On 26th April 2026, my brother-in-law will run 26.2 miles for my darling little boy Tyler — a child who lives trapped inside a body that won’t let him speak, communicate or navigate the world independently.

Andy is running to raise funds for a charity very close to our hearts, Friends of Linden Bridge, which directly supports the specialist school that Tyler attends.

Linden Bridge is a school for children with complex social communication needs. It is a place where our most vulnerable children are taught basic skills that many of us take for granted — through weekly community trips, hydrotherapy, forest school, horse riding, teach self-care, sensory-based play, speech therapy and occupational therapy.

They are currently fundraising for a new accessible school minibus, which in our world, is not just transport - It is opportunity to access the community safely - trips to shops, parks, cafés and community spaces that build essential life skills, confidence and independence. Every pound raised will directly benefit Tyler and other children like him.

To understand why this matters, let me tell you about my first-born son.

He is gentle, loving and affectionate in his own beautiful way. He has a smile that melts your heart and eyes that tell a story without him even saying a word. So imperfectly perfect - however it’s not often that I introduce him this way.

He sits at the rare end of the autism spectrum - the end you don’t tend to see when you’re out in the community. He’s the one without the superpower and the one who, not so long ago, would have been institutionalised when his condition didn’t exist back in ‘your day’.

So let me re-introduce Tyler.

He has severe autism. He is completely non-verbal. He is still in nappies. He has ADHD. He lives with sensory processing disorder, pica, sleep difficulties, crippling anxiety, an eating disorder and self-harms on a daily basis - just to name a few.

Yet inside, he is still my sweet boy, fighting to exist in a world that was not built for him. And it is devastating to witness.

From the very moment he was born, Tyler’s life has been anything but easy. A prolonged labour where incorrect procedures were followed. My boy stopped breathing multiple times and we were rushed into a traumatic forceps delivery. I still remember the room full of people — one nurse pushing down forcefully on my stomach while the doctor braced her feet against the bed with every pull. His head was clamped incorrectly, leaving cuts and bruises across his face, his eye bleeding and swollen shut. Scars I can still see today. I remember lying there wondering what effects this would have on my darling boy.

For a while, he developed just like any other child — my engaging, funny, chatty little boy. He called me “Mummy,” said “I love you,” and would wait at the window each day, shouting for “Daddy” to come home. He spoke over 50 words. It’s not until they start disappearing that you begin counting them.

Our journey began around Tyler’s second birthday when he wasn’t his normal chatty self. I noticed his speech had started to rapidly deteriorate and in a matter of months, he was completely non-verbal. He appeared inattentive and disengaged; he wouldn’t even look at me; he had stopped listening when I called his name and began having uncontrollable meltdowns. He would display repetitive behaviours, dislike certain textured clothing and have extreme sensitivity to noise. It was clear that he was struggling to regulate his senses. The little boy I once knew was disappearing before my very eyes and he no longer called me Mummy. He suddenly appeared empty — emotionless, as if the lights were on but no one was home.

Leaving the house became something I feared. I never knew what would set him off, I felt so powerless watching him spiral... the smallest change in routine and even sound of his baby sister would send him into a complete meltdown. In public, my heart lived in my throat because he would also run off. No hesitation. No awareness of danger. Just gone.

I prayed this was a phase — that he would come back to me. If I had known I was going to lose him in the way I did, I would never have gone back to work. I would never have left his side. I would have recorded every second of his voice, every “Mummy,” every “love you,” every... single... word. It broke me in ways I can’t fully explain. My mental health deteriorated. I missed him so much, even though he was right there in front of me. He could no longer tolerate the very things we once found comfort in together. A cuddle seemed to cause him pain, and he needed space at the very moment I just wanted to hold him close. I’d find myself standing there with my arms still half-open, realising my child couldn’t find peace in me anymore — and that kind of hurt is impossible to put into words.

I remember collapsing into tears, completely broken, crying why can’t you just tell me what’s wrong? Just pure desperation. I wasn’t angry at him — I was pleading to give my baby a voice. The guilt is something I carry quietly. It creeps in during the still moments - The signs I missed. I punish myself for not knowing then what I know now — for not recognising something I had never been taught to see.

And even though I know in my heart I did the best I could with the knowledge I had, there’s a part of me that still whispers, you should have known. We were both learning how to survive in a world that had suddenly changed.

I saw us both breaking and had to take control. I threw myself into courses, research, long nights of learning anything that might make his world easier. I made a promise to my boy that I would never stop even if it meant relearning how to be his mum in a completely different way. And that persistence paid off — in the love, affection and warmth that he shows today.

I still grieve the child I once had. Hearing him say “I love you” now exists only in memories. But now, the way he loves without words — it is pure and real enough to break you and heal you all at once.

The world is not built for children like Tyler. Every single day he has to work unbelievably hard just to exist within it.

Caring for a child with Autism has its own set of challenges. I find myself constantly analysing the surroundings - is it too noisy? too busy? can he escape? any roads nearby? What do I do if he runs off? Gets lost - he can’t talk? Where can I change his nappy? For these reasons I tend to avoid taking Tyler and his two younger siblings out on my own and this is why his School is so important in the role they play in our lives.

As his parents, we live this life quietly together, and Andy has been there through it all — watching the highs and the heart-breaking lows and seeing firsthand just how hard life can be for us as a family. So when he chose to raise money in aid of Tyler, to stand beside us in this journey and raise awareness, it meant more to us than we can ever truly put into words. To know that he is willing to push his body to the limit, to endure the training and exhaustion, simply to help make our children’s worlds a little safer, a little fuller and a little more included… it’s overwhelming in the most beautiful way.

Andy, thank you for running for our boy. It means more to our family than we will ever be able to say.

Please encourage family and friends to donate... and if you can’t, please share to help raise awareness.

From the bottom of my heart.

Thank you

Sam x