious.
– Lorr x